Posy had never known the touch of a man’s hands on her body, his lips on hers. In truth, she had never even imagined such a passionate violation of her person, as she was an unwed, virtuous woman of eight and twenty from a reputable if impoverished family.
But now as Sebastian Thorndyke’s lips crushed hers in a demanding kiss, his hands clasped around the enviably tiny curve of her waist, Posy Morland began to swoon. Her breasts swelled as if they wanted to burst free of her modest muslin gown and as she opened her mouth to protest, to try to take in air, Sebastian swept his tongue into the moist cavern. (NB: Maybe rethink ‘moist.’ And ‘cavern’.) Posy whimpered in distress at the latest depravity that he wished to visit upon her.
‘Damn you, woman,’ he rasped, his mouth burning a path to her ear. ‘Kiss me properly.’
She gasped in maidenly outrage and he kissed her harder, his tongue like a conquering army, one arm clamped around the feminine swell of her hips as he ground their bodies together.
‘No! No! No!’ With a strength the like of which she’d never possessed before, Posy tore herself free of Thorndyke’s treacherous embrace. She placed a trembling hand on her bosom as if that alone would be enough to calm the frantic fluttering of her heart. ‘You do me wrong, sir. I’m not some lowly tavern wench to be trifled with.’
Thorndyke looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I find I grow tired of tavern wenches, courtesans and other men’s wives.’ He tapped one finger against the lips that had ravished hers so cruelly. ‘But I’ll wager I won’t grow tired of you, Miss Morland, not for many a long night, and that is why I intend to have you.’