Page 50 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"The man who called you boring was a fool." He released her wrists, his hands moving to her stays, working the laces loose. "The man who called you prudish didn't deserve to breathe the same air as you."

The corset fell away. She stood in nothing but her chemise, the fabric so thin it might as well have been mist. He could see everything—the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the shadows between her thighs.

His cock strained against his trousers.

"I'm going to ruin you," he said. "I'm going to make you forget the man who made you feel like you weren't enough. When I'm done with you, you won't remember your own name."

Her response was to grab the hem of her chemise and pull it over her head.

She stood before him naked. Completely bare. No masks, no pretence, no armour. Just Florence—scarred and strong and shaking with want.

"Then ruin me," she said. "I'm tired of waiting."

Matthew's control snapped.

He lifted her in one motion, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. He carried her to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress, following her down before she could catch her breath.

His mouth found her throat. He kissed, bit, sucked—tasting salt and sweetness. She moaned and arched into him, her nails dragging down his back through his shirt.

Too many clothes. Too many barriers.

He reared back and tore his shirt over his head. Her hands were on him immediately, palms pressed to his chest, fingers tracing his scars, nails scraping through the hair that trailed down his stomach.

"God, you're…" She didn't finish. Just stared at him like she wanted to devour him whole. "Perfect." Her voice was hoarse. "You're perfect."

No one had ever called him perfect. He'd been called useful, dangerous, effective. Never perfect.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue claiming her mouth while his hands explored her body. He cupped her breast and squeezed with a groan, felt the weight of it in his palm, rolled her nipple between his fingers. She cried out against his lips.

"Sensitive," he murmured. "I remember."

He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth.

She wailed. Her back arched off the bed, pushing more of herself into him. He sucked hard, then soft, then scraped his teeth across the peak just to hear her sob. His other hand found her neglected breast, pinching and rolling until she was writhing beneath him.

"Matthew, I need more. I need you."

He released her breast with a wet sound and kissed his way down her stomach. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

"Not yet," he said against her skin. "I'm not done with you."

He settled between her thighs and spread them wide. The scent of her arousal hit him, musk and sweetness, and his mouth watered. She was glistening, swollen, ready for him.

"So wet," he murmured. "All this for me?"

"Yes." Her voice broke.

The confession lit a fire in him—hot, fierce, possessive.

He lowered his head and licked her from entrance to clitoris.

She screamed.

Her hips bucked so hard he had to pin them down with his forearm. He licked her again—long, slow, savouring—and felt her thighs shake against his shoulders.

"Matthew… oh God, Matthew…"

He circled her clitoris with his tongue, then sucked it between his lips. She sobbed, her hands flying to his hair, gripping so hard it hurt. He didn't care. He wanted her marks on him. Wanted to feel her for days.