Love Pride and Prejudice, but wish Jane Austen had given Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth some uber-hot sex scenes?
Me, too. So….here comes my new Rites of May series!!
Regency England is so very civilized, so proper, so bound by unbreakable rules. But Springtime has a certain pagan energy that loosens all restraints. The Rites of May has all the wit and passion of Regency romance, but with heroes and heroines making much better use of all those lush, private spots in the English countryside.
You’ll get to see Mr. Darcy…er, um, Viscount Parkhurst…strip off the linen shirt and breeches and show the heroine just how bewitching he finds her.
Poor, plain spinster Mary Wilkins has no business falling in love with Viscount Parkhurst. They may have been best friends in childhood, but he’s the wealthy, powerful lord of the manor now, and everybody knows he’s bound to marry a beautiful local heiress.
Mary tries to resign herself to a life of hopeless yearning, but when she and the viscount find themselves entangled in a stand of wild blackberry vines, unexpected passions flare.
The viscount can’t seem to keep his hands off her. But is he planning to make her his wife—or only his secret mistress?
Ready for a sneak peek? Get out your silk fans, ladies, because it’s about to get hotter than a June ballroom in here.
Here’s a bit of what happens when the viscount and Mary get tangled in those blackberry vines:
His mouth was positioned just above where her nipple must be.
He writhed to free himself, but that just resulted in him rubbing his lips over the fabric hard enough that he thought he fancied he could feel the nub of that nipple harden to a peak.
He thought Mary might scream then, as well she should have.
But she didn’t scream.
Instead, she exhaled audibly, a long, low sigh.
And then she did something entirely remarkable: she took her left hand and cradled the side of his head, pushing it more firmly into that little, soft, sweet-scented mound of flesh.
“John,” she breathed, and this time her tone was very definitely sensuous—throaty and deep and needy—something he’d never in a million years have expected from his childhood friend. “Kiss me there, John. Please.”
He could not possibly have heard her right. “Mary?”
“Please, John,” she begged, and the nervous quaver in her voice told him more surely than anything that she was quite serious.
Her breathing was fast and shallow, and though he couldn’t lift his head to see her face, he fancied he felt the pleading force of her gaze upon him.
“Kiss me there,” she insisted, her fingers spearing into his hair, urging him closer. “If you don’t, no one ever will. And I want to know what it feels like, just once.”
“Please!” Her voice broke on the word. “I won’t ask anything more of you, I swear it. Just this one thing.”
He was painfully conscious of how hard her pulse was beating—he was close enough to her chest to hear it. And his heart was pounding just as hard.
Not to mention that his cock was throbbing.
He tried again to move his head, but he wasn’t going anywhere, not without ripping out half his hair.
Trying to think, he drew a deep breath—and that sweet, womanly scent of Mary’s flesh filled his nostrils and fogged his already baffled brain.
Everything rational in him urged him to find some way to get his mouth away from her breast.
He intended to do that, truly. Immediately, in fact.
Because he was a gentleman.
An all-but-affianced gentleman.
And yet what he found himself doing instead was hooking the fingers of his free hand into the neckline of Mary’s frock and chemise and pulling the drab layers of fabric down. Her flesh against his knuckles was warm and surprisingly fine and silken, and the moment he felt the tight nub of her nipple pop free, and he fitted his mouth over it hungrily. He gave it a flick with his tongue, then suckled her.
She moaned, and it was the most erotic sound he’d ever heard.
All she’d asked for was a kiss, but he had to give her more. He found himself wondering about the color of that nipple in his mouth. He couldn’t lift his head enough to see it properly, so he pulled the neck of her gown down beneath her other breast, and looked his fill sideways even as he continued sucking the first breast he’d bared.
Lord. Her skin where the sun never touched it was pearl-white, and her nipple was as pink as a rosebud.
And surely just as sweet.
If he could lift his head enough to see her face, and have incontrovertible evidence he was doing this with Mary Wilkins of all people, he would never be able to do it.
But all he could see was a graceful small swell of womanly flesh and a pretty pink teat, so he strained against the thorns that bound his hair, palmed that soft mound towards his mouth, and kissed it, just as she’d asked, before drawing the rosy peak between his lips.
She liked what he was doing, clearly. Her fingers were in his hair, at least where it was free of thorns, and urged him closer, nearly clawing him in her enthusiasm.
He licked and sucked and swirled his tongue, moving from one breast to the other and back again as best he could with his head pinioned, feasting on her, making her gasp, making her push her hips towards him.
His cock was hot and straining, and his balls had grown heavy as true stones. If he hadn’t had most of the left side of his body hooked by those damnable vines, he’d have done exactly as she seemed to be wanting and pulled her hips tight against his and pressed his throbbing erection into her belly.
Heat rose from between her breasts, with the subtle, intoxicating scent of arousal.
She was trembling now, still pulling his mouth against her and crying, “John, oh, John, please, John!”
Without another thought, his hand was at the buttons of his fall, fumbling to free his aching cock. No thinking was involved, just desperate, red-tinged visions of hiking up her skirts and finding her hot, wet slit, and somehow angling their bodies so he could push hard inside her.
Want to read more?
Pre-order now at: Amazon
Coming out June 23, 2015!!