She knew this was wrong. Unmarried ladies did not entertain gentlemen in their bedrooms. Not while in their night rail, and certainly not with brandy and kisses. She knew it, but she found herself unable to stop. After an entire lifetime of being demure, Melinda found herself tossing every scrap of logic and decorum aside. She blamed him completely. She blamed him for charming her out of her anger. She blamed him for leaning close and being so handsome that she ached to touch him. And she blamed him most especially for being so good at kissing that she wanted to do it again. Their lips touched. His were warm and tempting. Like hot chocolate on a cold morning. She wanted to lick him slowly before relishing tiny sips. But she never had control with him or chocolate. She knew she’d start gulping him down while his touch still burned her tongue. She kissed him full and deep. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, then quickly lost that duel as he dominated her.
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