Robert swore vilely, pulled over to the kerb, and threw the car into park. “There has to be something better you can do with that mouth of yours,” he snarled, then dragged me over the console between the bucket seats. He fisted one hand in the hair that had escaped its tie and curled at the nape of my neck, tightening his grip until it was just short of painful. He dug the fingers of his other hand into my hip, opened his mouth on mine, parting my lips, and Robert Dorincourt, the most aggravating, irritating…desirable…man I had ever met, began kissing me.
“Oh!” I couldn’t prevent the tiny sound from escaping. I’d been kissed before—of course I had—after all, I might not have had s*x, but I was a viscount’s son, and I was almost twenty. The thing was, my reaction to Robert’s kisses stunned
