
TITLE: Love Redeemed
SERIES: The Market #2
AUTHOR: Sorcha Mowbray
RATING:
STEAM:

"He spread his palm across her lower back to steady her, taking subtle possession. “You see, my darling heiress, I seek a kiss that says everything. The kiss to end all kisses. The kiss of the century. Why run the race if you’re not trying to win? That’s my rule. Or rather, my quest. That we don’t limit ourselves.” With his free hand, Roan cradled her jaw, tilting her head until her gaze pierced his. She stilled with the effort, like a feather coming to rest on a feather coverlet. “I want to show you that the heat we generate is enough to make anyone, even you, believe in the power of desire. What we do with it is up to us, I suppose.”
"You see, I’m not interested in half measures. From my friends, my colleagues, or my wife. No business agreements are going to carry us through. It’s love or nothing for me. You have mine, you always have, but I must have yours in return. Or I can’t do this, Hellie. I can’t.”

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years, even when I couldn’t admit it to myself. Why do you think the walls in my bedroom are green?” A glow of happiness was welling up inside her, spreading to every limb, but she was still afraid to hope. “Why?” “Because I imagined you there. Always.” Her throat felt hot and painfully tight. “Truly?” “Truly. I want you by my side, to dazzle and charm everyone who comes into your orbit. I’ve seen you do it a thousand times.” “Only to make you jealous,” she admitted. He let out a strangled laugh. “Well, it worked. I’ve hated every man who laughed at your jokes, every idiot who’s sighed over your figure. The day you wore that bloody handkerchief dress was the worst day of my life.” She managed a coy smile. “You didn’t like it?” “I loved it and hated it in equal measure.”
The house sounded very much like herself: an illusion. A vision that looked perfect from afar, but on closer inspection was still a work in progress.
She stifled a giggle. “You’re doing a sterling job.” She pressed against him and wriggled provocatively. “I can feel how hard it is for you.” “That’s my pistol,” he said, straight-faced. She wiggled again. “My other pistol.” She flattened herself full-length against him, from breasts to thighs, and with them both wearing breeches there was no mistaking his desire. A thrill of feminine triumph coursed through her. “And this?” she teased. “That’s all for you.”
“You’re only one bad experience away from being a virgin. You barely qualify to wear pale pink, let alone scarlet. You, Carys Davies, are a fraud.” Her mouth dropped open, as he’d known it would at the perceived insult, and he choked back a laugh. Outraged Carys was much better than miserable Carys. “Being a virgin is a finite thing,” she bit out. “You either are or you aren’t. There’s no gray area.” “True.” He kept his tone to just the right level of amused and condescending guaranteed to drive her mad. “But sexual experience is a sliding scale. A marathon, as opposed to a sprint. You’ve barely stumbled across the starting line.”
“No,” he agreed huskily. “You’re not thin. Or willowy. You’re delicious. And I’m a starving man who wants to feast.”
“You have an excellent assortment of curves, Lady Carys. And curves are some of the most desirable forms in all of architecture. Beautiful and strong.”