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“His tongue split her in one long lick. He growled against her, and Farah whimpered in reply, unable to stop herself. But she didn't say a word. Not. One. Word. Blackwell had become that jaguar she'd evoked the first time she'd laid eyes on him. His shoulders rolled and bunched just so as he settled in for a feast. He left no part unexplored. His bold tongue found places she'd never known she possessed. He parted her with his fingers, exposing her in a way so absolute, she could barely stand it. And yet, she read the veneration on his face as he looked at her, as he tasted her, as if he committed every single crevice and protuberance to memory. He learned very quickly what made her gasp, what caused her to arch or retreat. He played like a man who'd only just learned how. Testing her reactions, re-creating sensations, enjoying a bit of cruelty as only the Blackheart of Ben More could. Driving her to the edge of her wits and then pulling back, leaving her groaning, straining, and sweating. She jerked as his finger found its way inside her slick channel, and the vibration of his groan against the soft hood of flesh he'd sucked into his mouth with a flattened tongue shattered her composure.” — Kerrigan Byrne