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Quote by Kerrigan Byrne

“You understand, don't you, Mrs. Mackenzie?" Blackwell murmured, his hard mouth barely moving as the intensity of his regard pinned her to her seat. "The deeds of a willful youth." A thrill of danger kissed her spine. "Horseshit!" Morley roared. Dorian turned back to face him, and Farah was able to let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding as the black spell he'd woven over her suddenly dissipated. "For shame, Morley," he mockingly chided. "Such language in front of a lady." "She is my employee," Sir Morley gritted through clenched teeth. "And I'll thank you not to bother about her if you want to keep the vision in the eye you have left." "I can hardly help myself. She's such a ripe piece of skirt.”

Quote by Kerrigan Byrne

Book:The Highwayman
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The Highwayman

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Kerrigan Byrne

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“How fortunate for you that the water obscures so much." Blackwell shifted in his chair, his knees falling wider and his nostrils flaring. "Would Dougan Mackenzie forgive this coercion?" she challenged, doing her best to ignore the stirrings of her own body. "If you owe him as much as you claim, would he not wish you to spare my modesty?" The spark of heat in his eyes died for a moment, before flaring brighter than ever. "When we meet in hell, I'll ask his forgiveness.”

Farah And Dorian
Book:The Highwayman
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“Christopher Argent kept stealing disbelieving looks at Farah, his blue eyes reflecting the ambient glow like an alley cat's. Dorian understood why the man would dare in his presence. First, because Christopher Argent was an unfeeling, fearless killer-for-hire. And second, because most of the incarcerated men at Newgate had considered Dougan's Fairy some mythical creature, a sight too rare and beautiful to be beheld by a common man. Maybe even a fancy born of an imagination keen enough to take possession of the prison. To meet her was to gaze upon a fantasy realized, to remember the desperate yearnings of a lonely prisoner bereft of kindness, mercy, or beauty. To be blinded by the embodiment of all three of those things. For a man like Argent, one born to incarceration, the sight might have him reassessing some long-held cynical philosophies.”

Farah And DorianDorian BlackwellFarah BlackwellChristopher Argent
Book:The Highwayman
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“And you consider yourself as what, some sort of Count of Monte Cristo?" He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Not particularly, though the book is a favorite of mine." Farah frowned. "I thought you said you couldn't read." That Dorian Blackwell could laugh at a time like this astounded her. But he did. The sound so devoid of true mirth, it caused goose pimples to rise on her skin and her nipples to tighten painfully. It was a dark sound, like the rest of him, and it washed over her with chilling totality.”

Farah And DorianDorian Blackwell
Book:The Highwayman
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“Her eyes were liquid silver as they narrowed at him, swirling with as many mysteries as the stars in the night sky. "I want a family," she murmured. "And I'll do what I must to get it." The naked, aching honesty in her voice pierced him with a poisoned arrow, and he could feel the toxins spreading through his blood. Soon he would be completely paralyzed, a victim of the opposing forces now quarreling inside him like two wolves fighting for dominance. The two strongest emotions known to man. He took in a deep breath, the scent of her honey soap and the lavender water evading his senses with the subtlety of a Roman legion.”

Farah And Dorian
Book:The Highwayman
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“They went at it. Their mouths a frantic, searching quest. As though they were trying to make up for thirty years of longing in this one kiss. He bit her lower lip and she raked her nails down his back. They tumbled to the bed, and his body was finally, deliciously covering hers. She arched. He surged. They rocked. She dug her nails into the base of his back. His hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb stroking over the nipple. She cried out, and he caught the sound with his lips. He ripped away from her, slid down her body, and captured her nipple with his lips, while his free hand snaked down into her yoga pants. He licked at the hard bud. Sucked. Her hips arched off the bed as he tugged harder and harder. When his teeth scraped over her oversensitive flesh, she keened and she couldn't stop the words from falling from her lips. "Jack. God. Jack. Yes. More." He groaned, the sound vibrating over her skin. He pulled her deeper into his mouth. His fingers slid down her waistband and into her panties. Her legs parted. His fingers brushed her clit. She bowed off the bed. He circled the bundle of nerves and lifted his head. "So damn wet." She could feel how wet she was, how slippery. "More." He pushed one long finger inside her, and kissed her, brushing his mouth over her lips. "You feel like heaven." She arched into his touch as his thumb relentlessly circled her clit. Around and around. Over and over. Until she thought she'd go mad with sheer need. "Jack. Please." He plunged two fingers inside her, hooking on a spot so good she lost focus. "Please what, Chlo?" His voice, oh God, his voice. Achingly familiar and yet strange all at once. He swiped over her flesh and she keened again as her body tightened. "Stop." Her head rolled back. "I'm going to come." He increased his pressure and whispered against the shell of her ear, "Then come.”

Hot RomanceJennifer Dawson
Book:The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine
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