In this scene, Haven Travis seeks comfort from her
fiancé Nick Tanner. They are attending a family wedding at
the Travis mansion:
To my relief, I saw the familiar outline of Nick’s head and
shoulders near the dark arched doorway that led to the dine-
in wine cellar. He had gone through the small wrought-iron
gate and left it ajar. It looked like he was heading into
the vault, which was lined with oak barrel stays that
sweetened the air. I figured Nick must have gotten tired of
the crowds and had come early to meet me. I wanted him to
hold me. I needed a moment of peace in the middle of all
the cacophony.
Skirting around the dining table, I went to the wine
cellar. The gate closed behind me with a smooth clack.
Reaching for the light switch, I flipped it off and went
into the cellar.
I heard Nick mutter “Hey—”
“Just me.” I found him easily in the darkness, giving a low
laugh as my palms slid over his shoulders. “Mmmn. You feel
nice in a tux.”
He started to say something, but I tugged his head down
until my half-open mouth skimmed the edge of his jaw. “I
missed you,” I whispered. “You didn’t dance with me.”
His breath caught, and his hands came to my hips as I
wobbled a little in my high heels. The wine-sweet air
filled my nostrils, and something else . . . the scent of
male skin, fresh like nutmeg or ginger . . . a sun-warmed
spice. Exerting pressure on the back of his neck, I urged
his mouth to mine, finding softness and heat, the tang of
champagne melting into the intimate taste of him.
One of his hands traveled up my spine, coaxing out a
shiver, a sweet shock, as the warmth of his palm met my
bare skin. I felt the strength of his hand, and the
gentleness, as it closed over my nape and tilted my head
back. His mouth barely grazed mine, more a promise of a
kiss than an actual one. I made a little sound at the brush
of his lips and kept my face upturned, straining for more.
Another lush descent, a dizzying pressure as he opened my
mouth with his. He reached deeper, his tongue finding
ticklish places that drew a shivering laugh from my throat.
I tried to curl around him, holding him with my arching
body. His mouth was slow and searching, the kisses hard at
first, then loosening as if unraveling from their own heat.
The pleasure thickened, hard flushes rising through me,
bringing the desire to full-slip ripeness. I wasn’t aware
of moving backward, but I felt the frame of the tasting
table high against my bottom, the sharp edge digging into
my flesh.
Nick lifted me with astonishing ease until I sat on the
chilled table. He took my mouth again, longer, deeper,
while I tried to catch his tongue, tried to draw him as far
inside as possible. I wanted to lie back on the table, an
offering of aching flesh on sterile marble, and let him do
anything he wanted. Something had been cut loose in me. I
was saturated with excitement, drunk with it, and part of
it was because Nick, who always seemed so in control, was
fighting for self-restraint. His breath came in ragged
puffs, his hands gripping my body.
He kissed my throat, tasting the thin, susceptible skin,
his lips stroking the throb of my pulse. Panting, I slid my
hands up to his hair, so soft and thick, layers of heavy
silk in my palms.
Not at all like Nick’s.
A cold shot of horror went down to my stomach. “Oh God.” I
was barely able to force the words out. I touched his face
in the darkness, encountering hard, unfamiliar features,
the scrape of shaven bristle. The corners of my eyes stung,
but I wasn’t sure whether the imminent tears were caused by
embarrassment, anger, fear, disappointment, or some unholy
combination of all of them. “Nick?”
My wrist was caught in a powerful hand, and his mouth
dragged softly over the insides of my fingers. A kiss
burned the center of my palm, and then I heard a voice so
smoky and deep I would have sworn it belonged to the devil.
“Who’s Nick?”