Obsession Read Online Free PDF

for more. The rougher the better.
    Once.
    A month ago. A week ago. Hours ago.
    Once.
    Her hands slid up my inner thighs, and she shoved my legs wider, until the rapidly growing bulge in my trousers ached with the bite of the material cupping me.
    Her fingers lightly traced the ridge as her eyes regarded me from behind her drowsy lashes, her cherry-red mouth curving, her face shimmering with moist heat as her excitement mounted.
    Her long, slender fingers manipulated my trouser closing, opening it little by little as she lowered her head to my crotch and breathed against it—moist heat that made a groan crawl inside my throat.
    I swallowed it, allowed her a faint smile as she raised her head and looked at me, lips parted, her breath coming in short, audible little pants. Her tongue flitted over her lower lip, then her upper lip, moistening them so they glistened slightly in the failing sunlight spilling through the window.
    Then she went down.
    I closed my eyes. And reached for her. Buried both hands in her luxurious red hair like silk entwined around my fingers.
    And drew back her head. Too roughly.
    Her small chin thrust upward and her eyes, wide and shocked and confused, focused on mine.
    “No,” I said.
    Surprise froze her features.
    “No,” I repeated.
    “You don’t want me.” It wasn’t a question.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Liar.” She struggled, growing frantic. “Liar. You bastard liar.”
    My hands gripped her tighter.
    “You need me.”
    “I needed your money. Not you, Edwina. You know that.”
    She struggled again, her small hands in fists that buried into my thighs. Her eyes filled with tears and an unfamiliar desperation carved deep grooves in her brow and around her mouth.
    For a moment—as asinine as it was—I almost believed that the emotion contorting her face into distress might have been love. But I didn’t care to consider such a possibility. It would only complicate matters even more.
    Besides, Edwina was incapable of truly loving anyone. She’d said so herself.
    “What do you hope to accomplish by this idiocy?” she demanded. “Do you imagine somehow salvaging your ragamuffin’s sanity?”
    “Yes. I do. I hope to.”
    “And for what? So you can spend the rest of your life as a pauper? Need I remind you that you’ve squandered your inheritance, not to mention the Salterdon name, in your attempts to humiliate your grandmother? Do you intend to get by on the charity of your brother?”
    I shoved her away angrily and adjusted my trousers. “Careful, Edwina. My tolerance has its limits.” Struggling to her feet, her anger mounting, her hair a wild blazing flood of color spilling over her breasts, she faced me like a snorting, bloodied bull as I rose from the chair, anticipating the fight.
    She swept like a cyclone round the room, her gaze flying from breakable object to breakable object. “You pay what little help you have with silver candlesticks. The clubs in London have cut you off. It’s only a matter of time before they come after Thorn Rose—or what’s left of it, that isn’t falling in with neglect.
    “You’re a laughingstock, Salterdon. Your friends—what’s left of them—wager when you and this place will crumble to dust in complete disgrace. What will this heroism for a lunatic get you? Will you content yourself with spending the remainder of your miserably failed life peddling pigs and potatoes at market in order to feed yourself?”
    “Preferable to submitting myself to a whoring shrew, certainly.”
    A china figurine sailed toward my head. I ducked and it shattered against the wall. She followed with a decanter of port. I attempted to catch it mid-air, but too late. To my despair I watched as it careened through the open window and crashed on the cobblestone path, drenching a clump of peonies.
    “Damn,” I said through my teeth. “You’ve gone too far, Edwina. That was my finest port.”
    Suddenly the fury left her. Silence—like that after a storm has