spellbound.
Wonder—fleeting, innocent thoughts of what it might be like . . .
Her fingers, spread across his upper chest, fluttered, then stilled.
Her gaze dropped to his lips; his dropped to hers.
Her lips parted, just a little.
He bent his head and covered them.
They were petal-soft, and sweet—a delicate, fresh sweetness that hinted, not of innocence, but of innocent pleasures.
He hadn’t intended this. He knew he should stop, draw back, let her escape even if she didn’t know enough to run. He didn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to release her without tasting her, without giving his clamoring senses at least that much reward.
No easy task, to take that much in a first kiss without frightening her. The implicit challenge tantalized.
He kept the caress gentle, undemanding, waiting with the patience of one who knew for her curiosity to overcome her scruples. It didn’t take long—she was inherently confident, with little reason to doubt her ability to cope, even if, in this arena, she was out of her league. Just how out of her league was not a point she appreciated. Not yet.
When her lips firmed, tentatively molding, gently returning his kiss, the pirate within him gloated. He swooped, but was careful to disguise his attack. Skillfully fanning her interest, teasing, tantalizing, he set himself to captivate with simple kisses laced with potent temptation.
The promise of something new, illicit, sensual—a taste she’d not tried before.
She sank into his arms. He closed them around her, aware to his bones of her warmth, of the enticement of her soft flesh. He breathed deep and her scent wreathed through him—his arms locked. He shackled the sudden urge to seize. Instead, he traced her lower lip with his tongue, and waited.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then parted her lips. He traced their contours, encouraging her further, until, almost giddy with need, with triumph, he could enter and taste her as he wished.
One taste was what he’d promised himself; he savored the moment, then, reining in his rakish impulses, drew back.
Their lips parted, by half an inch. Their breaths mingled; she didn’t draw back. Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her lids were heavy, veiling her eyes. As he watched, they lifted and she met his gaze.
Her eyes were darkened, sultry, yet filled with innocent surprise, and with a womanly wondering . . .
He kissed her again, not, this time, for his pleasure but for hers. To show her just a little more of what could be, a little more of the wonder.
Phyllida tightened her hold on his lapels and gave herself up to the kiss, to the slow surge of his tongue, the intimate caressing and exploring. Warmth seeped through her; a sharp lick of sensation whipped to her toes and slowly curled them.
His head angled over hers and she clung; he deepened the kiss and she willingly followed. For years, she’d dreamed of being kissed like this, kissed as a woman, a woman desired. It was frightening and enticing. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She certainly wasn’t in control. Instead of scaring her, that thrilled her. Foolish, certainly, yet she felt no fear. Only a wanton eagerness.
Lips and mouths melded; tongues tangled, sliding, caressing . . . for one magical instant, the world fell away.
He tasted of heat and wildness, of something primeval, something barely tamed. Male—hard where she was soft, beast to her beauty. She sensed the leashed power simmering beneath his lips, held back behind his experienced facade.
Then he started to draw back, to retreat and end the kiss.
It was a surprise to realize she’d stretched up on her toes, that she’d pressed herself against him. Her knees had weakened, her skin felt too hot, her wits were whirling. His chest was a solid wall supporting her; she spread her fingers and pressed, enthralled by the resilient hardness beneath the crisp layers. His arms had locked, iron bands caging her; she didn’t care.
She wanted to
Wonder—fleeting, innocent thoughts of what it might be like . . .
Her fingers, spread across his upper chest, fluttered, then stilled.
Her gaze dropped to his lips; his dropped to hers.
Her lips parted, just a little.
He bent his head and covered them.
They were petal-soft, and sweet—a delicate, fresh sweetness that hinted, not of innocence, but of innocent pleasures.
He hadn’t intended this. He knew he should stop, draw back, let her escape even if she didn’t know enough to run. He didn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to release her without tasting her, without giving his clamoring senses at least that much reward.
No easy task, to take that much in a first kiss without frightening her. The implicit challenge tantalized.
He kept the caress gentle, undemanding, waiting with the patience of one who knew for her curiosity to overcome her scruples. It didn’t take long—she was inherently confident, with little reason to doubt her ability to cope, even if, in this arena, she was out of her league. Just how out of her league was not a point she appreciated. Not yet.
When her lips firmed, tentatively molding, gently returning his kiss, the pirate within him gloated. He swooped, but was careful to disguise his attack. Skillfully fanning her interest, teasing, tantalizing, he set himself to captivate with simple kisses laced with potent temptation.
The promise of something new, illicit, sensual—a taste she’d not tried before.
She sank into his arms. He closed them around her, aware to his bones of her warmth, of the enticement of her soft flesh. He breathed deep and her scent wreathed through him—his arms locked. He shackled the sudden urge to seize. Instead, he traced her lower lip with his tongue, and waited.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then parted her lips. He traced their contours, encouraging her further, until, almost giddy with need, with triumph, he could enter and taste her as he wished.
One taste was what he’d promised himself; he savored the moment, then, reining in his rakish impulses, drew back.
Their lips parted, by half an inch. Their breaths mingled; she didn’t draw back. Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her lids were heavy, veiling her eyes. As he watched, they lifted and she met his gaze.
Her eyes were darkened, sultry, yet filled with innocent surprise, and with a womanly wondering . . .
He kissed her again, not, this time, for his pleasure but for hers. To show her just a little more of what could be, a little more of the wonder.
Phyllida tightened her hold on his lapels and gave herself up to the kiss, to the slow surge of his tongue, the intimate caressing and exploring. Warmth seeped through her; a sharp lick of sensation whipped to her toes and slowly curled them.
His head angled over hers and she clung; he deepened the kiss and she willingly followed. For years, she’d dreamed of being kissed like this, kissed as a woman, a woman desired. It was frightening and enticing. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She certainly wasn’t in control. Instead of scaring her, that thrilled her. Foolish, certainly, yet she felt no fear. Only a wanton eagerness.
Lips and mouths melded; tongues tangled, sliding, caressing . . . for one magical instant, the world fell away.
He tasted of heat and wildness, of something primeval, something barely tamed. Male—hard where she was soft, beast to her beauty. She sensed the leashed power simmering beneath his lips, held back behind his experienced facade.
Then he started to draw back, to retreat and end the kiss.
It was a surprise to realize she’d stretched up on her toes, that she’d pressed herself against him. Her knees had weakened, her skin felt too hot, her wits were whirling. His chest was a solid wall supporting her; she spread her fingers and pressed, enthralled by the resilient hardness beneath the crisp layers. His arms had locked, iron bands caging her; she didn’t care.
She wanted to
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