one.”
“Balderdash.”
He took her hand, snapped his heels together, and bowed low over her fingertips, brushing his lips across her gloved knuckles. Then he straightened, but neglected to relinquish her hand.
She strove for the right tone: sophisticated, a trifle put out, a bit amused. “Very good, Mr. Munro,” she commended him. “Now you are to let go of my hand.”
“Yes,” he answered, his eyes fast on her face. “Yes, of course. But if I hadn’t promised you—”
He broke off.
“Promised me what?” she asked curiously, breathlessly.
“That I would not touch you without your express consent, I would be kissing you right now.”
“You would?” she swallowed. She couldn’t be that brazen…. No, tonight she could be anything she wanted to be. “You could always…ask.”
He gave her his wicked, wonderful, lopsided smile, a deep dimple scoring his lean cheek. His fingers tightened fractionally around her hand. “Ah, but lass,” his burr was there in full force, deep and vibrant, “I have two great failings. The first being that I never ask permission.”
Her face fell.
“And the second being that I’m a bloody…great…liar.”
He jerked her against him with a single yank, wrapping his arm about her waist and lifting her until her face was even with his. His hand cupped the back of her head as his mouth covered hers.
It was a hard, punishing kiss, in no way demonstrating his former languid expertise. His heat poured into her, through her. His mouth moved fiercely, possessively on hers, his crushing embrace not giving her any room to struggle.
And she abandoned herself to it. To him.
With a sound of frustration, she pulled her arms free, lashing them about his neck and clinging to him, bewildered by the need he incited, the need she felt roiling through him, setting her afire.
“Jesu!” He muttered thickly against her mouth and, still holding her above the ground, moved back into the deeper shadows of the archway, back behind the column of the far arch, back until her shoulders felt the brick wall behind her.
He pinned her there, his hips tight against her, forcing her to comprehend the message sent by the hard, masculine presence pressed against her belly and recognize its answer in the heated sensation pooling between her thighs. Wanton. Wicked. Irresistible. Reason clamored for caution, for restraint, shouting at her to retreat. To struggle.
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
And Reason, finding no place to take purchase, ceded ground to Instinct, and Instinct flourished. She closed her eyes and answered his fierce kisses with her own. With a will of their own, her hands delved beneath his jacket and smoothed over the warm linen shirt covering him. They flowed up his hard flanks around to his back and up along the shallow channel of his spine to the heavy planes of his shoulders.
He shuddered. He trembled beneath her touch.
A deep growl issued from his throat as he lifted his hands to her face, bracketing her cheeks between his palms, tipping her head back as he dragged a searing kiss up her chin, along her jaw to beneath her ear.
“Kiss me,” he whispered thickly. “Kiss me as if you want me. Make me believe it.”
As if? As if ? She did want him. Desire ripened within her like a rare orchid patiently waiting for years for just the right dark, heated, moonless night to bloom. He was that dark night.
She speared her fingers through the thick black locks and pulled his head down to meet her mouth. She kissed him eagerly, impatiently, and when his tongue pushed between her lips, she opened her mouth and met it with her own.
She had wanted this forever, from the moment she’d seen him in Lovers Walk. From the moment he’d set her afire with his kiss, she’d hungered for him. She’d lain in her bed at night, and in those fever-kindled moments between dream and wakefulness, this is what her imagination had been filled with. This. Him.
She was only dimly aware of him
“Balderdash.”
He took her hand, snapped his heels together, and bowed low over her fingertips, brushing his lips across her gloved knuckles. Then he straightened, but neglected to relinquish her hand.
She strove for the right tone: sophisticated, a trifle put out, a bit amused. “Very good, Mr. Munro,” she commended him. “Now you are to let go of my hand.”
“Yes,” he answered, his eyes fast on her face. “Yes, of course. But if I hadn’t promised you—”
He broke off.
“Promised me what?” she asked curiously, breathlessly.
“That I would not touch you without your express consent, I would be kissing you right now.”
“You would?” she swallowed. She couldn’t be that brazen…. No, tonight she could be anything she wanted to be. “You could always…ask.”
He gave her his wicked, wonderful, lopsided smile, a deep dimple scoring his lean cheek. His fingers tightened fractionally around her hand. “Ah, but lass,” his burr was there in full force, deep and vibrant, “I have two great failings. The first being that I never ask permission.”
Her face fell.
“And the second being that I’m a bloody…great…liar.”
He jerked her against him with a single yank, wrapping his arm about her waist and lifting her until her face was even with his. His hand cupped the back of her head as his mouth covered hers.
It was a hard, punishing kiss, in no way demonstrating his former languid expertise. His heat poured into her, through her. His mouth moved fiercely, possessively on hers, his crushing embrace not giving her any room to struggle.
And she abandoned herself to it. To him.
With a sound of frustration, she pulled her arms free, lashing them about his neck and clinging to him, bewildered by the need he incited, the need she felt roiling through him, setting her afire.
“Jesu!” He muttered thickly against her mouth and, still holding her above the ground, moved back into the deeper shadows of the archway, back behind the column of the far arch, back until her shoulders felt the brick wall behind her.
He pinned her there, his hips tight against her, forcing her to comprehend the message sent by the hard, masculine presence pressed against her belly and recognize its answer in the heated sensation pooling between her thighs. Wanton. Wicked. Irresistible. Reason clamored for caution, for restraint, shouting at her to retreat. To struggle.
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
And Reason, finding no place to take purchase, ceded ground to Instinct, and Instinct flourished. She closed her eyes and answered his fierce kisses with her own. With a will of their own, her hands delved beneath his jacket and smoothed over the warm linen shirt covering him. They flowed up his hard flanks around to his back and up along the shallow channel of his spine to the heavy planes of his shoulders.
He shuddered. He trembled beneath her touch.
A deep growl issued from his throat as he lifted his hands to her face, bracketing her cheeks between his palms, tipping her head back as he dragged a searing kiss up her chin, along her jaw to beneath her ear.
“Kiss me,” he whispered thickly. “Kiss me as if you want me. Make me believe it.”
As if? As if ? She did want him. Desire ripened within her like a rare orchid patiently waiting for years for just the right dark, heated, moonless night to bloom. He was that dark night.
She speared her fingers through the thick black locks and pulled his head down to meet her mouth. She kissed him eagerly, impatiently, and when his tongue pushed between her lips, she opened her mouth and met it with her own.
She had wanted this forever, from the moment she’d seen him in Lovers Walk. From the moment he’d set her afire with his kiss, she’d hungered for him. She’d lain in her bed at night, and in those fever-kindled moments between dream and wakefulness, this is what her imagination had been filled with. This. Him.
She was only dimly aware of him
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