shock of sensual awakening as their bodies touched, breasts to chest, hips to thighs.
Sarah caught her breath, physically and mentally; she couldn’t catch her reeling, whirling wits, but she didn’t need to. Her will remained her own and she knew what she wanted. To know, to learn all she might from this.
From this and all subsequent engagements. From his kiss, that melding of their mouths that was no longer remotely innocent, from his embrace, different tonight—his hands remained at her waist, yet she still felt his strength surrounding her, potent, male, dangerous, yet so tempting.
She slid her hands up over his shoulders, felt the heavy muscles under her palms and tensed her fingers, savoring the warm hardness, then reached further, sliding her hands up the strong column of his nape; spreading her fingers, she ran them through his hair.
Fascinated, she ruffled the heavy locks, thrilling to the silky texture and the way he reacted, the kiss, and him, heating at her boldness.
She knew what she wanted—she wanted more. Wanted him to show her more, to let her see what lay behind his newfound desire for her. So she kissed him back, more definite, more demanding in her own right, inviting…he hesitated for an instant, then accepted, plucked the reins from her grasp and took control.
He swept her into some hotter, more urgent existence.
He kissed her more deeply, more thoroughly, more evocatively, until heat swamped her, threatening to melt her bones, until her wits were no longer reeling, but flown. Until her skin was flushed, until her body felt simultaneously unbearably languid and indescribably tense.
Waiting, but she wasn’t sure for what.
Charlie reminded himself of her innocence, that she was all the word implied; she had no notion of what she hungered for, what she was inviting as her tongue boldly met his and stroked, caressed.
All her responses, enticing though they were, were instinctive, flavored with that distinctive fresh and heady taste he now associated with her. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, something other than those on whom his experience was based; the difference logically had to be a symptom of the way she differed from all the rest—that singular quality was the taste of innocence.
He’d never expected to find innocence so addictive. So arousing.
So powerfully alluring that he had to battle, actually had to exert his will against his own inclinations, against a welling, remarkably strong desire to sweep her up in his arms, lay her on the sofa, and…
But that wasn’t his purpose, not to night. To night, and over those to come, he was, he inwardly reiterated, committed to playing a long game. Tactics, strategy, and how to influence a negotiation. She had something he wanted; to night he was sweetening his price.
So he held her against him, his hands at her waist, too wise to tempt his baser self by taking her into his arms; it was not part of to night’s agenda to crush her to him…not yet. Not until she was ready, not until she yearned for that contact with a hunger even greater than his own.
He continued to kiss her evocatively, commandingly, letting passion rise, writhe and beckon—until she clung to his shoulders, the fingers of one hand sunk in his hair, until her body was heated, pliant, and wanting.
He drew back; he had to fight to do it but he held to his purpose and freed her lips. Felt her breath wash over his and had to battle the urge to sink back into the delectable cavern of her mouth and take. Taste. More.
He inwardly swore. He would, soon, but not to night. To night…
Muscles bunching, he raised his head and eased her back. “Enough.”
He wasn’t sure whom he was addressing the command to—her, or himself. He waited until she lifted her lids, until the dazed haze faded from her eyes and she blinked, and refocused. On his face. She quickly scanned it as if trying to read his direction. He would have smiled, reassuring and calm, but his
Sarah caught her breath, physically and mentally; she couldn’t catch her reeling, whirling wits, but she didn’t need to. Her will remained her own and she knew what she wanted. To know, to learn all she might from this.
From this and all subsequent engagements. From his kiss, that melding of their mouths that was no longer remotely innocent, from his embrace, different tonight—his hands remained at her waist, yet she still felt his strength surrounding her, potent, male, dangerous, yet so tempting.
She slid her hands up over his shoulders, felt the heavy muscles under her palms and tensed her fingers, savoring the warm hardness, then reached further, sliding her hands up the strong column of his nape; spreading her fingers, she ran them through his hair.
Fascinated, she ruffled the heavy locks, thrilling to the silky texture and the way he reacted, the kiss, and him, heating at her boldness.
She knew what she wanted—she wanted more. Wanted him to show her more, to let her see what lay behind his newfound desire for her. So she kissed him back, more definite, more demanding in her own right, inviting…he hesitated for an instant, then accepted, plucked the reins from her grasp and took control.
He swept her into some hotter, more urgent existence.
He kissed her more deeply, more thoroughly, more evocatively, until heat swamped her, threatening to melt her bones, until her wits were no longer reeling, but flown. Until her skin was flushed, until her body felt simultaneously unbearably languid and indescribably tense.
Waiting, but she wasn’t sure for what.
Charlie reminded himself of her innocence, that she was all the word implied; she had no notion of what she hungered for, what she was inviting as her tongue boldly met his and stroked, caressed.
All her responses, enticing though they were, were instinctive, flavored with that distinctive fresh and heady taste he now associated with her. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, something other than those on whom his experience was based; the difference logically had to be a symptom of the way she differed from all the rest—that singular quality was the taste of innocence.
He’d never expected to find innocence so addictive. So arousing.
So powerfully alluring that he had to battle, actually had to exert his will against his own inclinations, against a welling, remarkably strong desire to sweep her up in his arms, lay her on the sofa, and…
But that wasn’t his purpose, not to night. To night, and over those to come, he was, he inwardly reiterated, committed to playing a long game. Tactics, strategy, and how to influence a negotiation. She had something he wanted; to night he was sweetening his price.
So he held her against him, his hands at her waist, too wise to tempt his baser self by taking her into his arms; it was not part of to night’s agenda to crush her to him…not yet. Not until she was ready, not until she yearned for that contact with a hunger even greater than his own.
He continued to kiss her evocatively, commandingly, letting passion rise, writhe and beckon—until she clung to his shoulders, the fingers of one hand sunk in his hair, until her body was heated, pliant, and wanting.
He drew back; he had to fight to do it but he held to his purpose and freed her lips. Felt her breath wash over his and had to battle the urge to sink back into the delectable cavern of her mouth and take. Taste. More.
He inwardly swore. He would, soon, but not to night. To night…
Muscles bunching, he raised his head and eased her back. “Enough.”
He wasn’t sure whom he was addressing the command to—her, or himself. He waited until she lifted her lids, until the dazed haze faded from her eyes and she blinked, and refocused. On his face. She quickly scanned it as if trying to read his direction. He would have smiled, reassuring and calm, but his
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