silence so profound that it vibrated with a growing tension, a deep awareness of each other.
He stared down at her, and some unguarded tenderness crept into his muddy, warriorâs face.
Still holding most of his weight off her with one arm, he touched her lip with the hand he had just freed, scraped gently with his thumb.
Her joy escalated into exhilaration at the exquisite sense of being touched in such an intimate place, in such an intimate way.
âYou have mud right here,â he whispered, by way of excuse, but his voice hoarse.
For a splendid moment it felt as if every barrier wasdown between them. Every one. As if her world was as wide open as it had ever been.
Everything became remarkable: the song of a bird nearby, the feel of the mud cushioning her, the smells that tickled her nostrils, the green of the fern plumes behind him.
Where his legs were sprawled across hers, the slide of their skin together where it made slight contact at their hips, the amazing light in his sapphire eyes, the scrape of his thumb against her lip, the slick muddiness of his hair, the sensual curve of his lips.
He was so close to her she could see the dark beginning of stubble on his cheeks, and his chin. He was so close to her his breath stirred across her cheek, featherlight, as intimate as his thumb which remained on her lips. He was so close to her she could smell the scent of him, wild and clean as the forest, over the scent of the minerals in the mud that covered them.
She closed her eyes against the delicious agony of wanting a moment to last forever.
To escalate.
âI warned you there would be consequences if I took you prisoner,â he said, the words playful, while his tone was anything but.
Was he going to kiss her? Even as a rational part of her knew they could never pull back from that again, a less rational part of her wanted the taste of his lips on hers, wanted to feel them.
She took her hand, as if it didnât matter it was mud-covered, and traced a possessive line down the hard plane of his jaw. She touched it to the fullness of his lip.
As if it didnât matter to him that it was mud-covered, he teased her finger gently, nibbled it with his teeth.
She felt the featherlight touch of his lip against the skin of her finger. Was it possible to die of sensation?
If thisâthe merest touch of his lips to something as inconsequential as her fingerâcould cause this unbelievable rise of sensation within her, what would it be like if he took her lips with his own?
She felt as if it would be a death of sorts.
The death of all she had been before, the rising up of something new, the rising up within her of a spirit that was stronger and more resilient than she had ever imagined, similar to that spirit that rose in her when she danced.
A place that was without thought, and without history.
Heaven.
Brazen with wanting, she slipped her muddy hands around the column of his neck, and pulled him down to her.
His weight settled on her more fully, chest to the soft curve of breast, hard stomach to delicate swell, muscled legs to slender ones, fused.
A whisper of sanity called her back from the brink.
And then called louder, stop.
It reminded her of the price of such a heated moment, lives changed forever.
But in that moment, she didnât care if there was a price.
And apparently neither did he.
Because his lips touched hers. The fact they were both mud-slicked only increased the danger, the sensuality, the delicious sense of being swept away, of not caring about what happened next, of being pulled by forces greater than themselves.
His very essence was in the way he kissed her.Kiernan tasted, not of mud, but of rain in a storm, pure, clean, elemental. His kiss was tender, welcoming, and yet the strength and leashed passion were sizzling just below the surface.
It had been so long since Meredith had allowed anything or anyone to touch her, emotionally or physically.
She had not even
He stared down at her, and some unguarded tenderness crept into his muddy, warriorâs face.
Still holding most of his weight off her with one arm, he touched her lip with the hand he had just freed, scraped gently with his thumb.
Her joy escalated into exhilaration at the exquisite sense of being touched in such an intimate place, in such an intimate way.
âYou have mud right here,â he whispered, by way of excuse, but his voice hoarse.
For a splendid moment it felt as if every barrier wasdown between them. Every one. As if her world was as wide open as it had ever been.
Everything became remarkable: the song of a bird nearby, the feel of the mud cushioning her, the smells that tickled her nostrils, the green of the fern plumes behind him.
Where his legs were sprawled across hers, the slide of their skin together where it made slight contact at their hips, the amazing light in his sapphire eyes, the scrape of his thumb against her lip, the slick muddiness of his hair, the sensual curve of his lips.
He was so close to her she could see the dark beginning of stubble on his cheeks, and his chin. He was so close to her his breath stirred across her cheek, featherlight, as intimate as his thumb which remained on her lips. He was so close to her she could smell the scent of him, wild and clean as the forest, over the scent of the minerals in the mud that covered them.
She closed her eyes against the delicious agony of wanting a moment to last forever.
To escalate.
âI warned you there would be consequences if I took you prisoner,â he said, the words playful, while his tone was anything but.
Was he going to kiss her? Even as a rational part of her knew they could never pull back from that again, a less rational part of her wanted the taste of his lips on hers, wanted to feel them.
She took her hand, as if it didnât matter it was mud-covered, and traced a possessive line down the hard plane of his jaw. She touched it to the fullness of his lip.
As if it didnât matter to him that it was mud-covered, he teased her finger gently, nibbled it with his teeth.
She felt the featherlight touch of his lip against the skin of her finger. Was it possible to die of sensation?
If thisâthe merest touch of his lips to something as inconsequential as her fingerâcould cause this unbelievable rise of sensation within her, what would it be like if he took her lips with his own?
She felt as if it would be a death of sorts.
The death of all she had been before, the rising up of something new, the rising up within her of a spirit that was stronger and more resilient than she had ever imagined, similar to that spirit that rose in her when she danced.
A place that was without thought, and without history.
Heaven.
Brazen with wanting, she slipped her muddy hands around the column of his neck, and pulled him down to her.
His weight settled on her more fully, chest to the soft curve of breast, hard stomach to delicate swell, muscled legs to slender ones, fused.
A whisper of sanity called her back from the brink.
And then called louder, stop.
It reminded her of the price of such a heated moment, lives changed forever.
But in that moment, she didnât care if there was a price.
And apparently neither did he.
Because his lips touched hers. The fact they were both mud-slicked only increased the danger, the sensuality, the delicious sense of being swept away, of not caring about what happened next, of being pulled by forces greater than themselves.
His very essence was in the way he kissed her.Kiernan tasted, not of mud, but of rain in a storm, pure, clean, elemental. His kiss was tender, welcoming, and yet the strength and leashed passion were sizzling just below the surface.
It had been so long since Meredith had allowed anything or anyone to touch her, emotionally or physically.
She had not even
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