Twice Loved (copy2) by Lavyrle Spencer

aside. “If I kiss you once, will you be satisfied and let me go back?”
    “What do y’ think?” he whispered gruffly, nuzzling the side of her neck, biting it lightly, sending goosebumps shivering across her belly.
    “I think my husband will kill me if I don’t get back to the house soon.” But she inched her lips closer to his even as she said it.
    “And I think  this  husband will kill y’ if y’ do,” he said, almost at her mouth. He smelled of cedar and wine and the past. She recognized his aroma, and it prompted her response. The silence hemmed them in, so immense and total that within it their heartbeats seemed to resound like cannon shot. The first day when he’d kissed her, she’d been in shock. The second time he’d taken her by surprise. But now—if he kissed her now, if she let him, this one would be deliberate.
    “Once,” she whispered. “Just once, then I have to go back. Promise you’ll lace me up, ” she pleaded.
    “Nay,” he returned gruffly, breathing on her lips. “No promises.”
    Sensibly, she pulled back, but it took little effort for Rye to change her mind. He simply touched the corner of her mouth with his lips.
    And the old thrill was back, as fresh and vital as always. He had that way about him, Rye did, that she’d tried to forget since being married to Dan. Call it technique, call it practice, call it familiarity—but they’d learned to kiss together, and Rye knew what Laura liked. He let their breaths mingle, then wet the corner of her mouth, dipping to taste before savoring fully. She liked to be aroused one tiny step at a time, and she waited now, her neck taut, her breathing labored, while he held her with one hand around the side of her neck, his thumb massaging the hollow beneath her jaw. The thumb circled lazily. Then came his tongue, wetting the perimeter of her lips with patient, faint strokes, as Rye sensed the fire building within her.
    The memories came flooding back to Laura ... being fifteen in a dory with lips tightly shut and eyes safely closed, being sixteen in a boathouse loft and knowing well the use of tongues; moving toward full maturity and learning together how a man touches a woman, how a woman touches a man to create impatience, then ecstasy.
    As if he read her mind, Rye now murmured, “Remember that summer, Laura, up in the loft above old man Hardesty’s boathouse?”
    And he took her back to those beginnings, pressing his mouth fully over hers, his tongue inviting hers to dance. His silky inner lips were just warm enough, just wet enough, just hesitant enough, just demanding enough, to wipe away today and take her back through the years to those first times.
    She shivered. He felt the tremor beneath his palm on her neck and drew her against him, then slipped that warm, seeking palm within the dress that hung loosely from her shoulders. But when he would have pulled it down, she quickly flung her arms about his neck so that he couldn’t. The dress was doing its intended job, for through spikes of whalebone and clumps of gathers there was little chance of his touching her intimately. The hoop was pressed tightly against his thighs and flared out behind her as if blowing in a hurricane.
    But the hurricane blew not on her skirts but within her head and heart, for the kiss now had substance. It was a hot, whole giving of mouths, with neither holding back anything. Her tongue joined his and she knew the immediate shock of difference, as anyone knows who has kissed only one person for a long time, as she had Dan. It should have sobered her, reminded her she was not free to do these things with this man, but instead she welcomed it and realized that ever since she’d married Dan, she’d been comparing his kiss to this and finding it lacking.
    That traitorous admission brought her somewhat to her senses, and she hoped fervently that Rye would be content with this kiss for now, because her resistance was fast slipping as he held her firmly and ran