Page 33 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
They came alive on a giddy rush of anticipation.
She raised her gaze to his eyes. In the same instant registered the sudden tension that had gripped him, that had turned taut, resilient muscle into granite and steel. The arms that held her so securely felt less malleable than iron.
But it was his eyes that most gave him away; the gold-flecked amber burned.
She didn’t stop to think. To question.
To give him time to snap his shields back into place.
The Lady might help and create the chance, but it was up to her to seize it.
Stretching up on her toes, she barely paused to whisper “Thank you” before she pressed her lips to his.
For one instant, her confidence wavered. What if he didn’t respond?
Then she sensed it—a sharp hitch in his breathing, a leaping, uncontrollable, barely reined impulse to seize.
She’d felt that reaction in herself—she recognized it in him.
All doubt evaporated. All caution fell.
She pressed her kiss on him, sure, certain.
Stepping boldly into him, she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, savoring the heat and the strength beneath her palms, then she reached further, to his nape, and slid her fingers into the thick, heavy locks of his hair.
The feathery touch caught her, steadied her.
All her senses alive, she turned her mind from conquest to persuasion.
Drawing one hand from the silk of his hair, she placed her palm against one lean cheek and gave herself over to the communion of the kiss.
Thomas was lost, his anchor gone, swept away by a tide of ferocious yearning. His, but equally hers. Her longing had poured into him, inciting a response he had no hope of reining back. Of taming. Of restraining.
He wanted her; he always had.
But the part of him that wanted her—still, regardless—was the part of him he normally kept leashed, controlled. Hidden.
It hadn’t been her kiss, the sharp and shocking pressure of her lips against his, that had shattered the chains, that had broken the lock and flung wide the doors of his inner prison.
It hadn’t been the searing heat of her touch as she’d slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, an evocative, provocative come-hither act that yet had felt curiously innocent.
Even her fingers tangling in his hair—he was more than experienced enough to set all such temptations aside.
But the feel of her palm, her fingers, lightly riding against his cheek…
It was as if by that touch she’d tamed him. Slayed all resistance and claimed the man he truly was.
He’d always known she was dangerous. That she and she alone could rule him.
He hadn’t wanted that. He still didn’t want that. Yet…
Her lips tasted of a heady blend of rose and nectar. He couldn’t resist the temptation to sip.
Just a little. A bit.
Slowly, inexorably, the muscles in his arms tightened and he gathered her to him. His head bent—whether to his will or hers he didn’t know—but with irresistible expertise, he seized control of the kiss, until then a mere shadow of what, between them, a kiss could be.
He showed her that reality. With brutal candor, he laid the possibilities bare; as she had started this, he was only too willing to finish it—to tease her as much as her not-so-innocent kiss was teasing him. Parting her lips, he claimed them, then angling his head, he claimed every inch of her mouth, of her tongue, with his. Claimed all the luscious softness and tasted her burgeoning passion.
