Page 49 of Where the Heart Leads
Without restraint.
And she let him.
Penelope’s wits weren’t reeling—they’d flown. Entirely. For the first time in her life she discovered herself hostage to her senses, wholly at their mercy. And they were merciless.
Or rather the effect he had on them was ruthless, relentless, and utterly consuming.
His lips moved on hers, steely and firm, masterfully commanding, demanding in a way that sent hot thrills down her spine. His arm had locked around her, holding her trapped; his hand anchored her head so she was his to devour.
And she didn’t care. All she cared about was experiencing more, tasting more, feeling more.
Her lips had somehow parted, letting him fill her mouth, letting his tongue lay claim in a manner she found exciting, thrilling, a dark, hot promise of pleasure.
The physical sensations wreathed her mind, fogged it, hazed her wits. The sensual temptation tugged in a way she couldn’t explain.
She wanted. For the first time in her life she felt desire stirring—something more powerful than simple will. Something addictive, that seethed with a demand she felt compelled to sate.
She wanted…to kiss him back, to respond in whatever way he wanted, in whatever way would appease and satisfy. Not just him, but her, too. The concept of giving in order to take bloomed in her mind, along with a growing certainty that in this arena, that was how exchanges worked.
Her hands had come to rest against his chest; easing their compulsive grip, she sent them sliding upward, to his shoulders, broad and hard, then farther to his nape, and the silky curls that feathered over her fingers.
She played.
Her touch affected him; he slanted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers in heated persuasion.
A thrill shot through her. Emboldened, she hesitantly kissed him back—tentative, unsure.
His response was a revelation—a wave of passionate desire that seemed to come from his soul, that poured through him and infused the kiss, and rocked her to her toes.
The power, the hunger—the raw need she sensed behind it—should have shocked her to her senses, back into the grip of self-preservatory reason.
Instead, it lured her in.
On. Tempted her into kissing him back more definitely, into letting her tongue tangle with his, into sinking against him.
Into wanting to learn even more.
Through the kiss, through the hard lips pressed to hers, through the hard hands that held her tight against his unyielding body, she sensed a primitive male satisfaction—that she’d permitted, that she’d responded, that she’d invited.
The latter was unwise; even with her wits disengaged, she knew it well enough. Yet the moment, the here and now, held no threat.
No matter how her senses stretched, all she detected was heat and welling pleasure, and, elusively laced through all, underneath and between, a power that was addictive. That called to her at some feminine level she’d never before broached. Never before known was open to her.
Her response tothatshocked her—opened her eyes to the woman within. And her yearnings.
She drew back, broke the kiss on a soft gasp. Stared, stunned, into his eyes.
Burning blue, lit by what she now understood was desire, he stared back.
The expression in his eyes, the way his jaw slowly firmed, told her he’d seen, and understood…too much.
With a spurt of fear-induced strength, she wrenched out of his arms and spun around to walk on. She was not going to—absolutely refused to—discuss or even refer to the kiss. Even allude to it.
Not when she felt so shaken. So unlike herself.
So exposed.
So vulnerable.
