And couldn't. She was facing ignominious defeat-with not a clue of what followed-when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip, one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.
Her jaw eased, her lips parted.
He entered.
The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seduct
ively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.
Even while he took arrogance to new heights.
She hadn't thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her-languorously, unhurriedly-as if he had all the time in the world.
Then he settled to play.
To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game. The very idea shocked her to her toes-and sent shards of excitement flying down her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their tantalizing dance.
She responded-tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more, returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.
Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.
Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He'd laid waste her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his head.
And straight to his loins.
Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her, to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn't fool enough to think she wouldn't break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She was no simple country miss, no naive maid-her three words, her attitude, had reeked of authority. And she wasn't young; no young lady would have had the confidence to command him, of all men, to "Put me down." She was not girl, but woman-and she fitted very well, supple and curvaceous in his arms.
How well she was fitting, how tempting her curves were, locked hard against him, registered, and raised his lust to new heights. The soft, silken sway of her heavy hair, a warm, living veil drifting over the backs of his hands, and the perfume-wildflowers, the promise of spring and the fecundity of growing things-that rose from the silky locks, converted lust to pain.
It was he who pulled back and ended the kiss-it was that, or suffer worse agony. For he would have to let her go, untouched, unsampled, his lust unsated; a snowbound churchyard in the depths of a winter's night was a challenge even he balked at.
And, despite the intimate caresses they'd exchanged, he knew she wasn't that sort of lady. He'd breached her walls by sheer brazen recklessness, evoked by her haughty command to put her down. Right now, he'd like to lay her down, but that, he knew, was not to be.
He raised his head.
Her eyes flew wide, she looked at him as if he was a ghost.
"Lady preserve me."
Her words were a fervent whisper, condensed by the cold, they misted the air between them She searched his face-tor what, Richard could not guess; with his customary arrogance, he raised one brow.
Lips, soft and rosy-much rosier now than before-firmed "By the Lady's veil! This is madness!"
She shook her head and pushed against his chest, bemused, Richard set her down carefully, then released her. Frowning absentmindedly, she stepped around and past him, then whirled to face him "Who are you?"
"Richard Cynster" He sketched her an elegant bow. Straightening, he trapped her gaze "Entirely at your service"
Her eyes snapped "Do you make a habit of accosting innocent women in graveyards?"
"Only when they walk into my arms."
"I requested you to put me down."
"You ordered me to put you down-and I did. Eventually."
"Yes. But…" Her tirade-he was sure it would have been a tirade-died on her lips She blinked at him "You're English!"
An accusation rather than an observation Richard arched a brow. "Cynsters are"