Something changed—behind his face, behind his eyes. “Just because Henrietta is with you, you aren’t in any danger?”
His voice had altered again; cold, hard, but flat, as if all the passion that had invested it a moment earlier had been drawn in, compressed.
She replayed his words, hesitated, yet could see no reason not to nod. “Precisely.”
“Think again.”
She’d forgotten how fast he could move. How totally helpless he could make her feel.
How totally and completely helpless she was, yanked into his arms, crushed against him, and ruthlessly kissed.
The impulse to struggle flared, but was extinguished before it took hold. Drowned beneath a tidal wave of feelings. Hers, and his.
Something between them ignited; not anger, not shock—something closer to avid curiosity.
She closed her hands in his coat, grabbed hold, held on as a rush of sensation swept her up, caught her, held her trapped. Not just by his arms but by myriad strands of fascination. By the shift of his lips, cool and hard on hers, the restless flexing of his fingers on her upper arms as if he longed to reach further, explore and touch, longed to pull her closer yet.
Spiraling thrills cascaded through her; licks of excitement teased her nerves, built her fascination. She’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never had pleasure and greedy need leapt to such a simple caress.
His lips moved on hers, ruthless, relentless, until she surrendered to the unsubtle pressure and parted them.
Her world shook when he pressed them wider yet and his tongue slid in to meet hers.
She tensed. He ignored it and caressed, then probed. Something within her rocked, teetered, then cracked. Sensation spilled down her veins, flowing steadily through her, hot, scalding, bright.
Another flash, another sharp shock of sensation. She would have gasped but he caught her to him, one steely arm sliding about her and tightening—distracting her as he deepened the kiss.
By the time her senses refocused, she was too enthralled, too enmeshed in the novel delights to think about breaking free.
Tristan sensed it, knew it in his bones, tried not to let his hunger take advantage. She’d been kissed before, but he’d stake his considerable reputation that she’d never yielded her mouth to any man.
But it, and she, were now his to enjoy, to savor, at least as far as a kiss would allow.
Madness, of course. He knew that now, but in that heated moment when she’d blithely consigned her protection to a hound—a hound who was sitting patiently by while he ravished her mistress’s soft mouth—all he’d seen was red. He hadn’t realized how much of that haze had been due to lust.
He knew now.
He’d kissed her to demonstrate her inherent weakness.
In doing so had uncovered his own.
He was hungry—starved; by some blessing of fate so was she. They stood in the silent garden, locked together, and simply enjoyed, took, gave. She was a novice, but that only added a piquancy, a delicate touch of enchantment to know that it was he who was leading her along paths she’d never trod.
Into realms she hadn’t before explored.
The warmth of her, the supple strength, the blatantly feminine curves pressed to his chest—the fact he had her locked in his arms sank through his senses, sank evocative talons deep.
Until he knew just what he wanted, knew beyond doubt what Pandora’s box he’d opened.
Leonora clung as the kiss went on, as it progressed, expanded, opening up new horizons, educating her senses. Some part of her reeling mind knew without question that she wasn’t in any danger, that Trentham’s arms were a safe haven for her.
That she could accept the kiss and all it brought if not with impunity, then at least without risk.
That she could grasp the brief glimpse of passion he offered, seize the moment and, starved, ease her hunger at least that much, own to wanting more without fear, knowing that when it ended she would be able—would be allowed—to step back. To remain herself, locked away and safe.
Alone.
So she made no move to end it.