A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“A kiss.”

He hadn’t even needed to think. That was what he wanted from her, now, here in her resurrection of his mother’s garden.

She blinked, but he sensed she wasn’t shocked. Nor was she unwilling…he had to drag in a breath and fight to hold his instincts back, to give her time enough to agree before he took, seized.

Her eyes returned to his; she eyed him, not warily so much as assessingly. Measuringly.

He wasn’t entirely surprised by her unmissish reaction. From James’s revelations, he’d calculated that she was twenty-nine. She’d been betrothed twice, had farewelled a guardsman going to war once, had been about to elope once. She’d been pursued by many. He knew the males of his class, knew the females, too. She wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—totally innocent.

And she’d been living here for seven years, buried in the country with no one—no gentleman of the style and class with whom she might dally. His style, his class, and now he was home. To stay.

He could almost see the procession of facts cross her mind.

He wasn’t the least surprised when she said, “In return for a kiss—one kiss and nothing more—you’ll agree never to mention or allude to my leaping to unwarranted conclusions again?”

Holding her gaze, he nodded. “Yes.”

Her head rose; her dark eyes flashed. “Very well—one kiss.”

He smiled, and reached for her.

Chapter 4

One kiss. Clarice hadn’t been able to resist. She had to know, had to reassure herself he was just like all the others—of no real consequence. That the response he evoked in her was an aberration that meant nothing, that she could ignore it. And one kiss—just one—could pose no great danger. She’d been kissed before; in her opinion, the activity was overrated.

The instant his hand touched the back of her waist, the instant her breasts touched his chest, she realized her mistake.

Her breath tangled in her throat.

One large hand clasped her nape; his thumb beneath her jaw tipped her head back as he lowered his. For a heartbeat his lips hovered above hers; she glimpsed his hazel eyes gleaming from beneath long lashes—in that instant realized he fully intended this kiss would be anything but easily dismissed.

Then he swooped and captured her lips.

Claimed them and her senses, her entire mind…not with force, not with strength, but with temptation. His lips moved on hers, confident yet beguiling, searching, learning, then, as if satisfied he’d reconnoitered the terrain, his lips firmed.

She kept hers shut, tried to remain passive—and failed. Stunned, she found herself responding; she hadn’t intended to at all. Certainly hadn’t intended to part her lips for him, but then his tongue slid between and found hers, and pleasure bloomed.

Lured. Beckoned.

Was there a male version of a siren?

If there was, he and his lips qualified. She knew what he wanted, knew what he intended, yet still she went forward, following his artful, highly skillful lead. Into an exchange that was fascinating, intriguing, exciting—all the things kisses for her had never been.

Just a kiss, she mentally swore, but her limbs didn’t answer her call as he smoothly gathered her into his arms, surrounded her with his strength, a strength that, at such close quarters, warmed and reassured.

Tempted and enticed.

She hadn’t expected that. She usually couldn’t abide being held, confined, restricted. Controlled. Yet when he drew her against him, against his hard frame, all resistance fled; she had to fight a far-too-revealing urge to abandon all sense and sink against him.

And still the kiss went on, a shifting blend of subtle yet blatant exploration inexorably superseded by flagrant demand. He wasn’t in any way less than direct; even less was he hesitant. He asked for no permission as he angled his head and deepened the kiss—sweeping her into deeper waters.

Waters in which she’d never before swum. The distant part of her mind that still functioned was shocked to discover herself outflanked, outmaneuvered, totally out of her depth. Plunged, not gently but forcefully into a world of sensation and hunger, where passion swirled, indistinct as yet, more mist and promise than solid reality, yet hot, demanding, and exciting nonetheless. Each press of his lips, each too-knowingly languid thrust of his tongue sent a lick of desire sliding through her.

Sent heat through her flesh, weakening her limbs, melting her steel.

Jack felt her hands slide up his chest, hesitate on his shoulders, then rise to frame his face. To grasp and hold tight as their lips fused, as he tasted her, as he learned just how much to his liking she was. Even locked deep in the kiss, in the immersion of his senses, he felt the touch of her cool fingers on his cheeks, on his jaw, felt reaction streak through him.

Nearly cheered.