The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
He didn’t move, but continued to regard her with a frown in his eyes. A long moment passed, then he asked, “What made you think I was interested in any game?”
A disorienting suspicion that they were talking at cross-purposes assailed her—yet she was sure they were not. There was a light in his eyes, an intent she recognized…
Michael took advantage of her confusion, taking two steps to stand directly before her. She tensed; before she could bolt, he closed his hands about her waist.
Anchoring her before him with the frame of the arch at her back, he locked eyes with her. “I have no interest whatever in playing at anything.”
Between his hands, she quivered, but her physical panic, although very much present, was having to fight a strong vein of astonishment. She’d lifted her hands, presumably to hold him off; they fluttered to rest, passive, on his chest.
He ignored the oddly evocative touch, waited, gave her time to calm enough to remember to breathe, to study his face, accept that he had her caught, but that he wasn’t to be classed with any of the others who’d pursued her. He was operating on a different plane with a different goal in mind. He watched her thoughts shimmer through her eyes, all but saw her gather her wits.
She moistened her lips, glanced fleetingly at his. “What, then?”
He smiled, slowly, and watched her attention fix on his lips. He bent closer, lowered his head—distracted, she didn’t immediately notice.
Then she did. She sucked in a breath and looked up—from a distance of mere inches met his eyes.
He caught her gaze. “I’m in deadly earnest.”
Her eyes flared, then her lids fell as he lowered his head the last inch, and kissed her.
Pressed his lips to hers, fully expecting some degree of chilly resistance, fully prepared to overcome it, overwhelm it. Instead…while she certainly froze, and didn’t respond, there was no resistance in her either.
Nothing to overcome, to overwhelm, to sweep away.
No attempt to hold aloof, much less break away.
No icy, haughty chill. Nothing. Simply nothing.
Caution whispered through his mind, laid a restraining hand on his intentions. Puzzled, he moved his lips gently, teasingly, over hers, trying through that simple touch to gauge, to sense her feelings. Instinct directed him to keep his hands locked at her waist, at least until he understood her, and her unexpected, elusive response.
It came eventually, so hesitant and uncertain he nearly drew back—just to check that this was Caro. Caro—the confidently assured ambassador’s wife of more than a decade’s standing.
The woman in his arms…if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn she’d never been kissed. He kept the caress light, lips skating, brushing, beckoning…it was like breathing life into a statue.
She was cool, but not cold, as if waiting for warmth to find her and bring her to life. The fact focused him as nothing else could have—certainly as no other woman ever had; what he was discovering through the kiss, through the slow gradual warming of her lips, all he learned from exploring their rosebud softness, all he suddenly realized from the tentative pressure she eventually returned, was so utterly out of kilter with what he’d expected—with what any man might have expected—she seized and fixed his attention completely.
After that first, brief, uncertain response, she stopped—waited. He realized she was waiting for him to break the kiss, raise his head, and let her go. He debated for a heartbeat, then, moving slowly, angled his head and increased the pressure of his lips on hers. If he let her go too soon…he was politician enough to see the danger.
So he teased and cajoled, used every wile he possessed to draw a response again from her. Her hands shifted, restless, on his chest, then she gripped his lapels and abruptly kissed him back, more firmly, more definitely. A real kiss.
Got you.
He swooped and returned the caress, quickly engaged her in a real exchange—kiss for kiss, sliding, tempting pressure for pressure. While she was distracted, he eased his fingers, and slowly slid his hands around, loosely—carefully—taking her in his arms. He wanted her there, secure, before he let her escape from the kiss.
Caro’s head was starting to swim. Quite how she’d got trapped into this strange kissing game she didn’t know. She couldn’t kiss—she was perfectly aware of that—yet here she was, leaning against his chest, her lips beneath his…kissing him.
She should stop. Some panicky little voice kept telling her she should, that she’d regret it if she didn’t, yet she’d never been kissed like this before—so gently, so…temptingly, as if her response was something he actually wanted.
It was strange. Of the others who’d pursued her, few had ever got close enough to steal a kiss. The handful that had had wanted to devour her; her revulsion had been immediate and ingrained—she’d never questioned it, never felt the need to.
Yet now, here, in the safety of her childhood home with Michael…was it simply that combination of the familiar that had failed to trigger her usual reaction, that instead had left her open to…
This strange and intoxicating exchange.
This tempting and beguiling exchange.
Just how tempting, how intoxicating, how thoroughly beguiling she learned a moment later, when fraction by fraction he slowly drew back, until their lips parted and he lifted his head. Not far, just an inch or so; enough for her to raise her lids and look into the bright blue of his eyes half hidden behind the tracery of his lashes. Just enough for her to draw in a quick breath, and realize his arms were around her—not crushing her or mauling her, yet trapping her all the same.