The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

Simply act—and give her the opportunity to react. If she’d truly wished to stop, she would have struggled, resisted; instead, as he deepened the kiss and, leaning one shoulder against the tree, eased her body against his, she slid her arms up and twined them about his neck.

Caro clung to him, drank in his kiss, brazenly kissed him back—and

ignored the tiny, dwindling voice of reason that kept insisting this was wrong. Not only wrong, but seriously, dangerously stupid. Right now, she didn’t care, swept away on a tide of exultation she’d never before experienced—never expected to experience.

Michael truly wanted to kiss her. Not once, not twice, but many times. More, he seemed…she didn’t know what the burgeoning compulsion she sensed in him truly was, but the word that came to mind was “hungry.”

Hungry for her, for her lips, for her mouth, to take and savor as much as she would allow. As he could seduce her to allow, yet in terms of seduction, to her his very wanting was the ultimate temptation. Just as well he didn’t know, and she was far too wise to tell him.

His lips, hard and commanding, on hers, the way his tongue filled her mouth, savoring and caressing, then retreated, luring her to reciprocate, was no longer an education but a fascination. A sensual delight she, now reassured, could indulge in and enjoy.

The notion of kissing—at least kissing Michael—no longer filled her with dread. Instead…

Shifting her hands, she spread her fingers, speared them through his thick locks, and gripped, holding his head steady so she could more forcefully press a deep, soul-satisfying kiss on him. A curious heat was building within her; she let it rise and suffuse her, pour through her—and into him.

His reaction was immediate, a surge of ravenous hunger that was acutely satisfying. She met it, urged him on—felt her whole body tighten deliciously when he sank deep into her mouth and plundered.

Indeed, her body seemed to heat even more; the warmth spread in greedy licks beneath her skin. Her breasts felt tight…the weight of his chest against them was curiously soothing, yet not enough.

He suddenly increased the intensity of their exchange with a flagrantly incendiary kiss—one that curled her toes and left parts of her she’d never imagined could be affected throbbing.

Her breasts ached—then he eased back. She gathered her wits to protest—

His hand at her waist released, glided up and settled, hard and definite, his palm spread over her breast.

Her protest died, frozen in her mind. Panic awoke with a jerk—

His hand closed, firm, commanding; her senses splintered. The odd ache eased, then swelled anew.

Eased again as he caressed, kneaded.

For one instant she teetered, uncertain…then heat rose in a wave, rushed through her—and he kissed her more deeply, she kissed him back, openly sharing, and his fingers firmed again.

Panic was smothered beneath a welling tide of sensation; deep and very real curiosity held it down. He’d succeeded in teaching her how to kiss. Perhaps he would, perhaps he could, teach her more….

Michael knew the instant she decided to allow him to caress her; he felt no inward smirk, only heartfelt gratitude. He needed the contact as much as she; she might have starved for years, yet his desire was, at least at this point, the more urgent.

That, he promised himself, would change—he had a very definite vision of what he wanted from her—but that time was not yet. For now…

He kept his lips on hers, artfully distracting her every time he edged their intimacy deeper. Instincts prodded him to open her bodice, to savor her exquisitely fine skin, yet they were standing in the middle of the woods and too soon would need to return to the picnic clearing.

That last prompted him to gradually lighten the kiss, until, without jarring her, he could lift his head and study her face while he continued to caress her. He needed to know her thoughts, her reactions, so he would know how and where to recommence when next they met.

When next he managed to whisk her away and trap her in his arms.

Her lashes fluttered; her lids opened a fraction. Her eyes, bright silver, met his. Neither of them was breathing all that evenly. The first step toward intimacy—the inital commitment to explore what might be—had definitely been taken; their gazes touched, acknowledged.

Caro drew in a tight breath, eased her hands from his neck, his shoulders, and looked down—at his hand, large, strong, long fingers skillfully caressing her breast, circling her now tightly furled nipple, sending sensation streaking through her, leaving her nerves tight, tense, skittering. Her fine voile dress was no real barrier; taking her pebbled nipple between his fingertips, he gently squeezed.

She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes, let her head fall back—then forced her lids open again and fixed her gaze on his face. His lean, austerely handsome face. If she could have frowned, she would have; she had to content herself with a studiously blank expression. “I didn’t say you could…do this.”

His hand closed again. “You didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”

A faint frown finally came; she narrowed her eyes on his. “Are you saying I can’t trust you anymore?”

His face hardened, so did his eyes, but his hand never faltered in its languid caressing. He studied her for a moment, then said, “You can trust me—always. That I promise. But I’ll also promise more.” His hand firmed about her breast; his eyes held hers. “I won’t promise to behave as you expect.” His gaze lowered to her lips; he leaned closer. “Only as you want. Only as you deserve.”

She would have frowned harder and argued, but he kissed her. Not with ravenous heat, but in a straightforward, deeply satisfying exchange. One that left her social conscience feeling somehow appeased, as if there was no reason she couldn’t simply accept all that had happened between them, adult to adult, and leave it at that.