He wanted to slam his lips down atop hers, to claim them the way his soul demanded he claim them. But at the last moment, he reined in the beast and managed to gentle his approach. Which, judging from the sweet-scented breath she released just as his lips grazed hers, had been the right choice.
They stood like that for a heartbeat, two, as still as statues there in the garden beside the rosemary, touching only at the lips and where his palm cupped the back of her neck.
Then she sucked in a breath. He saw her eyes widen, so close to his, and prepared for her outrage, for her to pull away, to rail at him for having the audacity to touch her so.
He didn’t expect her basket to fall from her hands, landing atop his bare toes. He didn’t have time to wince, because within the space of a blink, her arms were around his neck, the movement pushing her upward, and her lips were mashed against his in the most unorthodox kiss he’d ever received.
But he was going to take it because, well, of course he was.
He couldn’t quite halt the rumble in his chest, but he tried, not wanting her to think him savage. And while he wanted to wrap her in his arms, to pull her closer to him, he forced himself to relax and allow her to guide this kiss.
Right up until the point it became obvious she wasn’t sure what she was doing.
His lips twitched against hers, and he decided mayhap ‘twould be acceptable to take control just slightly.
When his tongue teased the crease of her lips, she whimpered, which he took as a good sign, and she soon opened them for him. He kept his movements slow, deliberate, allowing her to get used to each new step before he moved on to the next: sucking, teasing, tugging, nibbling.
He drew her plump lower lip between his teeth, the way he’d been dreaming of ever since he’d noticed her habit of doing the same when she was uncertain, and was rewarded with a sound somewhere between a mewl and a moan.
He liked it.
His answering growl was deep, and he felt her shiver.
Under his kilt, his cock had jumped to attention. Hellfire, it had started getting stiff the moment she’d stepped through that garden gate. But now? Now, he could feel it pushing against her pelvis as she stretched up on her toes to meet his lips, and it was aching for release.
She tasted of sweetness; honey and almonds and yeast—tarts. She tasted of tarts, and he was absolutely certain he could become addicted to the flavor.
Her fingers were scrabbling at the back of his head, as if trying to find a grip to pull him even closer, and he tightened his hold on her, showing her how to tilt her head back so he could deepen the kiss and claim more of her mouth.
Claim more of her.
Inside his chest, the beast howled with glee, thrilled to be allowed this one freedom.
He slapped it down, reminding himself she was sweets and delicate pastry and not fit to be mauled.
But he couldn’t resist pressing his hips forward, nestling his hardness against her, against the part of her his tongue ached to taste. In response, she moaned and wriggled her pelvis in a little circle as if enjoying the sensation as much as he was.
Then, with a gasp, she wrenched her lips away from his.
Only inches apart, he stared into her wide eyes and saw the pupils slowly grow, saw the color fade from a flashing green to something else, and saw the moment she realized what she was doing.
And with whom.
“Tarts!” she whispered, jerking out of his hold and stumbling backwards, both of her fingertips rising to cover her lips. Not to wipe away his kiss, he was happy to realize, but to block his view of their rosy deliciousness.
Her eyes wide, she took yet another step away from him; her head shaking hard enough back and forth—Denying her actions to herself?—so that more of her red curls began to escape their simple braid.
And he cursed himself.
Cursed himself for ruining this kiss with his urges, cursed himself for ruining the afternoon with his presence, and cursed himself for ruining his leg with his carelessness.
“Milady—” he began, but she cut him off with a whimper.
He wanted to reach for her, to gather her in, to comfort her. But the best he could do without making it worse was to offer an apology.
“Milady Fenella, I am sorry,” he managed stiffly.
But she still looked horrified, her lips still covered, her eyes still wide.