She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem very determined to tell me in every way, shape, and form just how much you despise me. It’s a bit overdone. All bluster and smoke. And if I have learned one thing over the years, it’s that where there is smoke there is often fire.” He paused and waggled his eyebrows at her. “And I am not referring to fire as a hateful emotion. For hate is cold. And your feelings for me are decidedly not cold. Quite the opposite, I think.”
Rosalind’s jaw dropped. “You think that because I proclaim how much I dislike you that I actually do not dislike you, but desire you?”
A slow smile lifted his lips. “You said it, not I.”
The gall of the man! Rosalind sputtered for a moment, unable to anchor a coherent thought. Finally she found the words needed. “You are mad!”
Very well, they were not the best of words. But they certainly conveyed everything she wanted to say.
Sir Tristan, however, only found them humorous. “You do not deny it, I see.”
“I do not deny it because it should not have to be said. But as you are too thick-skulled to understand me, I shall say it regardless. I do not desire you. As a matter of fact, if you were to kiss me this very instant, I would feel nothing. Nothing at all.”
Which perhaps had not been the smartest thing to say. For as soon as the gauntlet was thrown, his eyes warmed and found her mouth. No, that wasn’t quite right. She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry. For his eyes did not simply warm, they burst into flames.
“Do you care to test that theory?” he purred before his arms came about her, dragging her against the long length of him. And then, with the buzzing of the bees in her ear and the faint spice from his skin permeating her senses, he lowered his head to hers.
The first touch of his lips stunned her. For she did not only feel it where they touched, but in every fiber of her being. It bounced along her nerves, heating her blood, pimpling her skin. And it overrode any protests she might have made after the initial shock of it. Instead of the curses that should have poured from her, a low moan rose up in her chest.
She had dreamt of this, though she had done her best to deny it, had longed for it though it was never freely admitted. She was forced to face it now. For her body cried out in joy, responding in ways she never knew it was capable. She arched into him, her arms going around his neck. His response was immediate, his hands grabbing at her dress, the bands of his arms dragging her closer.
It was not close enough.
As if he heard her desperate thoughts, his tongue pushed between her lips. The intimacy of it stunned her. For a second she was frozen, unsure what to do. Until his tongue touched her own. It was then she tasted the essence of him, all maleness and spice and warmth. He was delicious. And she could not get enough. Her tongue reached out, twined with his own. Beneath her hands he shuddered. The realization that he was as affected as she hit her then. She had power here.
Fire raced through her limbs, settling in a molten pool in her belly. And lower. Oh yes, it was there, too. She gasped at the feel of it, opening herself to him further. He took advantage, tilting his head, deepening the kiss—dragging her further into the abyss of desire.
His hands were everywhere, roaming her body, bringing her to even greater heights. Strong fingers skimmed down her spine, over her hips, up her ribs until they trailed, feather-light, over the sides of her breasts. And there they stayed. She held her breath as he circled the straining tip. At long last they curved around her, and she was filling his palm.
Undone by the sheer exquisite feel of it, she tore her mouth free, her head falling back in supplication. He followed, his mouth finding the long column of her throat, his lips and tongue laving her sensitive skin. Her breath came in shudders, her hands clutching at the incredible breadth of his shoulders. “Tristan,” she whispered.
As if through the haze of a dream she felt him start, sensed him pause. And then he pulled back, the warmth of him leaving her.
She opened her eyes, dazed, the haze of desire slowing her brain. She expected gentleness and smiles. What she did not expect was the look of horror overtaking his face.
“Rosalind, I am so sorry,” he rasped. Before she knew what he was about, he rose. With one last long look at her, he turned and disappeared into the lush vegetation. The throbbing of Rosalind’s body—and heart—the only proof he had been there at all.
