“No,” he growled. “More.” A pause. “Please.”
She smiled, that glorious smile.
He captured it with his mouth.
The give of her pillowy lips beneath his . . .
The taste of her, summer and sunshine . . .
The sound of her helpless whimper . . .
His arms wrapped around herjustlikethat, lifting her into his body, one hand at her waist, the other between her shoulder blades.
Her own hands twined into his hair, nails raking his scalp and sending a jolt down his spine.
A guttural moan tore from his chest.
Heaven help him! He had imagined this kiss more times than anysane man should. Thoughts of her had haunted his fantasies and fanned the darkest embers of his desire.
But the reality of her mouth on his—
Would he require a lifetime of kisses to slake his hunger?
Somehow, he had walked her backward, pressing her shoulders against the sun-warmed stone of the house.
His lips left her mouth, eager to explore the silken skin of her cheeks, the tender slide of her throat, the delectable hollow of her collarbone . . .
And still, it wasn’t enough.
His hands moved to cup her face, tilting her head so he could plunder her mouth once more.
Her own hands roamed his chest and shoulders, painting fire in their wake.
Want. Want. Want.
Hers and his own.
Her name fell from his lips. A litany of desire. “Isolde . . . Isolde . . .”
As if she were an enchantress, and all he could do was dumbly repeat the purpose of her spell—
Summoning him to her side.
I didn’t know.
The words tumbled through Isolde’s mind.
I didn’t know a kiss could be like this.
Tristan’s lips pressed to her own. His body caging hers. His chest under her palms.
He was a feast, and she had only just realized the depth of her hunger.
The slide of his broad palm from her ribs to her waist sent a shower of electrical shocks skittering between her shoulder blades.
Surely Newton had a law to describe this, too.
His kiss obliterated every other she had experienced.
