How had she even considered those to be kisses? They were a child’s press of lips.
But this?
This was a claiming.
Part of her still heard him demandingmorein stern ducal tones.
Normally, she hated that Kendall voice—haughty and domineering.
Yet when he commanded her to continue kissing him . . .
And kiss, they did—chasing one another’s lips, nipping throats and jawlines, breathy moans punctuating the lot.
At one point, Tristan pulled back and pressed his debauching thumb to her bee-stung mouth, dragging it across her bottom lip, tracking the movement with unholy fascination.
“This mouth . . .” he whispered.
Isolde kissed his thumb with deliberate ardor.
A shuddering breath escaped him, and he rewarded her by pressing his lips to hers once more, his large hand cradling her head as he pillaged.
Heaven help her.
Any more of this and she would struggle to recall her own name.
Finally, Tristan rested his forehead against her own, breaths coming in great gulps.
“Why?” His voice was rough. “Why did you kiss me? I thought you wary of—”
“I am. It is just . . .”
She swallowed.
He waited, his lips the barest breath away from hers.
Damnation.
She was going to have to tell him.
“I watched ye. Out the window.”
“Chopping?”
“Aye.”
And she had. Forhours.
Spellbound by the lithe grace of him. Studying every last inch of his body—the taper of his shoulders to his narrow waist, the way his back muscles rippled with each swing of the axe, the hypnotic rhythm of sound.
All the while, unable to forget the feel of his arms around her, the ache in her belly when he had kissed her neck.
It had set a need buzzing through her veins. Like a cup of strong coffee bolted on an empty stomach.
Her thoughts had run wild.
They weremarried. Why not kiss him? Tristan wanted her, admired her.
And she . . . well, she wouldn’t mind exploring their physical attraction. Perhaps it would help to solidify this change in him.
