One kiss was not enough.
One kiss would never be enough.
Mierda.
Chapter Seventeen
Her husband waskissing her.
Kissing.
Her.
On the lips.
And it was splendid. Not just splendid.Magnificent.Yes, that was the word. That was the most apt description.
Catriona kissed him back with all the ardor within her. She kissed him in spite of her plan to keep him at a distance. Kissed him though the day had been long and tiring and arduous. Kissed him even as her mind attempted to make her recall all the reasons why she should not.
How could she not twine her arms around his neck, lick into his mouth as he had done to hers? How could she not want every part of him he was willing to give? And all the parts he was unwilling to give her, too?
Surely, however, this was a victory of sorts. She recognized the significance of this kiss.
I do not kiss on the lips, he had told her. And he had held true to that assertion, never wavering. Indeed, he had consummated their marriage without ever once touching his lips to hers.
Something had changed. Everything had changed. She did not know. She did not care. All she could do in this moment was feel.
Somehow, her back found the trunk of a tree. Her fingers found her husband’s hair. They had not stopped for gloves or hats in their mad dash into the gardens. The upheaval of the day, combined with the informality of their arrival at Marchmont, had stripped them of the pretense of civility.
And she was grateful for it now, because she wanted nothing between them. She wanted to be wild, unpredictable. There was no place she would rather be than in her husband’s arms, in the moonlight, surrounding by eerie beauty and overwhelmed by the way his lips moved over hers.
Witchcraft, surely.
Shrewsbury had not kissed thus.
No man had.
Alessandro’s kiss was slow and languorous, as if he were savoring her taste, her response, the sensation of her mouth beneath his.
One of his hands was on her waist. The other clenched her skirts, dragging it higher. His touch glanced over her knee, up her outer thigh where there was not the barrier of stockings to keep his flesh from hers.
And then, as quickly as the kiss had begun, it was over.
His lips were gone.
The hem of her gown fell into place at her ankles.
His long, wicked fingers had fled from her thigh.
He was staring down at her, his breath furious bursts fanning her lips in a phantom kiss. She wished she could see his expression. But perhaps it was best she did not. Knowing him as she did, she suspected his lapse had aggrieved him.
Mightily.
Her own instinct kicked into action then. She could not allow him to withdraw. To retreat. He had crossed the divide, and she was not about to let him seek to erase it.
Catriona stepped forward, straight into his hard, lean form. A wall of masculine muscle embraced her, emanating heat and his scent.
She grasped a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to her until her breasts and his chest crushed together. Her other arm hooked around his neck, and then she drew his mouth back to hers.
