His tongue slid into her mouth with long, slow strokes, fueling a hunger that she feared could consume her.
It came over her so fast, with such force, she couldn't have prevented it even if she wanted to.
She realized her mistake right away. The passion stirring in her blood was like nothing that had come before it. With John she'd felt a girl's curiosity, a girl's desire. But the intense emotion gripping her now went far deeper and was far more dangerous. Her desire for Patrick Murray was elemental. Like food and air, sheneededhim.
She couldn't get close enough. Wouldn't be close enough until her body melted into his. Until he was deep inside her, filling her and crying out her name. Loving her.
She sensed that he was holding back, having care for her innocence. How could she tell him that it wasn't necessary?
She kissed him back, sliding into the damp heat of his mouth. Meeting the thrust of his tongue instinctively with her own. Savoring the dark, delicious taste of him.
He growled and kissed her harder, bringing her body more fully against him, until it seemed that she'd melted into him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Soft curve to hard granite. He wedged her between his legs so that she could feel the heavy weight of his manhood straining against her.
God, he was big—and, like the rest of him, hard as a rock. The erotic knowledge settled somewhere low in her belly, clenching tight. And she was wicked, because she wanted to crawl over every inch of him. To feel him thrust up high inside her. To be connected to him in the most primitive, beautiful way.
Her body dampened with desire. She opened her mouth wider, taking him deeper, her tongue circling his in a frantic rhythm. His mouth moved over hers with less tenderness and more raw desperation, his hard jaw scratching the tender skin around her mouth until it tingled and burned.
No gentleman indeed. No gentleman kissed with such raw passion. Patrick Murray was a wickedly carnal man who wasn't afraid to let her see the depths of his desire.
He covered her breast with his big hand and she arched her back, pressing into the hard curve of his palm. He dragged his mouth down her throat, sliding wet, hot kisses over her fiery skin as his hand gently plied the soft flesh of her breast. The raggedness of his breath on her damp skin sent shivers sweeping over her.
His hair was soft and silky under her chin, warm from the sun. She had to touch it, to run her fingers through the dark, silky strands.
She could feel his control wane. Feel as the smooth, deliberate movements dissolved into a frenzy that matched her own. His hands were on her back, on her hips, on her bottom. Lifting her and circling her hips against him until the sweet friction made her quiver with need. She moaned, gripping his shoulders to hold herself steady as her body was racked with desperate shivers.
Her breath came quick. Her heart pounded.
He kissed her again, more insistently. His hands were in her hair. His tongue was deep in her mouth, her throat. He kissed her until her head spun. Until her knees weakened. Until all she could think about was collapsing on the ground and feeling the weight of his hard, muscular body on top of hers.
Her skin felt too tight for the sensations erupting inside her. She felt anxious and restless—poised on the precipice of something strange and wondrous—but not sure how to reach it. Something well beyond the short-lived pleasure she'd experienced with John Montgomery.
“Your skin is like velvet,” he murmured against her ear.
She froze; the words uttered once before penetrated the sultry haze like a splash of ice water.
What was she doing? It was only supposed to be a kiss.
Dear God, hadn't she learned her lesson the first time? Lust was not love. Sex was not closeness. No matter how good it felt, it would not make him care for her. Was she so starved for affection that she would forget?
She'd made this mistake before and would not do it again. Not for a man who could never be hers. Not for a man still mourning the loss of his wife. She felt a twinge in her chest, realizing why he'd probably reached out to her— to forget. To take solace in oh-so-willing arms.
“No,” she murmured against his mouth, twisting out of his arms and pushing him away with a ferocity that startled them both. “Let go of me,” she choked, her chest heaving for air. “I told you this cannot be.”
His eyes were dark and penetrating, piercing her with intensity. Despite the raggedness of his breath, his words held an edge. “It felt very much like it could … be.”
“Have you forgotten your wife?”
A strange look crossed his face. “For a moment, I did.”
She gasped, not sure what to make of his confession. He took a step closer to her, the hunger in his gaze sending a shiver of trepidation whirling down her spine. Never had she been more aware that he was no courtier, but a warrior— and a Highland one at that. He could take her whether she wished it or not. But strangely enough, she trusted him.
“Don't lie to yourself, Elizabeth. You want this as much as I do.”
His hand slid around her waist. She could feel the subtle pressure on her hip bringing her toward him again.
Why couldn't he see that this could not be? Didn't he know what this was doing to her?
It felt as if she were swimming against a strong current, one determined to drag her under. But she was just as determined to learn from the past. She had to put an end to this once and for all.
