I won’t.” She could feel the heat of his body covering hers and sharp edges of the boulder digging into her shoulder blades. She registered the corded muscles in his legs against hers and, most of all, his arousal. “Please,” she murmured, not sure what she was asking him for.
“Please?” he whispered.
Her breath felt trapped inside her and she was fairly sure he could feel her heart thundering against his chest. He looked from her eyes to her lips, and something twisted on his face. His eyes closed and she had to bite back a whimper as she felt the anger draining from him.
When he opened his eyes again, she realized that while the anger might be ebbing, the tension in him hadn’t. But it was tension of another kind. A sort that met her head-on, man to woman.
“You have a smart mouth,” he said.
As if answering for her, her lips parted of their own volition.
She knew he was going to kiss her, and knew she should protest. Wanted to protest. Ached to find the means to tell him that he should back off and leave her alone. Instead, she leaned into his lips, meeting him halfway.
His mouth was as hot as his anger had been, and every bit as ruthless. He plundered her lips with determined purpose, a roughly banked passion. His tongue warred with hers, demanding capitulation. He was liquid and solid all at the same time.
She heard the knife clatter to the base of the boulder, then felt his hands strafing her body. He’d used those same hands to gentle the horses, but on her, he incited a riot.
She’d imagined running her hands across his broad shoulders, down the rippling muscles of his back, and didn’t know when she began doing so in reality. One moment she’d literally been as afraid as she’d ever been in her life, and the next she was matching his passion touch for touch, kiss for kiss.
His lips gentled and he uttered a low, pained groan. His hands on her body slowed, still exploring her curves, and somehow the new tenderness in his touch made her feel inexplicably confused. Passion she understood, at least to some degree. Tenderness she didn’t understand at all; it had never been a part of her life.
Daggert raised a hand to her face and molded it gently as he kissed her. And she could taste his withdrawal.
He pulled back from her, his eyes once again unreadable, his emotions masked. He straightened and ever so slowly ran the back of his hand over his moistened lips, still gazing at her.
She remained sprawled against the rock, a discarded rag doll with heaving breasts and glassy blue eyes. And she knew desire was written all over her.
He bent and picked up his knife. He pressed a button and slowly folded the blade back into the handle. It seemed a metaphor, and perhaps was.
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