Christmas Brides by Suzanne Enoch & Alexandra Hawkins & Elizabeth Essex & Valerie Bowman

Author:Suzanne Enoch & Alexandra Hawkins & Elizabeth Essex & Valerie Bowman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2014-09-29T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Anne felt a slow spreading panic—like the strange, suspended lethargy of a dream, where she tried and tried to run but could not manage to move—creep upon her. Even her breath felt heavy and mired in indecision. It was not like her, this indecision, this not knowing what to think. Inaction she was accustomed to—bottling up her reactions and wants—but indecision, never.

“Why would you want to do that?” It was an idiot’s question—a nonsensical placeholder until she could adequately order her wits, and use that pert intelligence he was teasing her about.

And he was teasing. He must be with his strong hands, and his slow smiles, and his soft, crinkled blue eyes as inviting as a warm bath.

“Because you are letting me.” His answer was low and languorous, and he watched her steadily, his eyes open and his attention settled singly upon her. By slow increments, he lowered his head toward hers. So, so slowly, as if it were some sort of test of patience she did not know how to pass.

So she held herself still and watched him approach, until she could no longer meet his eyes. Because she had to look at his mouth—his laughing, teasing, open mouth—as his lips continued to descend toward hers. And then, because she did not know what to do, other than try to hold herself entirely still, she turned awkwardly with him when he ducked, and then angled his head so his lips might finally reach hers.

But they did. He was kissing her.

His lips were softer than she expected, and harder all at the same time. Firmer, she supposed, not knowing how one was supposed to describe a man’s lips. But she thought his were like raspberries—pliant velvet with the barest hint of prickle.

He brushed his lips across hers, once, twice, back and forth, testing her out before he settled more properly upon her. The whiskers just lurking beneath his clean-shaven chin roughed gently against her skin, and she felt everything—every part of her body and every inch of her skin—come to startled, prickling awareness,

His lips plucked at her gently, imploringly, begging for her attention as he had done on the beach. But he had all of her attention, all of her alertness, all of her astonished hope. But her astonishment soon faded, leaving in its empty path awakened curiosity.

She wanted to catalog and remember each and every strange and interesting new thing about him—he tasted of claret and the sweet winter orange he had eaten at dessert. He smelled aromatic and exotic—of sunny, sandy places beyond the sea. He was warm and tall and patient, lacing his fingers through her hands. He played his lips across hers until she was doing the same, and kissing him back.

Little sips of kisses, tentative and polite—not wanting to do it wrong, or embarrass herself by presuming too much.

And then the ordinary, orderly wheel of her brain simply stopped turning, and she could not think. Because his tongue was in her mouth, invading her, filling her with nothing but the taste and feel of him within her.

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