Page 92 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

She lifted her face, her lids lowering.

His lips brushed hers. Warm, inviting. Then they settled, and she gave herself up to the moment—to his kiss.

To a caress that consumed her and sparked passion in her soul.

She’d known many passions—enthusiasms, desires—but nothing to compare to the surge of feeling he and his kiss evoked.

Emotions she’d only recently come to know stirred and rose, and compulsions she’d yet to come to grips with flared.

Physical desire was new to her, but she could taste it now—a need on her tongue and in her veins.

He shifted closer, and she leaned into him. His arms slid around her, gathering her into a possessive embrace, as under the skillful pressure of his lips and the artful stroking of his tongue along her lips, she parted them and welcomed him in.

His tongue stroked, then languidly probed, and she relished the sensation, so much so she felt compelled to return the pleasure. Soon, they were engaged in a duel of sorts, of tangling tongues and hungry lips and a quest to lavish as much pleasure on the other as they could.

So this is what passion is all about.

On the thought, she lifted her hands and framed his face the better to kiss him more deeply.

In response, he hauled her even closer, crushing her breasts against the hard planes of his chest—making her aware of how much her breasts ached.

His kiss had turned dominant, subtly aggressive—possessive—but she discovered she could meet him and match him even there, provoking and inciting and even daring to challenge him.

In this, in their wanting, they were evenly matched. Despite her lack of experience, in this arena their desires clashed and merged, neither overpowering the other, yet overwhelming in their combined force.

The kiss had turned desperately hungry and needy—transforming into a ravenous exchange she previously would have labeled wanton.

But now, she understood. Now, she felt the rabid hunger, the driving need, and the clawing desperation that rose and claimed her.

She didn’t know what came next but was certain he did. Through the melding of their mouths, she urged him on.

Then he shifted, his head angling over hers as his tongue stroked hers in heated temptation. Between them, his hand rose, and he cupped her breast, then closed his strong fingers about the aching mound.

Her senses leapt, then his fingers kneaded, and a soft, yearning sound purled in her throat.

Heat welled and washed through her while lightning danced down her nerves, flashing and sparking.

Never had her body felt like this—as if her senses had risen and claimed it as their territory. Never had her nerves felt so alive, awake to every nuance of the shifting caresses he pressed on her. Her breasts seemed to have swollen and now felt too constrained behind her light stays. She wanted…

She wanted…

Tightening her grip on his face, holding him in place, she poured all that wild, undirected wanting into their kiss.

For a split second, she sensed she’d surprised him, then his response roared through her—in the fire of his scorching kiss, in the possessive pressure of his hand at her breast, and in the steely clamp of his arm about her waist.

But then, just as suddenly as his heated desire had risen to her siren call and swamped her, he reined it in. Pulled it and himself back.

On a gasp, Kit broke the kiss. With a mental wrench, he forced his lips from hers and hauled desperately hard on his—on their—reins. He hadn’t expected her to filch them.

Breathing far too rapidly, he rested his forehead against hers and tried to remind himself of what was right. Of what, in this instance, had to be.

Her hands about his face gentled. One fell away, while she trailed the fingers of her other hand lightly down his cheek.

He raised his heavy lids as she shifted her head back, just enough to look at and study his face. He barely needed the moonlight to read the question in her eyes—one that compelled him to find his voice, gravelly and gruff as it was, and declare, “I want you—never doubt that for even an instant—but if we don’t stop now…”

Hoping she wouldn’t ask for further clarification, he shifted awkwardly on the bench, fleetingly wincing as restraint cut where he would much rather it didn’t.

Sylvia blinked, then the reason for his shift and wince and what else he’d said and implied impinged.