leaned into the kiss, melting against his sturdy frame.
Wylde fanned his fingers open against the back of her neck, then slowly slid his hand forward, tracing the outline of her jaw with his thumb.
Lissa felt an immediate wave of pleasure flow through her. Without even thinking she lifted her hands, placing them atop his chest, her finger curling into the fine fabric of his coat. She held fast, not certain if she'd meant to slap him soundly for his boldness or to just simply touch him.
Whatever her intent, she found herself now clinging to him, as though if she let go, she'd fall into some vast void of incoherent thought.
Lissa knew she should not be reacting to his shocking behavior in such an unladylike way, but his provocative onslaught proved far too intriguing for her to ignore.
He razed his mouth alongside her cheek and beyond, burning a path to the downy hair near her left ear.
Lissa fought for breath, opening her eyes. She had a view of the many fly-angling poles nestled in their perches along the far wall. "Is—is this your idea of intimidating me?" she tried to demand, but the words passed her lips in barely a whisper. "If so, you... you've an odd opinion of intimidation, sir."
His lips brushed against her earlobe. "Perhaps I have only just begun."
She should have been frightened by those words, but was not. Instead, Lissa found herself very curious as to what his next "intimidating" tactic would be.
She got her answer when she felt the tip of his tongue brush a feathery swirl against her lobe. A purely involuntary shiver whipped down her spine.
"You smell of honeysuckle," Wylde murmured.
Lissa blinked, staring hard at the far wall, trying to mentally count the number of angling poles there, to decide what type of wood each was fashioned from, decipher each pole's length and heartiness; anything but acknowledge the keen and newly discovered desire surging through her. It would not do at all to be physically swayed by the man, Lissa knew. She needed to keep her wits about her and not become yet another female victim of Wylde's manly charms.
"Your skin tastes of the morning's dew," he continued.
Lissa, trembling, blinked again. Two African greenheart poles, she mentally said to herself, stubbornly trying not to become overwhelmed by his tactics. One of British Guyana lancewood, another made of Jamaican greenheart....
It soon became decidedly difficult to concentrate on the angling rods; Wylde's mouth moved higher, reaching the shell of her ear.
Three of the poles are at least twelve feet in length; the others doubtless fourteen feet, Lissa thought, but then she heard and felt Wylde's breath in her ear. Like a fanning flame—warm, erratic—it rushed inside of her, consuming any and all of her reservations.
Lissa forgot about the angling rods. Her eyes drifted shut again.
Wylde lowered his head, nuzzling his way down the long column of her neck, and then back up again. When he reached the underside of her chin, Lissa knew for certain she was completely lost to his lordship's masterful onslaught.
His lips soon found hers, claiming them with surprising tenderness, gently teasing each corner, and then slowly easing her mouth apart. She realized with a start that he wanted inside of her.
Hesitantly, Lissa obeyed the unspoken command. Wylde's tongue delved inside her mouth, searching out the moist recesses. Never before had she experienced such stark, stunning intimacy. But she wasn't frightened. Instead, she felt a wave of curious and glorious feeling pour over her. He tasted clean. Like the cool morning air; like the nature she loved so much. When their tongues collided, Lissa felt as though her world had bottomed out and she was spinning in some purely physical realm where nothing mattered but the touch and feel of him.
His thumbs caressed her cheeks as his tongue delved deeper inside her. It seemed that a volley of Roman candles exploded within Lissa. She felt transported up and out of her body.
Wylde fanned his fingers open against the back of her neck, then slowly slid his hand forward, tracing the outline of her jaw with his thumb.
Lissa felt an immediate wave of pleasure flow through her. Without even thinking she lifted her hands, placing them atop his chest, her finger curling into the fine fabric of his coat. She held fast, not certain if she'd meant to slap him soundly for his boldness or to just simply touch him.
Whatever her intent, she found herself now clinging to him, as though if she let go, she'd fall into some vast void of incoherent thought.
Lissa knew she should not be reacting to his shocking behavior in such an unladylike way, but his provocative onslaught proved far too intriguing for her to ignore.
He razed his mouth alongside her cheek and beyond, burning a path to the downy hair near her left ear.
Lissa fought for breath, opening her eyes. She had a view of the many fly-angling poles nestled in their perches along the far wall. "Is—is this your idea of intimidating me?" she tried to demand, but the words passed her lips in barely a whisper. "If so, you... you've an odd opinion of intimidation, sir."
His lips brushed against her earlobe. "Perhaps I have only just begun."
She should have been frightened by those words, but was not. Instead, Lissa found herself very curious as to what his next "intimidating" tactic would be.
She got her answer when she felt the tip of his tongue brush a feathery swirl against her lobe. A purely involuntary shiver whipped down her spine.
"You smell of honeysuckle," Wylde murmured.
Lissa blinked, staring hard at the far wall, trying to mentally count the number of angling poles there, to decide what type of wood each was fashioned from, decipher each pole's length and heartiness; anything but acknowledge the keen and newly discovered desire surging through her. It would not do at all to be physically swayed by the man, Lissa knew. She needed to keep her wits about her and not become yet another female victim of Wylde's manly charms.
"Your skin tastes of the morning's dew," he continued.
Lissa, trembling, blinked again. Two African greenheart poles, she mentally said to herself, stubbornly trying not to become overwhelmed by his tactics. One of British Guyana lancewood, another made of Jamaican greenheart....
It soon became decidedly difficult to concentrate on the angling rods; Wylde's mouth moved higher, reaching the shell of her ear.
Three of the poles are at least twelve feet in length; the others doubtless fourteen feet, Lissa thought, but then she heard and felt Wylde's breath in her ear. Like a fanning flame—warm, erratic—it rushed inside of her, consuming any and all of her reservations.
Lissa forgot about the angling rods. Her eyes drifted shut again.
Wylde lowered his head, nuzzling his way down the long column of her neck, and then back up again. When he reached the underside of her chin, Lissa knew for certain she was completely lost to his lordship's masterful onslaught.
His lips soon found hers, claiming them with surprising tenderness, gently teasing each corner, and then slowly easing her mouth apart. She realized with a start that he wanted inside of her.
Hesitantly, Lissa obeyed the unspoken command. Wylde's tongue delved inside her mouth, searching out the moist recesses. Never before had she experienced such stark, stunning intimacy. But she wasn't frightened. Instead, she felt a wave of curious and glorious feeling pour over her. He tasted clean. Like the cool morning air; like the nature she loved so much. When their tongues collided, Lissa felt as though her world had bottomed out and she was spinning in some purely physical realm where nothing mattered but the touch and feel of him.
His thumbs caressed her cheeks as his tongue delved deeper inside her. It seemed that a volley of Roman candles exploded within Lissa. She felt transported up and out of her body.
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