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Authors: Dante's Daughter
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again. He straddled over her with a tense vengeance, pinning her wrists to the ground, his rugged features twisted into a mask of fury. He was shaking—she could feel it. Oh, she could feel it! And she knew that she had really terrified him and that, yes, this time she deserved his anger. She wanted to say something, but when she opened her mouth, the words refused to come. She formed them with trembling lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry! Oh, God! I warned you not to touch the door … I warned you not to touch it!” He was leaning closer and closer to her. She was afraid that he meant to break her in two.
“Kent,” she whispered.
She felt the heat of his eyes, and then she felt his breath touch her mouth when he said, “You almost killed yourself!”
And then it was not the caress of his breath that whispered against her lips but the touch of his mouth. Forming to hers, hot and moist, trembling and compelling. She felt his tongue, pressing entry between her lips, persistent against her teeth. The kiss was not brutal, cruel, or punishing. It was forceful. Tears stung her eyes because she gave to it easily. She wanted it. Oh, she wanted it! Like a child held against a storm, she wanted his arms, the hunger of his lips on hers, the passion that had so suddenly rocked them in the aftermath of danger.
His grip on her wrists relaxed, then his hands slid along the length of her arms. Katie felt his tongue move deeper and deeper into her mouth, and the warmth that encompassed her grew as if he could fill her with his heat. She felt his left hand tangle into her hair as his right palm caressed her cheek, cupped it, held it. She didn’t know when she had moved, but she became achingly aware that she was holding him, her arms locked around his neck, her fingers dancing feverishly over his shoulders and back, playing into the deep rich hair at his nape.
He kept holding her, his hand grazing her cheek, sliding to her shoulder, slipping between them. His fingers explored the hollows of her shoulders, traced the neckline of her dress, fell lower to her breast.
This was it—the feeling that had touched her insides, racing and coiling low in her abdomen, and it was wonderful. It had been anger, it had been fear, but now it was desire. And whether it was foolish or not, Katie couldn’t begin to deny it. She clung to him, savoring the forceful movement of his lips, the hunger in the persistent thrust of his tongue. It was rich, warm, and moist … and so close. She loved the scent of him; she was adrift in it and somewhat delirious with all there was to feel, to cherish. The hardness of his hips, his body pressing against hers, real against the knit that kept little of him from her. His hand … against her heart, cupping her breast, moving slightly, fluidly, his palm a merciless taunt against her nipple, and yet so good that she whimpered against his kiss, clinging to him with greater abandon.
Kent rolled with her still in his arms, refusing to relinquish the onslaught. Willingly, eagerly, she followed him. His hand coursed over her waist to her hip and back to her breast. Again it moved, exploring more slowly this time, fingers teasing her ribs, her stomach, the little hollow by her hip. His lips moved slowly from hers and fell to the pulse beating erratically in her throat. And he was touching her hip again, her waist, rounding over her buttocks, sliding around them to fall again on her abdomen, low where the heat found its base, and causing her to tremble anew and sob out something entirely incomprehensible. He touched her breast again, his thumb finding the peak of her nipple, rubbing.
“Oh, God!” she cried out, and it was a sob again, because it was so good and …
And because she was lying in a grassy ditch, practically groveling for the sensual attentions of a man she had once sworn she never wanted to see again. A man she had really only met today as an adult, one who had quickly become a bitter enemy.
But
“Sorry? Sorry! Oh, God! I warned you not to touch the door … I warned you not to touch it!” He was leaning closer and closer to her. She was afraid that he meant to break her in two.
“Kent,” she whispered.
She felt the heat of his eyes, and then she felt his breath touch her mouth when he said, “You almost killed yourself!”
And then it was not the caress of his breath that whispered against her lips but the touch of his mouth. Forming to hers, hot and moist, trembling and compelling. She felt his tongue, pressing entry between her lips, persistent against her teeth. The kiss was not brutal, cruel, or punishing. It was forceful. Tears stung her eyes because she gave to it easily. She wanted it. Oh, she wanted it! Like a child held against a storm, she wanted his arms, the hunger of his lips on hers, the passion that had so suddenly rocked them in the aftermath of danger.
His grip on her wrists relaxed, then his hands slid along the length of her arms. Katie felt his tongue move deeper and deeper into her mouth, and the warmth that encompassed her grew as if he could fill her with his heat. She felt his left hand tangle into her hair as his right palm caressed her cheek, cupped it, held it. She didn’t know when she had moved, but she became achingly aware that she was holding him, her arms locked around his neck, her fingers dancing feverishly over his shoulders and back, playing into the deep rich hair at his nape.
He kept holding her, his hand grazing her cheek, sliding to her shoulder, slipping between them. His fingers explored the hollows of her shoulders, traced the neckline of her dress, fell lower to her breast.
This was it—the feeling that had touched her insides, racing and coiling low in her abdomen, and it was wonderful. It had been anger, it had been fear, but now it was desire. And whether it was foolish or not, Katie couldn’t begin to deny it. She clung to him, savoring the forceful movement of his lips, the hunger in the persistent thrust of his tongue. It was rich, warm, and moist … and so close. She loved the scent of him; she was adrift in it and somewhat delirious with all there was to feel, to cherish. The hardness of his hips, his body pressing against hers, real against the knit that kept little of him from her. His hand … against her heart, cupping her breast, moving slightly, fluidly, his palm a merciless taunt against her nipple, and yet so good that she whimpered against his kiss, clinging to him with greater abandon.
Kent rolled with her still in his arms, refusing to relinquish the onslaught. Willingly, eagerly, she followed him. His hand coursed over her waist to her hip and back to her breast. Again it moved, exploring more slowly this time, fingers teasing her ribs, her stomach, the little hollow by her hip. His lips moved slowly from hers and fell to the pulse beating erratically in her throat. And he was touching her hip again, her waist, rounding over her buttocks, sliding around them to fall again on her abdomen, low where the heat found its base, and causing her to tremble anew and sob out something entirely incomprehensible. He touched her breast again, his thumb finding the peak of her nipple, rubbing.
“Oh, God!” she cried out, and it was a sob again, because it was so good and …
And because she was lying in a grassy ditch, practically groveling for the sensual attentions of a man she had once sworn she never wanted to see again. A man she had really only met today as an adult, one who had quickly become a bitter enemy.
But
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