She had taken her hat off at the beginning of the picnic, and the breeze had loosened a few tendrils of her dark hair from her chignon. She looked delightfully rumpled. And he wanted nothing more than to press her down into the quilt, cover her with his body, and kiss her senseless.
Damn, as delightful as this interlude was, he had better put an end to it. The setting was too romantic, her attitude too open, his desire too great. There was only so much temptation he could withstand. If they kept this up, he was going to have to take a dunk in the stream to cool himself. Otherwise he’d do something foolish, like try to kiss her.
“Well, we had better get moving.” He said, standing.
A little frown formed between her delicate brows, and she nearly pouted.
“Must we? So soon?” She sat up, smothering a yawn.
“Abigail, are you tipsy?” He asked, amused.
“Not at all, my lord.” As if to prove it, she tried to stand up, but never got past kneeling before she got tangled in her voluminous skirts and fell back down on her bottom. It was the most adorable sight to see her tipsy and clumsy when she was usually so poised.
“Here, let me help you up.” He said, extending his hand to her.
She took it with a little perplexed frown, as if just now realizing the effect of the wine. Her gloves were off, and the sensation of her bare hand in his sent another wave of desire through his body. Damn it, he needed to get better control of himself.
He pulled. It should have been a simple thing. It would have been. But as she was coming to her feet, her legs got tangled again and her weight dragged her back. He overcompensated and yanked her hard, too hard, it seemed.
She landed against him. Plastered against his body. Her hands trapped against his chest, his arms circling her like bands of steel. Securing her to him with more force than was necessary. The impact was more than physical. Her nearness, after almost two hours of fantasizing about her, was almost more than he could bear. He was aching for her.
Still, he would have found the way to pull away if she had struggled to be released. Instead, her head lifted and her eyes met his. Those bottomless blue-gray eyes.
“Abigail,” he rasped.
“Colin.” she whispered back, parting her lips.
And he was lost. He could not have stopped himself from kissing her if his life depended on it.
He lowered his head slowly, giving her ample time to discern his intention and pull away if she didn’t want to be kissed. But she leaned into him. He closed the last few inches between their mouths, and then his lips were on hers.
He groaned deep in his chest at the sheer perfection of her. She tasted of raspberry jam, wine, and woman. Her lips were so soft, so delicious. He kissed her softly, worshiping her mouth, brushing his lips against hers in a butterfly caress. Running his tongue over her plush bottom lip, sucking it gently between his.
She sighed and opened her mouth a bit more. An invitation he accepted, sealing her lips with his. Sliding his tongue into the welcoming warmth of her mouth. He stroked sensuously, bringing his hand up to cup her face, caressing the velvet softness of her cheek, angling her head for a deeper possession. She allowed it. And now he was the one drunk.
Drunk in the taste of her, intoxicated with her tremulous responses. Every little sigh, moan and whimper she uttered heightened his pleasure to a fever pitch. He was hard and throbbing, but that was not important. He could have kissed her like this for hours, drinking from the nectar of her lips.
Her tongue met his. Shy, but eager. Sliding against his, caressing him. He lost reason. The arm around her waist that was holding her against him slid down, and he grabbed her bottom through the many layers of her skirts. He pressed her hard against his front, letting her feel his firm desire. For a wonderful, mind splitting second, she rocked into him and he growled like a savage crowing over a hunting prize.
The spell suddenly broke as she turned rigid in his arms. Tearing her mouth from his, she pushed against his chest. He let her go instantly. Dazed though he was by their kiss, he still knew when a woman wanted to be released.
She stumbled a little, but regained her footing before he could steady her. Raising her hand as if to stop him from touching her, she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She said, her voice shaking. She turned around and crouched, busying herself with picking up the leftovers of their picnic and shoving them haphazardly into the knapsack.
“Abigail.” He crouched next to her, trying to take her hand, but she pretended not to notice and instead moved to pack away another plate.
“I-I don’t know what came over me. It must have been the wine. I didn’t think I had drunk that much, but then—”
“Abigail”. He tried again, interrupting her rambling. He wanted to explain there was nothing to apologize for. That the kiss had been marvelous. He needed to see in her eyes if she felt the same way. But she wouldn’t look at him.
“No. I apologize, my lord. That was a terrible lack of judgment on my part. I am not usually like that. It will not happen again, I assure you.”
His jaw clenched, every sentence like a knife stab to the gut.
She finished putting everything back in the knapsack and, without waiting for him, took off toward the horses. He followed. It was obvious she was appalled by the liberties he had taken. That she had allowed him to take. He had not forced her, damnit.
Taking the knapsack from her, he secured it to his horse. Then turned to her to help her mount, as he had done countless times. But she was leading the horse to a fallen log to use as a mounting block. Avoiding him. Rejecting his touch.
