He collected them in his fingers, rubbing the fine silky locks. His fingertips brushed her bare shoulder as he did, and she started as if he’d seared her.
Something unbearably fragile swam across her lovely green eyes, visible even in the darkness. She was raw and wounded, cast back into the past, her scars reopened, and so vulnerable that it hit him like a knife to the gut. She couldn’t conceal it, not now—not when Lord Kirkland’s reappearance had thrown her adrift once more. The curls clutched in his fingers tethered her to him, anchored her to the present against the ceaseless tide of the past. And for a moment he fancied he could see the plea in her eyes. Hold me here. Don’t let me lose myself again.
He reached for her slowly, his free hand lighting on her shoulder. Her skin was cool beneath his fingers, the heat chased away by the night breeze. He had expected tension, perhaps for her to shrug off the improper touch—his bare hand against her bare skin. Instead her shoulder relaxed beneath the light pressure, sinking to a more natural slope. Confusion darkened her eyes, not only at his actions but for her reaction to him. He traced the delicacy of her collarbone with the pad of his thumb, slipped his fingers along the graceful curve of her neck, and cupped her chin in his hand. Her eyes were wide, fringed with thick, dark lashes, unblinking—as if he held her captive with only his gaze.
“When you were engaged,” he heard himself ask, “did he ever kiss you?”
Her lips parted on a shocked gasp. “Of course not,” she said. “Lord Kirkland was a gentleman.”
“More fool him.” He bent his head, touched his lips just to the corner of her mouth, felt the scandalized tremor sweep through her. The night breeze sent yet another errant curl floating down from its pins; it touched his cheek in a fleeting caress. A shred of conscience skewered him, made him pull just a few inches away and provide her an opportunity to castigate him for his temerity—slap him, screech at him, shove him, anything that would put distance between them.
Instead she listed toward him, those lids that had gone so wide with shock instead shading her eyes. His thumb traced the plump curve of her lower lip, testing the softness. In all his life he had never seen a woman who so badly needed to be kissed. Who deserved to be kissed, well and often, by a man who would love her and cherish her all of their days.
He was not that man. But he would take what she so sweetly offered anyway.
Curling his palm around the nape of her neck, he drew her toward him, slanted his mouth over hers, and teased her lips apart with his own. His gentle assault caught her entirely off-guard; she had likely expected some chaste peck, at most a few fleeting touches—instead she received a blatant expression of desire, sensual and heated.