She didn’t understand it. How could he think her a wanton and kiss her like this? It was beautiful. Sweet. Shattering. With every smooth caress, with every gentle press, with every tender stroke, he ripped her defenses to shreds. He stripped her bare, revealing yearnings—desires—that belonged to another person. The person she’d been.

He kissed her like she meant something. Like she was special. He made her feel like a woman who was worthy of respect—not just a quick, lusty swive against the wall—and she hated it.

These feelings made her weak. He made her weak.

But she couldn’t break away. It simply felt too good. That she felt anything at all was a surprise. She’d thought herself incapable after the horror of that day. But the numbness—the coldness—that she usually felt wasn’t there.

She loved the solid hardness of his body against hers, which didn’t make any sense. All that strength should be threatening. He could hold her down. Prevent her from moving. Instead it made her warm and melty. And maybe a little achy.

She couldn’t help but remember how all those muscles had looked in the flesh. How they’d flexed and rippled as he moved.

She wanted to make them jump under her fingertips. She wanted to slide her hands up the hard ridges of his back and shoulders, over his bulging arms, and maybe even across the steely bands of his stomach.

She’d never felt desire so physically or viscerally—even that first time before everything had gone so terribly wrong—and the intensity of it took her by surprise.

Surely that was the explanation for the little gasps emitting from low in her throat. Gasps that seemed to be encouraging him to respond with a deep groan and a deeper swirl of his tongue.

His hands moved from cradling her head to down her spine and then to her waist and hips. He was folding her into him, bending her back, bringing her closer.

Confusing her.

All she could think about was the heat of his body, the dark, spicy taste of his mouth, and the sharp pull of sensation that drew her closer with every deft stroke of his tongue. He kissed wonderfully. With skill and purpose and something else . . . feeling? He didn’t rush, smother, or slobber with eagerness. He was slow and calculated—as if all he cared about was making her feel good.

It was working.

His hand moved over her breast and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Heat gathered under his palm. Her nipple grew taut. He rubbed her, circling the pad of his thumb over the throbbing tip until she pressed against him. Arching into the firm cup of his hand.

He had great hands. They were so big and strong, but surprisingly gentle. He didn’t grasp too tightly or squeeze too hard, or move too roughly.