Page 73 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“If I wanted to hold you... to touch you—would you think me a cad?”
“A cad?” She mused over the word. “I suppose that would depend... if you carry our risky little game a step too far.”
His brow furrowed. “You think this is a game?”
“At this point, I don’t know what is real.” The truth tumbled from her lips before she could hold it back. “And what isn’t.”
She felt him drag in a breath. “I do understand,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged. “The simple truth is this: I don’t want to go another moment before I hold you in my arms again.”
His words plowed into her with the force of a runaway train. She believed him. Every husky, searingly honest word.
Restrained hunger deepened the brown in his irises to a rich chocolate. His strong arms holding her close, he drew her to his lean, muscular body. “Arabelle, would you welcome my kiss?”
As she drank in the delicious warmth in his eyes, her heart beat with a long-dormant yearning. But still, she would present a rational response to his question. She was a woman. Not a skittish girl. She would meet his inquiry without hesitation. Without shame. If she wished to savor his touch, that was her prerogative, was it not?
Still, she wasn’t about to let him know that after all this time, he possessed the power to make her heart soar. “I do believe I’d like that,” she said. “It’s not as if this would be the first we’ve shared. Not so very scandalous, really.”
A touch of amusement on his lips tempered the look of desire in his eyes. “You haven’t forgiven me yet, have you?”
“Not entirely,” she said, holding her tone rather cool. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I’ve had my suspicions,” he said in that gravel-edged voice of his. “Arrogant arsemight’ve given it away.”
“Or perhaps it was when I told you the mention of your name set my teeth on edge?”
“Another clue,” he said.
“My, Jon, I never realized your deductive powers rank with those of Sherlock Holmes.”
“I make no such claim,” he said. The amusement faded from his expression. “My dear Miss Frost, something rather peculiar has occurred to me.”
“And what might that be, Mr. Mason?”
“We are both still here, and I am still holding you. It is the damnedest thing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” A curious blend of hope and desire and wonder rippled through her.
With exquisite gentleness, he framed her face in his hands. “I want to kiss you, Arabelle.”
“Do you, now?” she asked, if only to tease him.
“More than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.” He spoke the words as a confession, low and gruff and ever-so-tempting. His dark eyes gleamed with sweet challenge.
And then, he kissed her.
Dipping his head, he touched his lips to hers. Lightly, at first. The most gentle of caresses.
His hands curved over her upper arms, drawing her to his body. The heat of him warmed her, just as the heat in his kiss. Moment by moment, he deepened the delicious contact. Seeking. Exploring. Taking and giving with each tender touch of his mouth to hers. Slowly, his hands glided along her body, settling at her waist.
With a low groan in the back of his throat, he eased away, even as he still held her. For the span of several heartbeats, he gazed at her.
His touch exceedingly gentle, he framed her face in his hands. “By thunder, you are so beautiful.” His words were spoken in a gravelly rasp, and instinctively, she knew he meant every word.
If she lived to be a very, very old woman, she would always remember the way she felt when he looked at her like that. When he kissed her. When the touch of his unshaven jaw to her face unleashed tingles all over her body.
Ah, yes, it was all coming back to her. The memories of tenderness and yearning and pleasure flooded over her. Yet this new longing was even deeper. The desire ever more profound.
“Oh, Jon,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around him. The powerful muscles on his back flexed beneath her touch, and he grazed his lips over the tender curve of her face.
