“Deirdre,” he said after a moment, his voice suddenly soft and tender.
She looked up at him, at his shadowed face, at his hair glistening from the mist, at his dark eyes. Her hand reached to him without her willing it, her fingers gently touching the scar on his temple. His eyes darkened and narrowed, he leaned closer.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head as her heart pounded wildly. “No, Clive, no,” she said, not sure what she meant to deny him, the words instinctive.
His grip on her arms relaxed, she felt his hands slide behind her back, enclosing her, gathering her into his embrace, drawing her to him even though her hands were on his chest, pushing him away. Her gaze met his and she gasped when she saw the fire in his brown eyes, the need, the wanting, the passion.
Deirdre gasped and, seemingly of their own volition, her hands left his chest to slide around his body. In an instant she was in his arms. His hand found the nape of her neck, his fingers caressing her, his touch sending shivers coursing up and down her spine. His mouth came to hers and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers as lightly as a whisper, lips touching lips and then leaving only to return to touch again and again.
He cried out, his inarticulate cry akin to a surrender, and his arms tightened about her, crushing her body to his so that she felt the long hard length of him, his thighs to her thighs, his chest to her breasts, and he kissed her, a demanding kiss, a kiss seeking, seeking, and then finding a response as she kissed him in return, surrendering herself to him for a long moment, a moment when Clive became her world, a secret closed world of their own, the two of them alone together…