Anabelle Bryant - Undone By His Kiss

As all females do, she’d fantasized about her first kiss. Not having ever had one, her prodigious imagination had created the ideal first encounter. In her mind’s eye, the gentleman would look at her face with genuine sincerity, his eyes searching deeply for the connection that led them into each other’s arms. He would touch her cheek, a slight caress that sent shivers through her bones to settle in her heart. In this daydream, night dream, she would allow her eyes to fall closed so sight would no longer have control, but instead, her other senses would discern each nuance. She would feel his fingertip tilt her chin, sense his hesitation as he stalled above her lips, the warmth of his nearness almost too much to bear in anticipation of his kiss. Then she’d experience the taste of his lips, the thrill of being desired, worshiped, if even for just one moment.

Emily snapped her attention to the present with hope her face hadn’t revealed exactly where her thoughts had wandered; to a fantastical image borne of fiction and illogical hopes and dreams.

She flared her eyes wide. This life was reality. She would do best to remember that.

“Miss Shaw?”

“Yes. You were saying?” Was she flushed with embarrassment or some other ridiculous emotion because heat rose in her cheeks and her clothes suddenly seemed too confining? The warm undercurrent in his question couldn’t possibly be the cause.

“You suggested I name another situation when a woman couldn’t accomplish success without the help of a man.” He glanced in her direction with a twinkle in his eye.

Perhaps he would try to trick her. She smiled with satisfaction, assured he had no such example and offered her full attention with a proud tip of her chin.

“Kissing, of course.”

Her face lit afire. Could the man read her mind? Look into her soul? Howsoever could her thoughts become his in the span of a few heartbeats? She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, in an effort to hide the inevitable, the tinkling sound of her new charm bracelet laughter to her folly.

Jasper closed the width between them. She noticed the tips of his very fine leather boots as she looked toward the hardwood floor. Slowly she raised her gaze, taking in the man in front of her. His tight-fitted trousers and well-cut waistcoat were of the smoothest Kersey wool, his cravat, white and sharply pressed, was tied simply, in kind to the easy attitude of the man who wore it.

“Miss Shaw?”

She shot her eyes to his, all at once lost in his gaze. Eyes, brilliantly green with specks of gold, entranced her, as if caught in a spell. Her heart pounded in her chest, his words knocking, seeking shelter there. Something about Jasper made her abandon the strict rules she’d adhered to ever since she’d witnessed her mother’s devastation and made a vow to keep herself clear of fancy men and their wealth. Ever since she’d promised to be her own woman, dependent on no one.

She didn’t move when he reached forward and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek.

“You’ve been crying.” His dark brows lowered in concern, yet he didn’t break the intensity of their stare. “I can’t say I like that.”

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