Sandra Marton - Hollywood Wedding

Not that his brain had shut down altogether. If anything, it was working overtime, delivering enough sensory messages to put him on overload.

He heard the crowd’s shocked gasp, heard the smothered exclamation of the woman just as his mouth found hers, then felt her stunned resistance, followed quickly by her indignant struggles. He was even aware of the amused tut-tut of a little voice inside his head as it asked him just what, exactly, he thought he was doing.

The problem was that the voice asked the question a fraction of a second too late. By then, Zach’s mouth had closed over Frances Cranshaw’s mouth. And the little voice faded to a whisper.

She tasted sweet, like the nectar of a flower. And cool, like a swift-running mountain stream. But mostly— mostly, she tasted like a meal for a starving man, and he had the sudden crazy thought he’d been hungry all his life.

Until now

Heat coiled in his belly, then shot through his blood. His arms tightened around her.

Stop it, the voice insisted. Let her go. She doesn’t want this—see how she’s fighting you? And you don’t want it either. You don’t know this dame, you don’t like her, and you’re sure as hell not the kind of man who goes around forcing women.

But he didn’t let her go. He drew her closer, bent her over his arm, one hand slipping up to cup the back of her head, his fingers twining in the silken spill of her golden hair while his mouth moved against hers, offering, asking…

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