Murdoch was more tempting than should be humanly possible. Isabella knew what she should do and knew what was sensible and right. But this man had only to smile that slow smile at her, to let the wicked glint dawn in his blue eyes, or to touch a fingertip to her, and Isabella could think of nothing other than his kiss. The pleasure he conjured with his touch drove all practical matters from Isabella’s thoughts.
Her kirtle was unlaced and his hands were beneath her chemise, his fingers kindling wondrous new sensations. She felt wanton, for she could deny him nothing, and indeed, she wanted more. He touched her with surety, at first gently, then with more demand. She had no doubt that he knew precisely what he did to her, for a tumult rose within her unlike anything she had ever felt before
