Rhys’ kiss was more gentle than Madeline had anticipated.
Indeed, his kiss fairly melted her bones. An intoxicating heat rolled through her, the pressure of his lips against hers making her yearn for more. He smelled of wind and rain and leather, altogether masculine and alluring.
Yet he was gentle with her. And patient. Madeline knew that he coaxed her caress, that he believed her to be innocent, and though she guessed it to be his intent, her fear of him faded like night at the dawn.
Truly, the man could addle the wits of any woman with a kiss like this. Madeline had never guessed that such pleasure could be launched from such a gentle caress, nor had she imagined that she might become a willing participant in this embrace.
But then, circumstances were most uncommon. She was angry an
