A Lonesome Way Novel
With a surprisingly gentle smile, he brushed his mouth against hers.
Fire shot through her. Instant, red-hot fire.
You're doomed, she thought.
And kissed him back.
They didn't seem to know how to stop kissing. Annabelle found her senses whirling like a merry-go-round as his warm lips tasted hers slowly, gently, before eventually traveling down her throat to nibble at her collarbone. When she moaned with pleasure, he returned his attention to her mouth, kissing her deeply, and then deeper still, like a starving man who couldn't get enough.
Neither could she.
He wasn't just tasting her; he was savoring her. And she was savoring him right back.
She stopped thinking then, the words to describe it dissolving into bits of nothingness as her train of thought floated away. Fire sparked through her as he took each kiss deeper, hiking the intensity in slow degrees, making her blazingly aware of everything about him at once: the strength of those iron muscled arms around her, the dark male taste of him, the possessive way his warm mouth claimed hers.
She could barely breathe, but she didn't care. No one had ever kissed her like this. Wes kissed her as if he couldn't get enough of her, of her taste, her scent, her very soul.
He must have an advanced degree in French kissing, as well as a black belt, she thought faintly as her hands slid to the warmth of his broad chest and she kissed him with a desperate, single-minded passion that made her forget who she was, where she was, everything.
Everything but him.....