Tara was reduced only to the feathered silk of Marc’s touch, the hand at her nape cradling her skull, fingers woven into the lush tresses of her hair.

It was like that lingering wrist kiss all, all over again—but a thousand, a million times more so. A thousand, a million sensations fluttered within her, the sheer velvet sensuality of his kiss, his mouth moving on hers, tasting her, exploring her, taking all that she was, helpless, helpless to resist... The heady scent of his aftershave, his body, was in her senses, the closeness of him, as he shaped her mouth to his.

She felt herself leaning into him, to let her own hands glide around the strong column of his back, feeling the play of muscle and sinew, only the sheerest cotton of his shirt to separate her palms from the warmth of his flesh.

She could not stop, would not—blood was surging in her, her pulse soaring. She was drowning into his kiss, unable to stop herself, to draw away, to find the sanity she so, so needed to find...