A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens

breathing, the increasing tension in her spine.
    Then her lips moved, firming under his, still not giving, but alive. It was as if she was a statue coming to life, cool marble slowly heating, stone carapace melting, giving way to flesh, blood, and life.
    He held her face steady and increased the pressure of the kiss. Acutely focused on her, he knew when she lifted one gloved hand from her lap, raising it to where his hand cupped her face. Her fingers hovered, an inch from his hand, then, very gently, almost as if she wasn’t sure he—his hand—was real, she touched her fingertips to the backs of his.
    The hesitant touch rocked him—it held a wondering innocence that captivated and held him.
    Her leather-encased fingertips trailed, tracing the back of his hand; they hesitated for one quivering instant, then settled.
    Like a butterfly on the back of his hand.
    Her fingers didn’t grip, didn’t tug—they simply touched. He drew breath—drew her perfume deep—and deepened the caress. Asking—for once in his life, not demanding.
    And she gave. Of her own accord, she tipped her face further, swaying toward him as she offered her lips.
    He swooped like a conqueror and took, claimed—but immediately reined back when he sensed her sudden skitter. She was unused to being kissed. Strange as that seemed, he knew it for fact—he didn’t ponder the cause but set himself to ease her, tease her, encourage her.
    She was a quick study—soon she was kissing him back, gently but without reserve. He longed to draw her into his arms, but experience warned against it. Her nervousness was now explained—for whatever reason, she wasn’t used to this. His lips on hers, his hand about her face, seemed, at this moment, all she could assimilate, so he set himself to work with that.
    Set himself to cajole and tease, to lead her to yield more, to seek more. When she hesitantly parted her lips, he felt he’d won a siege, but he was careful, this time, of taking advantage too quickly—which meant he savored every sweet moment of her surrender, the whole extended like a necklace of precious, individual gems of sensation.
    When she tentatively touched his tongue with hers, then slowly, sinuously, caressed him in return, his head very nearly spun.
    She was like fine wine—best savored slowly.
    He finally drew back as the carriage rumbled around a corner. Chest swelling, he studied her lips, briefly illuminated by a street flare. They were full, deeply rosy, slightly swollen. “Now, for learning Swales’s address . . .”
    Her lips parted—whether in protest or invitation he didn’t wait to learn. He covered them again; they molded easily, this time, to his, and parted fully the instant he touched them with his tongue.
    Brook Street couldn’t be much farther. The thought spurred him to drink more deeply, to take all she offered—then seek, search, and tempt her further.
    She gave—not so much easily as willingly, taking hesitant steps along a path he instinctively knew she’d never trod. She’d never before been passionately kissed, never been awakened in this way. He had to wonder about her late husband, and whether she’d been awakened at all.
    He held her steady, urging her on, his lips ruthless, just this side of hard. He would have taken her further, much further, but tonight they’d run out of time.
    The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.
    Reluctantly, he released her lips. For one instant, as their breaths mingled, he was tempted . . . then he drew away his hand and let her veil fall. She would reveal herself to him of her own accord. That was one moment he intended to fully savor.
    He straightened. She sank against the seat. She tried to speak and almost choked; clearing her throat, she tried again. “Mr. Cynster . . .”
    â€œMy name is Gabriel.”
    Despite her veil, their gazes locked. She stared