Secrets of a Perfect Night by Stephanie Laurens, Victoria Alexander, Rachel Gibson

by desire, and she softened. Felt the telltale give in her spine as she sank into his arms, just as she had all those years ago. But that time, their interaction had been at her insistence. This time…
    He angled his head and her wits whirled. There was suddenly no time, no space, to think. There was heat and male hardness, taunting, promising; she parted her lips and welcomed him in, incapable of pretending. She wanted him—she always had. Even at sixteen she had known, at some deep level, that he was her soul mate, the other half of her life’s coin. She felt his arms tighten, locking her to him. She thrilled to the slow, hot invasion as he claimed her.
    Lips melded, tongues caressed; time stood still. Her breath was his, and his, hers; the kiss spun out and on, the tension set by a knowing hand. Eight years had gone by since last he’d kissed her, high on the moorwith the sun warm upon them. He’d learned a lot since then; there was real expertise and a wealth of experience behind each artful caress, each seductive moment. The temptation to taste his wildness again, to match it against hers, grew with every heartbeat.
    He’d grown skilled with the years; she eventually realized his hand was on her breast—and had been for some time. The sensations his touch evoked had felt so pleasurable, so intensely right, her beleaguered wits hadn’t warned her. Instead of pulling back, she twined her arms about his neck and leaned into him—into their kiss, into his caress. If he’d lost his mind, then she could lose hers, too—there seemed no reason to fight this madness.
    So neither drew back. As the moments passed, the kiss shifted, evolved, from welcome and homecoming, from revisiting to exploring, from simple needs to deeper desires. The last shook Abby to her core; her response shook her even more.
    When Adrian finally lifted his head, they both gasped as if they’d been drowning. Staring into his darkened eyes, Abby wasn’t sure they hadn’t—hadn’t half drowned in desire. She knew what desire felt like—he’d shown her all those years ago. But it had never felt so deep, so turbulent, so powerful.
    So irresistible.
    Desire surrounded them now, palpable, like waves surging about them, pushing them to let go and let the current sweep them away. The tug of his eyes, of his body pressed to hers, in the sculpted, hard planes of his face, in the heady pounding in her blood, was well nigh impossible to resist.

    Abby felt herself slipping, sliding…In an effort to catch her footing, to think, she focused on his shoulder, then beyond—on the snow whirling heavily on the other side of the pane. “Oh, no !”
    Her eyes had widened; Adrian turned to follow her gaze. The storm had rushed in; the gallery faced south, so they hadn’t seen it coming. Eyeing the soft, heavy flakes drifting steadily down, Adrian wondered if, after all these years, some angel had decided to lend a returning prodigal a helping hand. “We won’t be able to drive back.”
    “No.” Abby drew away, lips setting as she peered down. The ground was already solid white. “We’ll have to stay.”
    “At least the night.” Adrian let his arms fall from her easily. In truth, the interruption was a very good idea. If matters had continued unchecked…Abby would have once again had him doing something he didn’t intend to do. He was firmly of the opinion that he should propose first, before they again indulged their mutual desire. Besides…“Come.” He took Abby’s hand. “We’d better find Mrs. Crochet. She’ll need to make up some beds.”
     
    They dined by candelight at a Pembroke table set before the fire in the family parlor. The dining room was simply too cavernous to heat, not just for two. Mrs Crochet attended them; when all the dishes were set forth, Adrian smiled, complimented her, then waved her away. “We can help ourselves. No need to leave Crochet all alone.”
    Mrs. Crochet beamed, bobbed a curtsy, and left.

    Abby was