The feeling of his long, strong arms wrapping around her triggered…something. A stillness deep inside her. She suddenly wasn’t laughing-or squealing. Instead her lips tilted up to meet his, as if that were the only choice she had. The only choice she’d ever had.

Suddenly the only sound in the room was the sweet June wind whispering in the open window. He took her mouth as if he were desperate for the taste of her. She molded close, as if she were desperate to be held, not by someone, not by a man, but specifically, oh so specifically, by him. The taste of him created a fierce, strong pull deep in her belly.

She lost her balance. He found it. She lost her senses, and he stole those, too, lifting his head, searching her eyes with one long, still moment…and then going back for another kiss. This time with the gloves off.

Tongue found tongue. Teeth found teeth. His hands held her head still, then, impatient, pulled at the clip trapping her hair. Her hair spilled free, through his fingers. She wrapped her hands around his wrist, but it didn’t slow him down, didn’t stop him. Didn’t seem to stop her either.

As if her breasts had never known a man, their tips tightened and hardened, yet she pressed closer. They both began a dance of intimacy-a dance without music yet so about rhythm, so about the sway of breast to muscle, of soft pelvis to turgid erection. The drift of her scent waltzed to the scent of his soap, his skin, him. Another dip, another kiss, and her heart picked up a faster rhythm now, as if he’d suddenly spun her into a tango until she couldn’t catch her breath. His breath, his kisses, the strength of his hips, pressed against hers, enticed her to move with him, to want him.

Want.

What a word for a woman who’d had no time for sex, who was impatient at the whole idea of how much importance everyone else put on sex. Who just wanted to live her life with passion for all the wonderful things life offered but not for passion.