His coat was between them; then suddenly wasn’t. Ever so slowly his mouth captured hers again, but this time he didn’t release her. His lips lingered, increasing their pressure as his arms enfolded her; her senses reeled, and she was helpless under the assault of textures and scents and sounds that were uniquely Matthew. He liked his shirts starched; she knew no other man who wore starched shirts anymore. The fabric was slightly abrasive against the soft flesh of her palm, its stiffness a denial of the warm, mobile muscle and flesh of his shoulders. The collar had no give to it at all; she felt she had won a battle when her fingers finally reached the yielding flesh of his neck, so vital, like Matthew, so electrifyingly virile, like Matthew. His hair curled around her fingers, thick and silky. Everything-the soap he used, the aftershave he splashed on, the shampoo he favored…they were all Matthew. Not Richard. Not any other man. And suddenly, neither past nor future existed.

With increasing hunger, his mouth covered hers; his tongue dipped inside, and they shared the ultimate taste of each other. One of his hands cradled her head, and the other stroked down her neck and her back to the base of her spine, urging her closer to him. She felt a crazy series of shivers run through her body, as if every nerve ending had suddenly responded to this unique man, to what he was feeling, to what he needed, to what he wanted.

His mouth captured hers with such intensity that she could sense his own conflicting emotions. He had not come here for this-she knew it; he had not intended to touch her…yet he didn’t stop. His hands tattooed desperate, almost savage messages into her flesh as he kneaded it through the soft knit dress, firing the same explosive feelings in her. It was all wrong…and so impossibly right. Never had she imagined such sweet, fierce hunger as she now felt.