Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye

tasted of salt. His lips were gentle, his beard soft yet prickly, rasping just enough on her skin to delight rather than grate. She sighed, opening her mouth to his kiss, nestling closer into his reassuringly solid bulk, and he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, making her quiver, her quiver made him sigh, his mouth covering hers, deepening the kiss, until another gust of wind made them stagger backwards.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Luckily the wind blew us away from the cliff.’

      ‘You know that’s not what I meant, Emily.’ His eyes were lambent, heavy-lidded. It touched her that he needed reassurance. That he took nothing for granted.

      ‘I’m fine.’ Her words, so trite and so completely inadequate, made her shake her head at her own banality. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ And free, she added silently to herself. Not that she’d tell Treeve, ever, but his kiss had freed her. ‘Truly,’ she said instead.

      Treeve laughed, pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for months to do that.’

      ‘Not even a week. I hope you’re not disappointed.’

      ‘You exceeded my very high expectations.’ He wanted to kiss her again, but this was hardly the place! His body was thrumming with desire. For the love of the gods, it was just a few kisses. Extremely enjoyable, enough for him to want more, but dammit, he was not in the habit of going around kissing virgins. Not that Emily kissed like a virgin, though how the hell he thought he knew what a virgin kissed like when he’d never kissed one…

      He cursed under his breath, scanning first the horizon and then his watch. ‘I think we’d better turn back.’