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Running her fingers into his hair, she cupped his head between her hands. With the lightest of pressure, she brought his face closer to hers. She felt his breath on her lips. She opened her mouth, licked her lips. He did the same. They were ready for the kiss.
Forever after, in all the seasons of all the years to come, she would have to acknowledge she had been the one to make the final move.
Slowly, savoring the moment, she touched her mouth to his. That was all it took.
The shudder that ran through him entered her and sent a tremor all the way to her toes. She pushed her sandals off and wrapped her legs around his. He pulled her closer, rolling so he half lay on her.
Hunger, so great it overlaid the earlier grief that had filled her, became an unreasonable force inside her. She tugged at his shirt until it was free of his jeans, then moved away enough so that she could unfasten the buttons.
His hands closed over hers. “What are we doing?” he asked, his voice dropping a register.
She shook her head slightly, negating the question. “Don’t talk,” she whispered. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, her hands feverish now, restless with the need that drove her past thought and spoken words.
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