I love kissing scenes. They can be tenderly romantic, or heatedly intense, but no matter how the kiss occurs, they are one of the things I love reading in my romances. There are so many things you can do with a kiss. And so many ways you can kiss. Slow, urgent, passionate, nibbles, sucking. Up against a wall, laying down, sitting up. Hands or no hands, both can be equally intense. And that first kiss, ahhhhhh, it can be sweet, sweet bliss.
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“Does that hurt,” I whispered as my fingers gently caressed the scarred flesh of his cheek. He flinched, sucking in a breath as if the touch pained him.
For a moment I thought he would push me away, but instead he grabbed my other hand and placed it over his heart and said, “Not there, but here. The scars still hurt here.”
He spoke low, but I could clearly hear the pain in his voice. The physical pain had dissipated years ago. But the emotional pain continued to haunt him.
“Let me help you,” I said. “Please, let me help ease your hurt.” I wanted him in a way I’d never wanted anyone. These past months working in his employ, I’d grown an attachment to him.
Cautiously, I unbuttoned his shirt. I leaned in, tenderly pressing my lips to his throat. I lifted my head and my entire body trembled with passion. His gaze was fastened onto mine. The intensity, the need I saw there, burned itself across my skin.
“No one has touched me as you have.” His voice was gravely to my ears, almost painful sounding.
“No one?” I repeated quietly. I ached for him, in more ways than just this lustful need to take him. My heart wanted to ease him, to please him.
He gave a slight shake of his head in answer, never one time breaking eye contact with me. Then suddenly, he flung my arms away from him. Anger or some other strong emotion contorted his face. “Why would you want to put your beautiful, delicate hands on this scar-riddled flesh?” he spat in disgust, waving his hand around the area in question.
“You don’t repulse me.”
He continued to glare at me, as if my words taunted him. As if I could not possibly mean what I said.
I reached down, gripped his hand and placed it over my heart. “Feel my heart beat? It’s pounding out of control for wanting you, for wanting you to want me.” I said quietly, yet fiercely.
He growled with barely restrained control, and grabbed my face between his hands. His lips fastened onto mine with a punishing forcefulness that shot shards of erotic yearning through me. I clung to him desperately, not wanting this moment to end. I’d dreamed too often for his touch, his kiss. It’s better than any imagined scenario I had ever conjured.
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