He swallowed hard. HIs jaw ticked again.
And before she could think better of it, Rosamund stepped closer, sliding her arms up the solid wall of his chest.
And, rising onto her toes, she kissed him.
Right on the mouth.
A LACK OF CONTROL
For one suspended moment, Julian did nothing.
This—this—was a mistake.
He had expected Miss Belle to run. To dart out of the forest, mount her perfect little horse, pack up her bags, and never return.
Instead, she was kissing him.
Softly. Deliberately. As though he had not just handed her cause for fear.
He should step back. Create distance. Give her a cold stare.
But her mouth was warm. Certain. Unhesitating.
Although tempted since the first time he’d looked into her eyes, since the moment her freckles and firelit hair brought color into a world he’d intentionally kept gray, he’d convinced himself he could remain unmoved.
But this!
Julian’s hands curled at his sides, fingers flexing once, twice.Do nothing. Do not answer. Do not?—
Her lips parted. Sweet and warm. A yielding body pressed against his chest.
And the discipline he had so carefully cultivated did not shatter as he halfexpected.
It only… bent.
Julian caught her—not roughly, but decisively—one hand at her waist, the other braced against the tree behind her, as though he could contain the moment by anchoring it. As though the bark beneath his palm might steady him.
This was no delicate wisp of a girl, but a woman—built to be held, to be tasted, to be devoured. And God help him, he wanted to do all of it.
Her voice hitched, a needy little cry, soft and involuntary. The sound went straight through him.
“Rosamund.”Just a breath.
His mouth claimed hers this time, no longer a question but an answer he should not be giving.
Her fingers slid into his hair, then forward, tentative at first, as though mapping him. Across his temple. Along his jaw.
And then?—
Over the ridges of his scar.
The contact was light—almost reverent—but it sent a shock through him all the same, sharp and disorienting. His breath caught low in his chest and his skin burned beneath her fingertips, not with pain, but with awareness.
Her thumb traced the uneven line as though it were simply another feature of his face—no more alarming than the curve of his mouth.
She did not flinch. Did not hurry. Did not withdraw.
The honesty of it disarmed him.