Tides of Passion by Tracy Sumner Read Free Book Online

her head enough to answer—he dipped his head and took possession, the arm at her waist clamping tight and bringing her flush against his body.
    She was a tall woman, but he was taller. She was fit, on the lean side, but he was harder. So solid, so muscularly sturdy in a manner his clothes deceptively hid.
    Being held by him, kissed and mastered , taken under and swept away, enthralled her in a way she—an independent woman if nothing else in this life—could not have understood until forced to understand.
    From the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, finally, a man's strength dominated her.
    Suddenly, she understood why women wanted so deeply. Why they wanted him . If they sensed even one-tenth of his passion, his power, his vitality, they would break his door down to get to him.
    And this, she learned as quickly as any pupil could, was what had been missing before: Zachariah Garrett's full participation. In all fairness to the dare, she locked her arms around his neck and consented to a draw.
    He murmured something low and unintelligible, his wine glass dropping to the grass with a soft thump. The arm around her waist tightened, the other climbing, his fingers delving into her loose chignon and tilting her head as he deepened the kiss, drawing down on her bottom lip and sucking. Instinct had her following his lead, shifting to better accommodate, parrying each thrust of his tongue with her own, rising on the tips of her toes to better sink into him, to gorge herself in vast, voracious gulps. The frantic nature of their joining melted her stiff posture and her cocksure bearing, rolling through her in a languid, glorious wave of sensation and recognition. It was a peculiar time to realize she had built her sense of self around an erroneous ideal.
    She was no different than other women.
    He walked her backward in a frantic move; her bottom bumped the table, the wine bottle tipping and rolling into the grass. Still he hung on, challenging, demanding. In response, she plunged, heedlessly, recklessly attempting to sate her hunger. She realized that the more she took, the more she would need .
    Bowing her head to break contact, she unlocked her arms from around his neck and shoved against his shoulders with all her pitiable strength. The table, lodged just beneath her bottom, kept her legs from liquefying like hot wax and spilling her at his feet.
    He pulled back enough for a stray shaft of moonlight to illuminate the feral look in his eyes, the dull wash of color sweeping his cheeks. His chest rose and fell in double-time, as if he had run a race. "I hope you're not expecting an apology, Miss Connor." The arm circling her waist tensed once before dropping, releasing her. "Not when you were knee-deep in the ring with me."
    Edging away, she rubbed her hand over her tender lips, then up to the tangled droop of hair hanging past her shoulder. What a mess she must look. She had never been any good at creating those obtuse chignons. "This isn't a scuffle." She blew out a breath and edged a bit further away from him. "There's no ring. We're not adversaries. At least"—she waved her hand through the air, avoiding his piercing gaze—"not in this ."
    "Dammit," he said in a hoarse voice, his words clipped, "I knew you were trouble from the first minute I set eyes on you. A man has to go with intuition when he has nothing else. Gut feelings aren't reserved only for pretty little things in bonnets."
    Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at the ground, trying to ignore the way his voice made her stomach clench.
    She'd never liked the way he talked before now. The shaky tremor running through his words fortified her. For the first time in her life, she'd obviously had an amorous effect on a man. A rather positive outcome as it was.
    Except the man in question seemed moderately angry.
    Certainly, she had made men angry a thousand times before. Angry enough for them to throw her in a jail cell. Only, when a woman has a man look