Angela Quarles Quotes

He crushed her mouth in a searing, hungry kiss. A kiss that made her stomach drop away.

If only she had lived back then... experienced a real ball... not this play-acting. "Wouldn't that be amazing to truly be at this ball in 1834?" she whispered. The silver under her thumb flared with heat. The room spun. The air, colors and sounds muted as if she was inside an abstract color painting.

Her passion for these items lit her eyes. The claws for instinct and desire gripped him. Her passion for history, he had to drink it, transmute it into another kind of passion. He framed her face with his hands, pushed her back into the recess between the two cases, and captured her silken mouth with his own.

The rapid pulse in her wrist vibrated against his lips. His own rhythm matching the jumps in her heartbeat. He closed his eyes, breathed in her sweet scent one last time, and looked down into her eyes. She stared back at him, boldly assessing. God help him. He could not seduce her. He could not live with himself if he did. Expecting her to remove her hand, he closed his eyes again and sighed softly, willing his body to relax. Her hand slowly left his face. This is for the best. His heart and body ached at the loss and the unfulfillment of his desires. The next instant, her gentle hand stroked his chin and bottom lip and his whole body jerked. He kept his eyes closed, afraid to break the spell. Warm fingers slid down his neck. Shivers coursed up and down his spine. Sweet was the torment and fragile was his control as he felt it slip away.

I believe I was about to do this." He angled his head and nibbled on her lower lip. A small moan escaped her. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss and found she did not hesitate to explore on her own. Blood rushed to his groin and stiffened his arousal. Never had he met a lady so comfortable with her sensuality.

His heat, his erotic pull—she could feel it. A weird, pulsing, virtual pull tugging at her skin, her nerve endings. Made her want to…touch. Made her want. The more she resisted the urge, the stronger it became. It would be a relief, really. To just…touch. One little touch. Just one.

She flapped her hands, anxious energy coursing through her. “How can you be so calm?” He got to his feet, unfolding with an easy grace. He held out a hand, his dark eyes focused solemnly on hers. “Come with me.” “For what?” “That’s part of the lesson.” Was it her imagination, or did a twinkle of humor stir in those eyes? “Center yourself, and grab onto the here and now.” That made no sense—what was he now, Sir Medieval Zen Master? But she slipped her hand into his strong, calloused one. He hauled her up until she bumped into his chest. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face until she looked in his eyes. “Listen to the world around you. Hear the birds? Hear the small animals scurrying? You are in this moment, this moment only, and sometimes that’s all you can do, all you can be.” His finger pulled away, brushing against her skin, and he tapped her nose, stepping away.

He leaned his head against the rock. Christ, when was the last time he’d seen the humor in life? And now, of all places, in an enemy camp, with a strange woman who made him burn. Burn with desire. Burn with need. A desire and need not only for her and her body, but for something he couldn’t quite name.