She let him. And she let herself respond fully, without restraint. Not that he left her a choice. It had been the doubt in his voice and in his eyes—the sadness, the remorse, the guilt—that had melted her heart. Suddenly, she had understood. He was afraid, even more afraid than she was, of losing yet another person he’d allowed himself to love. Either by betrayal or death, it seemed the women to whom he’d tried to give his heart had abandoned him. And he couldn’t allow himself to trust that she wouldn’t do the same thing. It was a terrible thing not to trust. She knew. And she knew she had to show him that it could be different, that he could trust her. She had to show him, because she loved him and she always would. It terrified her, but she couldn’t change it. And so she gave herself over to his passion, and to him. She’d caught him off guard; he hadn’t expected the kiss, and he hadn’t been able to control his reaction to it. She didn’t want him to control it. She wanted to know him.
