He didn’t give her the option. As he dipped his head and his mouth sought hers, the thought did register that she shouldn’t be letting it happen. The warning bells rang and her fight-or-flight instincts surged to the surface only to sink in the depths and beyond the moment Blue Hazzard’s mouth touched hers. Reverence. Maggie felt reverence and tenderness and the pleasure of a promise held too long in trust. If she gave a struggle, it was token. If she voiced a protest, it was unconvincing, as any notion of denying him lost power and proportion under his gently persuasive touch. Blue Hazzard was kissing her. And she was letting him. Letting him coax her surrender with the heat of his lips against hers, with the caress of his hands on her shoulders. Hands that were huge and strong yet achingly gentle as they glided surely down her back then drew her close against his body. A body that was as solid as the rock gouging out the shoreline, as warm as the sun enfolding them both. Ebb and flow, soft and slow, the water lapped against the dock beneath them as he savored her there in the sunlight, there in the wilderness where she’d come to escape pressure and indecision and the disabling suffocation of involvement, which, for her, equated to control.
