A Doctor in His House. Lilian Darcy

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      “No.”

      “You squeezed my guts pretty hard, too,” he admitted on a growl. “You nearly broke them. And you’re squeezing ‘em right now.”

      “Am I?”

      “Yes. Hard. It almost hurts. It aches.”

      “Good,” she said, almost fiercely. “Because I’m aching just as much.”

      He kissed her because he couldn’t help it. Because her mouth was right there, so soft, with a tiny patch of dryness on her lower lip that he wanted to moisten with his tongue. She responded in an instant and they deepened the kiss with mutual need, couldn’t get enough of each other.

      He took her lower lip lightly between his teeth, softened it, stroked it, covered her whole mouth with his and felt the deliberate caress she gave back to him, and the little nips and tastes. Her mouth moved with velvety softness and he chased every movement, wanted it deeper and deeper and seriously couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t get enough.

      Sometimes a kiss was just a kiss.

      Sometimes it wasn’t.