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intoxicating her, making her feel as though she could do anything as long as he held her. |
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A long-forgotten warmth flowed through her. How odd, she thought, that she should be so sensually stirred by a man she didn't really trust. |
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His arm spanned the length of hers from shoulder to wrist, as though they were joined, and she could feel the bulging strength of his substantial muscles along her own, trembling arm. |
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No. She didn't dare tremble, or she would blot once more. |
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And yet, as she tried to still herself, she realized that all of the shaking did not come from her. Did she make him as nervous as he made her? |
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Unlikely. Nothing seemed to disturb Thorn. |
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"Now, we will write." His mouth was close to her ear, and his soft words in his deep, buckskin-soft voice with its British intonations nearly made her jump. What he had said wasn't sexy in the least. Why did it make the stirring she had been feeling turn to a full-fledged yearning? |
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She watched, fascinated, as his hand guided hers along the page. Together, they wrote, "Mariah Walker." The handwriting was his, not hers, and the swirls intertwined with those of his name, where he'd written it before as part of the name of the inn. The intertwining seemed intimate, like a joining of the two of them, and Mariah felt her mouth go dry. |
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She didn't want to stop when the final r was written. "Let's try Pennsylvania," she whispered, her words barely audible even to her. |
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They did, their arms now as closely entwined as the letters in their names. |
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"Now," she said, when the words were complete, "let's" |
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She didn't get to finish. His hand dropped from hers. She barely noticed when the quill fell to the table as Thorn pulled her to her feet, knocking over the bench. He took her into his arms. |
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She wanted that kiss. As his mouth closed over hers, she threw her arms about his neck, drawing him nearer still. |
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