"I'm sorry I called you a sewer rat who lives in a nest of horse manure." He pulled his hand away from the silken softness of her face, hiding his sudden rush of emotion and need with a snort of laughter as he stood up. "No, you're not." But she stood up, too, catching his hand in hers, bringing it up to the softness of her lips. She kissed his knuckles, and the featherlight sensation was totally unnerving. "Yes, I am," she whispered. "I am sorry." When she released his hand, he tried to convince himself that his sudden disappointment was in fact relief. But when she stepped even closer and reached up to touch the side of his face, he knew the truth. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to kiss Marisala. "We are friends," she said again. "When I'm with you, I can say what I want. And you--you can do the same, you know." "I will," he whispered. He wanted to kiss her, but he'd never tell her that. He couldn't. She pulled him close, not for a kiss, but to embrace him in a friendly hug. He buried his face in the sweet-smelling mass of her beautiful hair. He could feel the softness of her breasts against his chest, feel her fingers lacing through his own hair, feel her thighs pressed against his as she stood on tiptoe. And he was lost. All he knew was that suddenly he was kissing her. Excerpted from Freedom's Price by Suzanne Brockmann All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
