Besides, he didn’t even know where her room—

The click of the door latch had him turning his head. Had every muscle in his body snapping taut.

Heather eased the door open as silently as she could, relieved when the hinges remained blessedly silent. She’d guessed which room, which turret, Breckenridge would be in, but she’d had no idea if she was correct.

She’d had to wait until the entire household had retired, wait until her eyes had been well adjusted to the darkness that prevailed in the manor’s corridors, but at no point had she imagined simply passing the night in her room, in her bed, alone.

Tonight, or if she was lucky tomorrow night, would be her last chance to sleep in his arms. She saw no reason to pass up the opportunity. Once he made up his mind to leave. . she was determined she wouldn’t cling but would behave with the sophisticated savoir faire he was no doubt accustomed to in his lovers.

They were lovers, nothing more. Circumstances had brought them together, and circumstances would soon part them. She’d known how it would be when she’d seduced him; she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he’d fallen in love with her in the space of two days.

Through the hours of two richly physical nights.

The door was finally open enough for her to step into the room and peer through the moon-washed dimness at the bed. .

He was there.

Her heart leapt. Literally leapt in her chest, which seemed quite silly of it, but she definitely felt it.

He lay on his back, bathed in soft, silvery light. The sheets rustled as he came up on one elbow to look at her. . the sheet slid down, exposing his chest.

Her mouth went dry. Her lungs slowed.

Then she remembered what she was about — she’d have time for staring later. Whirling, she shut the door as silently as she could, then turned and padded over to the bed.

He watched her draw near, as she halted by the side of the bed asked, “What are you doing here?”

She met his eyes, in answer tugged loose the tie of her robe, then shrugged the garment from her shoulders, let it fall, the silk sliding down her naked body to the floor. “You’re not going to argue, are you?”

His gaze had fallen to her breasts. After an instant’s hesitation, he murmured, “No. Of course not,” even as, his eyes still locked on her, he raised the covers.

She slid under them, scooted closer as he let them fall.

Caught her breath at the delicious sensation of skin meeting skin. His was so much hotter, his body so much harder.

So potently male.

He reached for her, drew her to him, beside him, half under him as he bent his head and she tipped up her face and their lips met.

Curious. . even though his lips met hers, moved over hers until they parted and his tongue slid within, heavily stroking with his customary expertise, she sensed he was holding back, was somehow aloof. . he was thinking.

But then he refocused, intent as well as assured as he pressed closer, closed one hand, knowing and sure, about her breast, and took possession of her senses.

And the dance was different again, a delicious, delightful waltz of the senses as their bodies met, pressed together and parted, as his hands played over her flesh, and his mouth drifted, paying homage before demanding his due.

She rose beneath him, restless and seeking, yet his control never faltered; with faultless execution and experienced command, he orchestrated a consummate performance that, exactly as she wished, educated her senses, opening doors on a different sensual plane, leading her further, leading her on—

Into passion that stole her breath.

Into need so powerful she ached.

Into heat that flowed effortlessly beneath her skin and burned.

Into desire so sharp she felt cut free from the world, cocooned in his arms, in the soft billows of the bed, surrounded by him and the beauty he wrought.

Held, willingly snared, by the pleasure he lavished upon her.

The pleasure built, threatening to sweep her away, but she had her own agenda. She fought, held back the tide, managed to snatch breath enough to gasp, “No. My turn.”

It took several long minutes of heated wrestling to convince him that she was in earnest, that she wouldn’t let him sway her, but, eventually, on a muted groan he consented to roll onto his back, and let her have at him.

Let her caress and have her fill of him.

Let her drench her senses, drown them in him.

She might never have another chance at this, and of all men, she wanted to learn this with him.

To learn what pleasured him, which caresses built his tension in the same way his built hers. Which slow strokes most teased his senses, which pulse points were most sensitive to the pressure of her lips, to the rasp of her tongue, to the soft suction of her mouth.

She learned quickly, learned well. In those heated moments, his body was hers, surrendered to her wishes, to her will. Hers to explore, to know, to delight in.

She drank her fill.

Breckenridge struggled to hold on to any semblance of control. His fingers locked in the silk of her hair, he endured the exquisitely erotic possession, one he rarely allowed.

That he’d allowed her of all women, innocent as she was, to pander to his fantasies in such a way defied all logic. She was one of the few who had ever challenged his control, ever threatened to strip his civilized veneer from the primitive male beneath.

Chest tight, every muscle tensed to rock, he lay back and, jaw clenched, hung on. .

Until, predictably, she went one step too far. The instant he felt her delicate fingers drift to his scrotum alarms sounded in his head — rising to a screech when she torturously slowly drew the hot haven of her mouth from his aching erection, then angled her head—

Before her mouth, her kiss-swollen lips, could make contact he surged up, flipped her over, and had her flat on her back beneath him again, pressing her heavily into the soft mattress as he angled his lips over hers. And took over.

Took charge, took control.

He wasn’t interested in giving it back.

Once he was certain her wits were reeling, once her hands lost their questing intent and lay passive against his chest, he drew back and slid down the bed, grasped her thighs, lifted them wide, and set his mouth to her softness.

Turn and turn about.

She’d given him this chance; he fully intended to use the engagement to bolster his hold on her.

He focused all his considerable expertise on taking her where she hadn’t yet been, and was rewarded with a soft, breathless, mindless scream as she climaxed.

For the first time. He wasn’t of a mind to skimp on the night, yet continued to be aware of the primitive male within — the being she called forth, drew forth so effortlessly that primal needs beat just beneath his skin.

When she crested again, driven by his fingers buried deep within her sheath, he could hold back primitive impulse no longer. He positioned himself, and sank into her.

Gloried in the way she accepted him, not just so deeply into her body, but into her arms. They reached up and around, grasping all of him she could as she rose beneath him, her breath all but sobbing as she wordlessly urged him on, tipping back her head to offer him her mouth. . he hauled in a breath and dived in.

Took, claimed.

Not just her mouth but all of her.

He pushed her, cajoled, demanded, wrung, and seized every last gasp of her passion.

Every last sob, every last evocative moan — he wanted it all.

And she gave.

Without reservation, with no inhibition.

He knew the difference, valued the gift.

Treasured it.

Closed his eyes, held it to his heart as she shattered beneath him, and this time he let go and allowed himself to follow her into oblivion.

Where satiation ruled and bliss rolled in on a long slow wave, and pulled them under.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, they slumped in the bed, and surrendered to bliss-filled dreams.

He woke sometime later, summoned enough strength to disengage and lift from her. She turned with a murmured protest, snuggling back into his arms, settling against him, her softness a blessing, her nearness a comfort.

Slumping beside her, half beneath her as she seemed to prefer, he let sleep drag him back under. . but just before it did he realized what had previously kept him awake.

Clarity often came in moments like that, on the edge of consciousness.

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep because she hadn’t been in his arms.

Obvious.

Lips gently curving, relaxed to his toes, reassured to his soul, he let consciousness slip away, and slept.

Heather woke to pleasure, to sensation so sweet her toes curled.

To whispers of seduction.

Unable to resist, unwilling to draw back, she let him sweep her away.

Let him take her, have her, slide deep into her body and fill her. Complete her.

From behind, he slid deep, and thrilled her.

Then he rocked her to paradise.

And followed, muffling his hoarse shout in the hollow of her throat.

Hand sunk in his hair, her body arching in his hands, she held him deep inside and gloried.

As the golden tide slowly washed through them, then receded, pulled back and left them racked, she listened to her heart thud, felt the echo of his heartbeat at her core, and clung.

To the closeness.

To the intimacy.

To the indescribably joyous sense of being one.

Slowly their muscles relaxed, their wits returned to them.

She had no regrets that she’d become his lover.

Her only regret was that their time would soon end, and she would lose this — this chance to forge such an incredible connection, one that transcended the physical and edged into the spiritual.

Eyes closed, she felt him draw back, disengage. Felt the connection break, fade.

He slumped, heavy and hot at her back.

For long moments silence reigned while their heartbeats slowed and their breathing evened, and they drifted back to the here and now, to the glow of predawn lightening the sky beyond the windows, to the distant sound of larks heralding the dawn.

His arm lay heavy across her waist, the long fingers of one hand gently cradling her breast.

She felt him stir, then he settled again.

Then he spoke, his voice deep, still edged with passion’s rasp. “We need to face facts.”

She tried to frown, but her muscles were still too lax. Reluctantly she started marshaling her wits. “What facts?”

“We need to get married.”

She jerked away from him enough to turn and stare. “What?” She couldn’t have heard aright.

But he was wearing his impassive mask, and his gaze, all gold and green, remained steady. “There’s no other way — we need to get married, and that’s all there is to it.”

“What?”

She pulled away, pushing away from him, her expression one of shock, if not horror; Breckenridge fought the urge to grab her and haul her back. To hold her. He forced himself to lie still, kept his voice calm, his tone uninflected. “You can’t possibly be that naïve — you know our world. Given we’ve been away, together and alone, for so long, then a wedding is the prescribed outcome.”

Her eyes had flown wide with — he would swear — sheer and utter surprise. Now they darkened, the soft blue-gray clouding, roiling with emotion.

“No.” Her chin firmed. She scrambled out of the bed, grabbed her robe, and started shrugging into it. “This is what comes of letting Richard talk to you alone.”

He started to sit up.

Robe gaping, she pointed an imperious finger at him. “No — don’t try to deny it. He spoke to you, and told you you had to offer, but—”

“He didn’t.” Despite his best intentions he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Yes, he asked what I thought, and I told him I would marry you, and that’s the sum total of the words we exchanged on the subject.”

Cinching the robe’s tie, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Richard might not have dictated, but he’s good at intimidating — all of them are.”

“No one had to intimidate me—”

“What you and he have failed to understand is that I do not wish to marry you — not you or anyone else! Yes, I seduced you, but that didn’t mean I expected you to offer for my hand, and I most assuredly never meant for us to marry!”