Feeling strangely alone, she walked to the hearth, then, more out of habit than any real need, bent to warm her hands before the blaze.

She sensed him draw near the instant before his palm cupped her bottom and too knowingly caressed.

With a smothered oath, she shot upright-straight into his arms.

He smiled down at her as if she were his next meal. “I wondered how long you’d be.”

He turned her more fully into his arms. Stunned, she braced her hands against his chest, drew in a huge breath.

Before she could release it in the tirade he so richly deserved, he bent his head, sealed her lips. And kissed every thought from her head.

19

He kissed her until she was gasping, until the scent of him, the taste of him, had overwhelmed and seduced her, until she had to cling to him to stay on her feet. The melding of their mouths, the twining of their tongues, was hungry, ravenous-ravishing. Every particle of her parched being seized, clung, and yearned, drinking him in as voraciously as he did her.

Regardless…she retained enough sanity to grasp the moment when his lips slid from hers to feather along her jaw. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscles of his arms, denying the compulsion to slide her arms up and twine her fingers in his hair-and hold him to her-she closed her eyes and whispered, “Let me go.”

“No.” He gathered her more securely, more fully against him.

Every nerve leapt at the contact. Her head spun as her body reacted to the hard promise of his. But…“Why?”

Her most urgent question. She opened her eyes, caught his, only inches away as he lifted his head. She watched as he studied her, both saw and sensed his search for words, for how to answer with the truth.

Then his lips firmed. “Because you’re mine.”

The words should have sounded merely dramatic, but his tone made them much more. Even more than a statement of fact-his flat implacability made them a statement of certainty, of life as he saw it.

She caught her breath, searched his eyes, struggled to put a name to what she saw in the dark depths. “This is madness.”

He paused, then closed those last few inches. As his lips brushed hers, he murmured, “And more.”

Dillon took her mouth again, laid claim to all she couldn’t deny him. She was right; having her was a madness, a humor of the blood, an addictive ache that only she could assuage. Having her was a madness he now needed and craved, knowing he could, knowing she would. That no matter her denials, her disbelief, when it came to him and her, together, alone like this, their needs and wants converged and became one.

One compulsion, one hunger, one overwhelming craving to taste the wild and reckless, the soaring, greedy, fiery, all-consuming passion that only with each other could they reach.

Her father had remarked to him that when it came to her, he possessed an advantage no other had ever had-he understood her. Not completely, but in many ways he thought as she did, felt as she did.

Wanted with the same fire and passion that coursed through her wild and reckless soul. And felt the consequent lash of desire every bit as keenly.

In this, always, they were as one. Well matched. The ladies had it right.

Yet even while she met him, matched him, even while he sensed the passion rising and welling and building inside her, he also sensed her confusion, her lack of understanding-her need to understand. Her struggle to hold against the inexorable tide, her innate caution holding her back until she’d learned where he was headed, until she knew what giving herself to him again would mean, until she understood where the road down which he was determined to lead her led.

He could sweep her resistance away; if he wished, he could simply overpower her senses and drive her into intimacy. She might be able to stand against his passion, but not his and hers combined. He knew well enough that telling her simply what his ultimate goal was would only lead to more arguments, to more resistance, not less. If he wanted to win her quickly and surely, before he revealed his goal, he had to establish the truth, as he’d set out from Flick’s parlor to do nights before, to state his reality in a way she couldn’t misconstrue.

But this was Pris-she, like he, mistrusted words. Deeds spoke louder, and more truly. And that was why he was there, with her alone, so he could show her the truth. So he could start revealing to her what she was to him.

They were both heated, the engagement of lips and tongues no longer sufficient to meet the rapacious hunger spiraling up within them. He spread his hands, let them rove, over her back, over the aqua silk screening her skin.

He felt her responsive shudder to his bones, ached when, against her better judgment, she sank against him, fingers tightening on his lapel as she fought the compulsion to urge him on. Fought to hold on to her wits even while she shifted closer, hips and thighs moving into him, making his control quake.

His fingers found what they were searching for. Her gown laced up the back.

Lifting his head, dragging in a breath, he turned her and drew her back-trapped her against him, her back to his chest.

Her luscious bottom to his groin. He bit back a groan, and concentrated-on her. Raising his hands to her breasts, he closed them, locked her against him as the contact made her gasp, made her momentarily more malleable.

Pris kept her eyes closed and battled to quell the shivers coursing down her spine. She wasn’t cold, wasn’t in need of more clothes, but less.

He kneaded her breasts, but there was no desperation in his touch, only a knowing confidence, one that screamed of how well he knew that each evocative caress sank into her mind, captured her senses, weakened her will.

Before she could gather her wits and respond-resist, break away-one hard hand left her already aching breast. His chest shifted back. A second later, she felt the quick, deft tugs as he unpicked her laces.

Why was he here? Why was he doing this-what did he hope to achieve?

Her mind wasn’t sure; her heated body didn’t care.

But she knew she should say something, do something, before-

Her bodice gaped; the tiny off-the-shoulder sleeves weren’t designed to hold it up. Drawing her fully back against him again, he slid one hand beneath the loose silk, tugged down the gathered top of her chemise, and lifted first one breast, then the other, free.

She sucked in a tight breath, had to lean back against him, had to grip the long muscles of his thighs as the remembered plea sure of his hands and fingers on her naked skin swept through her again. His hands sculpted and shaped. He pandered to her senses, openly, flagrantly, until her breasts were heavy, aching and swollen, firm and sensitive to every seductive touch.

His fingers circled her ruched nipples, then closed, squeezed.

She gasped, and he bent his head, with his lips traced the curve of her ear.

“Open your eyes. The mirror-look.”

It took effort, but she raised her lids, looked across the room, and saw what he saw. He was a dark male presence, clothed in black, holding trapped before him a slender siren in aqua silk, her bodice loose and lowered, revealing two creamy flushed mounds that his tanned hands possessed and caressed, as if he had the right, yes, but that wasn’t all she felt in his touch.

Wasn’t all she saw when she raised her gaze and in the mirror searched his face.

Soft light spilled over them, golden and flickering from the fire, muted and white from the lamp. In that gentle illumination, she both felt and saw something that made her breath catch.

She-the siren-might be trapped and helpless, but…

Her breath suspended, her body all his, she watched as he watched her watch him. As he caressed with a reined need that was powerfully reverent, as he worshipped her openly, without disguise.

Every touch, every brush of his fingertips across her taut skin was a testament, a prayer. It wasn’t simply the physical but something more ephemeral, as if he valued the needs raging inside her, without question appreciated the wild passion she longed to let free…

Her gaze had dropped to his hands; now she looked back at his face, confirmed that he did indeed worship that. The wild compulsive beat in her blood.

No other had ever heard it, let alone responded. No other had ever appreciated it, shared it, as he did.

That was what she read in his face.

That was when she felt the reins of her will start to slide from her grasp.

She dragged in a breath, tried to wrench her senses from the gentle but overpowering seduction. She licked her dry lips. “I don’t…”

He looked down at his hands. “Want this?” His fingers found her nipples and squeezed; she closed her eyes on a hiss of plea sure, and he murmured, “Don’t lie-you do.”

His voice was a dark rumble in her ear. His touch changed, became more flagrantly possessive. “What of this?”

Sudden pressure-burgeoning pleasure-made her gasp.

“Do you know…one thing I love about you is how you respond. To every touch, every brush, every caress.” He demonstrated, and her shameless body, her witless senses swooned, and proved him right.

“Yes, that.” His breath was another caress. “But not only that. With you, with me, it’s not just your body that rises and meets mine, that aches and hungers, but your senses, your soul. You come to me, join with me, fly with me.” He shifted slightly, his strength surrounding her as one hand left her breast and reached down. “And that’s something infinitely more precious.”

She heard her skirt rustle, felt it rise, felt the cooler touch of air as he drew the front up. Not in any rush, not bunching and crushing, but carefully sweeping it up and to the side; opening her eyes, she stared, mesmerized, as he released her other breast, draped her raised skirt in the crook of that arm, then his fingers returned to her heated skin, firming around one breast again while his other hand slid beneath the angled hem, and skimmed up one leg.

To the curls at the apex of her thighs. He stroked them once, then reached past, sliding his fingers along the swollen folds, then caressing.

In the mirror, he watched her face. “And this?” His fingers were slick with her arousal; he slid one into her sheath, lightly probed.

She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Felt his lips at her temple, felt his breath against her cheek.

“I didn’t tell you before, but I should have…this, having you in my arms, feeling you respond to me, is one of the things I most love about you.” Between her thighs, his fingers probed; at her breast, his fingers squeezed. At her ear, his voice deepened and roughened, and drew her deeper into his thrall.

“This.” And her body answered.

“And this.” Her senses quaked.

The deep rumble of his words, explicit and evocative, kept her with him, held her to him-in those heated moments, through the rising flames, showed her herself through his eyes.

A revelation that made her ache. That made her want with a need she’d felt before but only now understood, only now saw for what it was.

And in that, he was right. She did want him-would always want him. Would always want to give herself to him in just this way-not just to please him, but to take for herself the joy of knowing she could, that she did.

His hands caressed, his voice ensnared, but it was her own needs that flamed within her. That drove her passion to ever wilder heights.

And she knew. She might have the strength to deny him, but once he’d stirred her senses and given them passionate life, she didn’t possess the will to deny them.

She couldn’t, now he’d revealed something of his fascination with her, quench the drive to know more-to take him into her body once more and experience again the connection…knowing what she now knew.

If she could understand what that connection was, what gave it its power, she would know what to do, how to deal with it. How to conquer it.

That, unquestionably, was what she most urgently needed to know.

Her body started to coil, to tighten-but she needed him inside her, needed the physical joining to reveal the ephemeral.

As if he heard her thoughts, his stroking eased, slowed.

Eyes still closed, she sensed his hesitation before he asked, his voice gravelly with desire, “Do you want me inside you?”

She opened her eyes, across the room met his in the mirror. “Yes.” She held his gaze for a second, then boldly asked, “How?”

The abruptness of his response spoke volumes. His hands left her; he urged her to an armchair-a high-seated wing chair. “Kneel on that-be careful not to crush your skirt.”