Absolutely, Positively

morning.”

    “No.”

    “Of course you will.” She paused suddenly, staring at the small leather sheath strapped to his ankle.

    Harry wanted to explain the knife. He wanted to tell her that it was more than family tradition. He wanted to tell her everything. But that meant telling her the full truth about his parents and how they had died and how he'd been too late to save them. He could not even begin to tackle that subject in his present state. He wondered if the sight of the blade would turn her away from him.

    Without a word, Molly unbuckled the sheath and put it on the bedside table. Then she rose, put one hand on his shoulder, and pushed him gently backward.

    He fell against the pillows with all the light, airy grace of a bull elephant going over a cliff. He lay there and watched helplessly as Molly bent over him. The white robe parted slightly, revealing a bit of the scalloped neckline of her gown. He licked his dry lips and fought for words.

    “Please.” It was all he could say.

    “What is it?” she asked. “What do you want?”

    “You.”

    She blinked. A fiery flush crept into her cheeks. “Harry, you're ill.”

    “No. I'm not sick. Not the way you mean. I want you. Please.”

    She leaned over the bed to put her hand on his forehead. “It's the fever. You're delirious.”

    “No. Touch me.” He flung out an arm. He managed to capture her wrist before she could remove her hand from his head. “Here.” He moved her fingers to his erection. “Make love to me.”

    She went very still.

    She would run from him now, Harry thought. This was it. The end.

    “Harry?” Her eyes were green gems warmed by an inner fire.

    “This is what's wrong with me,” he whispered harshly. “Not food poisoning. I want you so much. So damned much.”

    “Oh, Harry.”

    She was about to panic. Harry was sure of it. In another instant she would flee. He could do nothing to stop her.

    “Don't go,” he whispered.

    Her fingers closed tentatively over the bulge in his pants. Harry thought he would go up in flames. Then she straightened slowly. Her eyes never left his face. This was it, he realized bleakly. She had finally seen the weirdness in him. She would leave him here alone in the darkness.

    The white robe fell to the carpet. It was followed by the white nightgown.

    Harry drank in the sight of Molly's nude body. The vision threatened to swamp all his senses. Moonlight gleamed softly on the curves of her small, high breasts and the lush flare of her thighs. The dark triangle of hair that shielded her secrets mesmerized him.

    She came to him.

    She came to him.

    For a split second Harry did not understand. He had been so certain she would run.

    “Molly?” he gasped.

    She settled slowly on him like soft, warm tropical rain. She brushed her mouth gently, tentatively across his. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest.

    She was making love to him.

    The last remnants of his control vanished. Harry broke into a headlong run across the glass bridge, heedless now of the threat that lay below. All he cared about was reaching the opposite shore of the abyss.

    He wrapped Molly in his arms, turned her, and crushed her into the bedding. He heard her soft, startled cry, and then she was clinging to him, clutching wildly at his shoulders. He felt her nails on his back.

    He reached down between her legs, thrust his fingers through the soft hair and found her hot and wet and ready for him. He vaguely recalled the condom in the drawer beside the bed. He groped for the knob of the drawer. He could not seem to get hold of it.

    Clumsy. So impossibly clumsy. Not like him. “Damn.”

    “I'll get it.” Molly sounded breathless as she reached out to open the drawer for him.

    He fumbled around inside. Found the box. Found the packet.

    Foreplay. The voice inside his head was very insistent. Women liked foreplay. Lots of foreplay.

    “What's wrong?” Molly sounded frantic, but eager.

    Definitely eager. Not terrified.

    “Foreplay,” Harry muttered. “Supposed to be foreplay.”

    “We can do it later, can't we? Make it afterplay.” She yanked at his zipper. “Harry, I can't wait. I've never felt like this.”

    He sucked in his breath as she jerked open his pants. But no damage was done. His hand shook so violently he could not unroll the condom. Molly had to help him.

    He watched her frown intently over the task. Her sweet awkwardness was electrifyingly erotic. Each tug, each touch,