Burning Up

tilted at a militant angle. “But you wish to leave anyway. Because of my different feet.”
    He shook his head in baffled admiration. Like a practiced swordsman, she had reversed their positions, driving him on the defensive. “Of course not.”
    “Then what do my toes matter?”
    He could deal with her anger. But the emotion glistening in her eyes caused a quick clutch in his chest.
    “They don’t.”
    “Ah.” She held his gaze for a long moment, letting his words speak for her.
    He knew he was being manipulated. He did not care. She was so beautiful with her flushed cheeks and that sheen in her eyes. Her quick passions had roused his. The memory of their last time together rose like smoke between them, firing his imagination, cutting off all oxygen to his brain. Then she hadn’t faced him from half a room away. Then she had dropped her dress and sat on the mattress, pulling him to stand between her smooth, bare thighs. He wanted it to be then .
    He dragged air into his lungs. How could he press her with questions when he could not breathe? He could have her again, he thought. In this room, on that bed, this very afternoon. His shaft hardened. All he had to do was let go of his questions and enjoy the moment.
    Accept the moment.
    Accept her.
    Her challenge thrummed inside him like the beating of his pulse. Is not existence meant to be enjoyed?
    Yes. Lust and longing surged together inside him. He wanted this for himself. He owed it to her. Yesterday he hadn’t taken time to enjoy her properly, to do the things a man does for a woman he cares about.
    There was more than one way to discover her secrets.
    Very deliberately, he took off his jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. He sat down to pull off his boots.
    She watched him, her chin raised another notch. “Do you wish to compare feet now?”
    “No,” he said calmly. He set his boots side by side under her table before looking up into her eyes. “I want to make love to you.”
    Her breath caught.
    Slowly, slowly, her lips curved. She reached for the fastenings of her gown.
    Thank God. He crossed the room in two quick strides. “Let me.”
    He gathered up her hair to lay over her shoulder, out of his way. It smelled like sea and sunshine. Her nape was as white and delicate as porcelain, as rich as salted cream. He untied the tapes of her gown, controlling himself with effort, determined not to grab or tear. Tugging the sleeves from her arms—no chemise, no petticoats—he pressed his lips to her shoulder, opening his mouth to taste the salt of her skin. She made a sound of impatience and turned in his arms, twining her bare arms around his neck. Her breasts pressed against him.
    Need churned inside him, greedy, hot.
    But this wasn’t about greed.
    He half walked, half carried her to the bed, made her sit while he stripped off his trousers and drawers. His cock jutted out like a tent pole against the long tails of his shirt. She reached for him, caressing him boldly through the linen fabric. He groaned in pleasure, thrusting forward into her hand. She knew him, knew his body, knew how to touch him and make him respond.
    He wanted to do the same. To bring her that pleasure. To share that knowledge. To have that power over her.
    He cuffed her wrists, pulling her hands from his body. Easing her back against the pillows, he pushed her thighs wide. She propped on her elbows to watch him, her lips parted, her eyes gleaming. Beautiful. His heart thundered. He traced a line with his fingers from her collarbone to her waist; ran his hand over her sleek belly to the roughness of curls between her legs. She was already wet. She smiled and arched her back, offering her breasts, offering . . . everything.
    He could take her now. He was hard and aching. His blood pounded in his ears like siege guns.
    But it was a siege he planned, an assault on her senses, an invitation to surrender.
    He bent over her, his mouth roaming the trail blazed by his hands, wandering here, lingering there, getting to know her body. Her collarbone, her breasts, the curve of her belly, the crease of her thigh. She sighed and shifted, showing him the way. There. More. Again. He kissed and licked and suckled her, learning what made her flush and moan, what made her clench and sigh, reveling in her response.
    She undulated under him, beautiful in her abandon, surging under his hand, against his mouth. Hot, wet woman. Heady. Ripe. He drank her in, her scent, her cries. He was drunk on