“More than you know.”
Her chin lifted. “I‟m used to dealing with things by myself.”
Good. Her strength would make it easier when he had to leave her.
But not yet, he thought.
“Not tonight,” he said.
The prospect pleased him more than he would have thought possible a week, a day, an hour ago.
Taking her wineglass from her, he set it beside the hammock. He brushed his mouth across her temple. Her cheek. The
corner of her eye. The salt of her tears was nectar to him. Her body was soft and warm and trembling, undeniably human,
irresistibly female.
She pulled back, eyes wide in the darkness. “I‟m not having sex with you because you feel sorry for me.”
He froze, affronted. Disappointed. She did not want his comfort, it seemed.
He could, of course, seduce her into compliance. Even without magic, he had the skill to overcome her scruples. Yet he
was oddly reluctant to lay siege when her walls were already down. He had seen her angry and composed, passionate and
determined. Now she was vulnerable and alone. She deserved better than to have her power of choice stripped from her.
“Your choice,” he said coolly. “Your loss.”
And mine. The realization set his teeth on edge.
For the humiliating truth was he wanted her still, beyond breath, beyond lust, beyond reason.
She struggled to sit upright in the rocking hammock. “I didn‟t say we weren‟t having sex.” With her eyes on his, she
reached for the buttons of her blouse. “Only that it wouldn‟t be out of pity.”
11
IF HE LIVED ANOTHER THOUSAND YEARS, MORGAN would never understand humans. Until Elizabeth, until this
moment, he had not cared enough to try.
Her fingers trembled on the buttons, and his heart stopped. He covered her hand with his. “Let me.”
Let me touch you. Let me help you. Let me please you.
Her breasts rose with her breath. Her hand fell away.
Lovely, practical Elizabeth, prepared to do everything herself. In this one area, at least, he could lavish her with care. Not
from pity—she was right about that—but as a kind of tribute to her beauty and her strength. She deserved no less.
The thought slid into his mind that she might in fact deserve much more, but the surge in his blood swept thought away. He
was drowning in her, her eyes, her throat, her breasts.
He undid one button. Two. A third, his knuckles grazing the smooth skin above her waistband. She sucked in her stomach,
her hands closing over his. To stop him? Or aid him?
“Let me,” he said again.
She lay half under him, unresisting, as he pulled her blouse free.
Her breasts gleamed in the shadows, full and pleasing, cupped by underwear that bound her narrow ribcage. He lowered his
head, inhaling her scent, soap and Elizabeth. Lovely. He licked her, running his tongue over the top slope of her breasts. Her
breath hitched. Nuzzling one cup aside, he found her pebbled nipple with his mouth and suckled her hard, arousing them both,
pleased when she moaned.
He felt her fingers in his hair, scratching delicately against his scalp, and shivered under her touch like a dog. But this
wasn‟t about him, not only about him, not yet. He obeyed her silent tug on his hair, raising his head, covering her mouth with
his. He kissed her above, deep, penetrating kisses, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while his hand played her below. He
craved her taste, seasoned by wine and desire. He stroked down to her knees and up again, down and up, until her thighs
loosened and she made a sound, pleading or approval, in the back of her throat. He cupped her, feeling her moist heat through
the fabric, and caught her gasp in his mouth.
He dragged her pants open, worked his hand inside. She was hot, slick, wet.
Ready for him.
Fondling her with one hand, he raised his head. Even in the dusk, he could see her cheeks were flushed, her lips glazed and
parted. She lay back against the webbing, watching him, her eyes dark and aware.