He frowned. Not that he wanted her mindless, exactly.
“It‟s all right.” She raised her hand to the back of his head, toying with his hair. “Em‟s asleep. No one can see us back
here.”
He had not considered the possibility of an audience. But she had.
Morgan‟s eyes narrowed. Despite the bloom on her skin, the lush wetness between her thighs, she was still thinking like a
mother, like a doctor. Still conscious, still careful, still in control.
Bugger that.
She thought too much. Worried too much. He wanted to plunge her into passion, drag her into the moment, away from the
everyday concerns that swarmed like gnats around her head.
He pushed to his feet, making the hammock bounce like a boat in the waves. “Good. Then we won‟t be interrupted.”
He yanked his sweater over his head, baring himself to the waist. His medallion swung against his chest. Elizabeth rolled to
one elbow, reaching for him. Capturing her hands, he pressed them to the hammock. “Hold on.”
He stripped her pants and underwear away.
Beautiful. He took her with his eyes, letting his gaze roam where his hands had already gone. Beautiful and feminine and
his.
“What are you . . . Oh.” Her voice trailed off as he crouched between her thighs. She tried to press her knees together, but
his shoulders blocked the way. “You don‟t have to . . .”
“Yes. I do. I want to eat you alive.” When her hips hitched, he shoved a pillow under her, cushioning her. She could not
focus on pleasure with ropes chafing her skin. He wanted her to think only of this. Only of him.
He did not ask himself why. Reasons did not matter when she was spread wet and open in front of him. Leaning forward,
he set his mouth on her most succulent flesh.
He lavished her with licks and nips, bites and kisses. She strained toward him and away, her fingers twisting in the
webbing. Her response flooded them both, inflamed him like whiskey, warmed him like wine. Her smooth, firm legs tensed
and stretched. Her toes flexed and curled against his knee, against his shoulder. She was helpless to stand or to stop him, at the
mercy of his hands, his tongue, his teeth. He held her captive, his hard hands on her buttocks while he feasted. He was drunk
on her, her scent, her cries, her soft, wet, luscious center.
Slowly, he thrust a finger inside her, then two, glorying in the slick, convulsive clench of her body. His blood pounded in
his head, in his loins. His rod demanded release. Now, now, now. He fumbled with his clothing, desperate to take her.
Pressing her thighs wide, he braced his feet against the floor. He tipped the hammock, angling her just the way he wanted
her. There. She arched. So hot. So wet. Taking himself in hand, he set himself to her, male to female, naked flesh to naked
flesh. Now.
“Wait,” she choked out.
His lips pulled back from his teeth. She could not be serious.
She jackknifed in the hammock, her head nearly clipping his chin.
He grabbed for her before she tumbled them both. “Easy.”
She groped on the porch around his feet, nearly upending the hammock in her eagerness. As she fumbled with her
discarded pants, her smooth hair brushed his groin. He sucked in his breath.
“There.” She righted herself, face flushed, eyes sparkling. Between two fingers, she gripped a small square foil packet.
“Now.”
His mouth compressed in distaste. “A sheath.”
“Condom.” She cleared her throat. “I got it while we were upstairs.”
When she disappeared into her room, he realized. She wanted this, had planned for it. He could not get any harder, but the
thought sent another flood of warmth through his veins. But . . .
“It is not necessary,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
“I will not make you sick.”
The immortal children of the sea were not subject to the diseases of humankind.
“You could get me pregnant.”
Again. The unspoken word reverberated between them.