Unless she wanted him because she had been threatened. She was frightened. Who else could she turn to for comfort, for
relief?
For protection.
Cursing himself for six kinds of fool, he released her.
“Elizabeth.” Only a breath separated her naked body from his. He could feel his control slipping, seeping like water
through his fingers. “You do not know what you are inviting. I am not . . .” Her scent was in his head, tangling his thoughts,
tripping up his tongue. “Fully in command of myself.”
“I don‟t want you in command.” She smiled at him, making his blood pound. Tugging open his shirt, she trailed her fingers
down his chest, over his abdomen. “I‟m seducing you,” she said, and followed her hands with her mouth.
He had the most amazing body, she thought, hard and smooth and strong. She opened her mouth, breathing him in, licking
the cool moisture and hot salt dampness from his skin, feeling him tense, absorbing his quiver. His stomach muscles
contracted. He slid his hands over her torso, cupped her breasts.
She allowed that—he had wonderful hands, big and strong—but when his thumbs brushed her nipples, she slipped out of
his grasp. “Take off your clothes.”
He lifted an eyebrow, surprised. Amused. Aroused, she hoped.
Holding her gaze, he stripped out of his shirt and shucked his pants. He stood before her, all clean lines and heavy muscle,
magnificently naked. Her eyes slid down his broad torso, following the trail of dark blond hair that ran from his navel to his
thighs. Definitely aroused. Hers to seduce and command.
Or not.
Her heart fluttered. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “On the bed.”
His eyes flickered. His shaft jerked. Tension throbbed in the air between them. She held her breath, testing the limits of his
control and hers.
With a shrug, he stalked to her wide, white bed. He lay across her mattress, arms and legs slightly spread, his moonlight
hair captured on her pillow, his body powerful even in repose.
Agitation surged from her breasts to her loins, a thrill of desire, a trickle of doubt. She squeezed her thighs together.
She was the thirty-seven-year-old mother of two with a limited sexual repertoire. How could she make him ache as she
ached, yearn as she yearned?
His gaze met hers, hot, golden, intent. His mouth quirked. “I am in your hands.”
His gentle taunt restored her confidence. Her skin bloomed. Her breath caught. Everything female in her rose to his
challenge.
“Not yet.” She smiled. “But you will be.”
Her hair fell forward, a sleek waterfall sliding over her shoulders, against his skin. She flowed over him, restless and fluid
as water, lapping, teasing, caressing, seeking the paths of least resistance, the points of greatest pleasure.
Morgan strained and quivered under her attentions, thrusting his hips forward, his cock jutting, demanding, pleading for her
attention. She hummed low in her throat, a sound of pleasure and possession, and took him in.
Sensation sluiced through his limbs, blanketed his brain. Hot, wet suction. Her neat doctor‟s hands skimmed over him, her
neat nails raked lightly up and down his ribs. He fisted his hands in her sheets as she fed, vulnerable in a way he had never
been before, giving himself up for her pleasure, giving himself into her control, letting her take him with her small, smooth
hands and avid mouth. His vision blurred. His breath tore in his lungs, fast and jagged. He felt his release building, gathering
force in his balls and brain like a storm at sea, and choked out something, an imprecation, a plea.
One lick, and then she rose over him, powerful and hungry as the sea, her lips slick and swollen, her eyes hot and tender,
bewitching in her beauty, irresistible in her greed.
His heart stopped.
Grabbing a packet from the bedside table, she sheathed him. Straddled him. “Now.”
He growled, low and savage. “Yes.”
Now.
Forever.