Chapter Eleven

Jamie carried her over the threshold of her bedroom with a flourish, pausing to glance around.

“More flowers.” He stood cradling her against his chest, taking in the African violets and orchids and amaryl is blooms, an awed expression on his handsome face.

“I’l plant some for you, if you’d like,” Sunny suggested, flushing as she realized that she’d soon be living with him as his wife. And wasn’t that just the sort of thing wives did? Plant flowers, cook food, provide a loving home? “Maybe . . . in the kitchen. I mean, if Shay won’t mind.”

“Shay? She’l never stop gloating about anything you want to do for me. And thanking you for shattering my confirmed bachelorhood.” He nuzzled her cheek playful y. “Besides, I have a feeling you and Shay wil be making over my family home . . . I mean, your new home,” he corrected with a huge grin. “Good thing I have a big-ass bedroom so we can share it comfortably.”

“For a man who’s been notoriously unable to settle down, you’re handling our ‘shotgun marriage’ with shocking ease.” She glanced up into his eyes, some smal part of her stil worried that Kiel’s mandate might overwhelm him, scare him away.

He stared down at her, serious in his expression. “Sunny, forget my trail of women, okay? Lord knows I want to. And Lord knows they wanna forget me!” He laughed, but there was a trace of regret in his gaze. “Thing is, I just hadn’t found you yet, but once I did, I was ready for . . . wel , everything we’re gonna share. And I do mean everything.” He glanced pointedly at the bed, then asked uncertainly, “The question is, though, are you ready? For this?”

She leaned forward, capturing his mouth with an answering, exuberant kiss. She was more than ready. She needed al of James Dixon Angel right now, and she wanted to make that fact abundantly clear. His tongue darted within her mouth, creating a tantalizing motion, teasing at her own tongue.

Stil kissing her, he moved toward the bed, then playful y swung her down onto the mattress with a light bounce. He might as wel have been tossing a feather, he handled her weight so effortlessly, which caused her to think of those hard muscles she’d felt beneath his clothes. And reminded her that she was about to see him in al his naked, masculine glory. She, who had never seen a nude human male—ever.

“Jamie? You know I don’t . . . know . . .” She panted against his cheek as he lowered himself between her legs, nudging them apart with one hard, strong thigh.

“I’m gonna show you everything, Sunbeam,” he promised, sliding warm, cal oused hands up underneath her turtleneck. Instantly her nipples puckered, reacting as his palms moved up along her slender rib cage. Such warmth, such self-assurance, the way he touched her, coasting those strong hands upward until he cupped one breast in his hand, leaning al his weight on the other elbow. Her nipples tightened even more, beading beneath the silk and lace of her bra. She arched into his touch, wanting to feel his fingers rub back and forth over her sensitive flesh, and as she did, he settled more firmly between her thighs. A hard ridge pressed into the vee of her open legs and she lifted against it, needing him closer—desperately wanting al of him much closer.

In reaction, he began a kind of rocking motion, back and forth between her legs, mimicking what they both craved. The clothes simply had to go, or she’d never have al of him. Fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, she tried to unfasten it, but her hands were trembling too badly. Easing her hands out of the way, he locked his eyes on her with a blazing, heated gaze and made quick work of his own shirt, until it fel open about his hips. She gasped. Literal y. He had a chiseled physique that was even more stunning than her ripe imagination had dreamed. She sank back into the down pil ows and gazed up at him in awed wonder. He had tight pectorals with dark pink nipples

that were as puckered as her own. And that chest was nearly hairless, smooth and sculpted, giving way to cordoned abdominals that made her pulse race. Much lower, she glimpsed a line of curling hair that vanished into the waistband of his jeans, a trail of pleasure that practical y begged her to fol ow.

He began to lower himself atop her again, but she darted a hand to stroke that soft thatch of hair, dipping two fingertips beneath his waistband to trace the scandalous path. She met resistance in the form of cotton boxers and Jamie gave her a sensual smile. In one easy motion, he rol ed off of her and onto his side, unsnapping his fly with an easy flick of his fingers. He tugged his jeans zipper to half-mast, then guided her hand there, obviously wanting her to finish the job.

“Have at me, baby,” he murmured, leaning into the pil ow and closing his eyes. “I want to feel your hand al inside my pants, I admit it.”

It was an admission and a gesture of ful surrender, and she doubted Jamie Angel was much in the practice of giving himself over to a woman quite so ful y. Undoubtedly he’d spent his entire romantic life dominating and avoiding intimacy.

Tentatively she gave his zipper a light tug, being gentle because of how it bowed outward with his erection. Slowly she managed to lower it, and much to her shock, his firm length bounced free and into the palm of her hand. It was warm, the flesh so much softer than she’d have imagined, and she traced her thumb over the tip. Dampness formed beneath her touch, and she jolted.

Surely a man didn’t come this easily . . . did he?

Jamie opened his eyes with a lazy, aroused look. “Just what I want . . . Keep going, Sunshine.”

There was so much she didn’t know and should’ve asked Kate. Or at least read in a book, but she’d always been afraid of being reprimanded if she explored human sexuality. Now here she was feeling stupidly clueless. She touched his tip again and even more dampness beaded beneath her touch. Jamie growled in obvious pleasure, and she paused again.

“You’re amazing, sweetheart. Nobody’s ever touched me like you. . . .” He urged his hips upward, seeming to beg for more.

“You’re not . . . done? But you’re wet. . . .”

He barked a laugh and pul ed her atop him, pinioning her close against his chest with both arms. “On second thought, let me show you a few things,” he promised huskily. “I want to give you a different kind of heaven.”

She was tighter than he’d imagined, but then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made love to a virgin. Actual y . . . that would be never. His women had always been loose and ready and dismissive of foreplay, so taking it slow with Sunny was a revelation. Every time he stroked any part of her, she purred or moaned, and when he slid his fingertips between her legs, caressing the slick folds, her eyes flew open. She stared at him, panting, as he slowly slid first one finger, then a second inside of her. By the erotic look in her eyes, he was pretty sure she’d never ful y known what to expect.

“I’m your love tutor,” he teased, stroking a little deeper inside her, a back-and-forth friction that had her whole body warming against his own. “And you are an outstanding pupil, my Sunbeam.”

She nodded, swal owing hard. “I want to learn everything. Feel everything with you, Jamie.”

It was time; she was ready and wet and thrusting her hips against his palm. He drew a deep breath, knowing that she’d have a fleeting moment of pain with what he did next. Lowering himself between her thighs, he paused as their hips pressed close together. For one endless moment they both seemed to hold their breath, eyes unblinking and locked on each other. Everything would change; their entire future was suspended in this breath-stealing instant.

Final y, she gave a resolute nod, wrapping her arms tight about his neck and pul ing him close.

“Now,” she urged on a sigh. “Now, my love.”

He surged inside her, feeling slight resistance, then only her grasping warmth, her welcoming fire. “Oh, God above, yes!” he half groaned and half prayed.

She dug fingers into the smal of his back, surging upward as he plunged deeper into her. For an innocent, she knew exactly what she wanted—her body’s instincts providing more direction than he ever possibly could.

They rocked together, and he lifted her right thigh up about him, wanting to be deeper inside her slickness, hungry to give her even more pleasure. She wrapped her other leg tight about his torso, embracing him with her thighs—and giving him the ful est penetration. As he hit that sweet spot, she cried out, throwing her head back against the pil ow and clutching his shoulders. He felt her quiver about his hard length, and couldn’t restrain himself any longer, either. Quaking al over, he plunged deep into her, riding out waves and waves of pulsing pleasure. With one hand he gripped the headboard, squeezing as the strong orgasm shot through his whole body; with his other he clutched her hip, urging her upward with every one of his thrusts.

And then a blissful stil ness descended upon them both. A serenity that he’d never once known before in his life. They lay entwined, he exhausted atop her, she sprawled beneath with her legs stil half hitched around his hips. After a moment, he lifted a sweat-slicked palm to her cheek, wiping away some dampness there. She blinked up at him wordlessly, wondrously, and he’d never seen more love in any woman’s eyes than he did in Sunny Renfroe’s right then.

“My wife,” he said softly, brushing a wayward curl out of her eyes, “I do have one thing to correct you on.”

She lifted both eyebrows high. “I did something wrong? While we—”

He silenced her by pressing fingertips to her lips. “You are perfect. That was beyond perfect.

No, but what you said about me being God’s gift to the women of Savannah?”

She nodded, and he stroked her lips with his thumb, smiling down at her. “Yeah, wel , truth is . . .

you’re God’s gift to me. That’s the real way of it.”

She beamed up at him, then began to giggle, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s just . . . you’re God’s gift to me, too.”

“And that’s funny why?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“When I was little, I always did want a hound dog.”

He rol ed with her until she was splayed atop him, her breasts bouncing lightly against his chest, her legs spread wide about him. “For that, Mrs. Angel, I shal be forced to exact a penalty.

Besides, I’m not a dog, remember? I’m your great big pussycat.”

“And that makes me your catnip,” she said as he felt his groin stir to life anew.

He pushed up against her stil -damp opening and released a low, seductive meow right in her ear.

Yes, heaven. Sunny Renfroe was his heaven on earth.

Read on for a sneak preview of the next novel in the Sentinel Wars series by Shannon K. Butcher, BLOODHUNT

Coming from Signet in August 2011

The color of suffering was a dark and sickly yel ow, and Hope Serrien knew she’d see it on a night like tonight.

A cold front had swept down over the city, slaying any hope that spring was coming soon.

Power lines glistened with a layer of ice, and icicles dripped from street signs. The sidewalk under her feet was slick, but even that couldn’t keep her indoors tonight. A night like this brought death to those who had no place to escape the cold.

And cold wasn’t the only enemy on the streets. There were things out here. Dark, evil things.

People were going missing, and Hope feared they hadn’t simply moved on to warmer climes.

Sister Olive was a middle-aged woman who ran the homeless shelter where Hope volunteered.

She’d insisted that Hope stay indoors tonight, but the nun had never truly felt the frigid desperation of having nowhere to go. She’d always had a warm, safe place where she knew she belonged.

Not everyone was so lucky.

Hope shifted the canvas bag on her shoulder and walked faster. She always carried sandwiches and blankets in case she ran into those in need—those who refused to come to the shelter. With any luck, they’d al have better sense than to be stubborn on a night such as this.

She scanned the street, paying close attention to the dark crevices between buildings and inside recessed doorways. That glowing, yel ow aura of suffering was hard to miss.

Or maybe Hope had just had a lot of practice at spotting it.

If Sister Olive knew how Hope found people in need—if she knew Hope could see auras—the nun would probably have had her committed. Good thing that wasn’t something that came up in normal conversation. Hope wasn’t sure she could lie to a nun.

A flicker of unease made Hope pul her coat closed more tightly around her neck. She’d seen things at night—things she knew couldn’t be real. Dark, monstrous things that slinked between shadows, hiding from sight. Their auras were black. Silent. She couldn’t read them, which made her question whether the monsters even truly existed outside of her imagination.

She probably should have brought one of the men along with her to ward off any problems. But how would she explain to her escort how she knew where to go? It was better to do this alone and keep her secrets. Fitting in among normal people was hard enough when she didn’t draw attention to her ability.

Hope forced herself to head toward the one place she hadn’t yet searched for those missing souls. She hated getting near the run-down Tyler building—it brought up too much pain and confusion, too many bad memories. She’d promised herself that tonight she’d put her ridiculous fears aside and look for her friends there.

The three-story brick structure rose into the night sky. The lighting here hadn’t been maintained, leaving deep pools of darkness to hover about the building like an aura of decay.

A heavy thud and a screech of wrenching metal rose up from behind the structure.

There was definitely someone back there. Or some thing .

Images of those dark creatures flickered in her mind. Her muscles locked up in fear, and for a moment she stood frozen to the pavement.

The real danger out here tonight was the cold, not monsters, and the longer people were left to suffer in it, the more dangerous it became.

Hope forced her legs to move. Her first steps were slow and shuffling, as if her own body was working against her. Then she picked up speed slowly, shoving al thoughts of monsters from her mind.

As she crept down the al ey that led to the back of the building, she heard more noises that she couldn’t quite identify. There was a grunt of pain and the rattle of wood tumbling about. Once, she thought she heard a woman’s voice, but she couldn’t be sure. The only woman she knew who was too stubborn to come inside out of the cold was her friend Rory.

Hope cleared the corner, and the first thing she saw was the gaping hole where the overhead door had been ripped open and partial y off its track. The metal looked as if it had been punched in with a giant fist, leaving jagged shards behind.

From within the opening, Hope saw a brief flash of color—the sickly yel ow of suffering.

Rory.

Desperate fear washed over her, making her lurch forward through the ragged opening. It was too dark inside to see, so she fished inside her satchel for the flashlight she always carried.

A feral growl of rage rose up from her left. It wasn’t a human sound. Not even close.

Primal fear surged through her, and she had to fight the need to curl into the smal est space possible so she could hide.

Her search for the flashlight became frantic, her gloves hindering her as she fished around in her bag.

She located the hard, heavy cylinder, only to have it slip from her grasp.

Heavy, pounding steps shook the floor. A woman cried out in fear somewhere to Hope’s right.

Hope grasped the flashlight and powered it on as she ripped it from the bag. The beam of light bobbed around, catching motes of dust as it passed.

Hope aimed it toward the sound of torment. The light bounced off something huge and shiny.

Something pulsing with muscle and moving so fast, she couldn’t keep the light trained on it.

Its aura was black nothingness.

Panic gripped her tight. She needed more light to ward off this thing. Something as hideous as that would hate the light. She felt it on an instinctive level, as if she’d been taught how to protect herself from the monster.

Hope swung the light around to the employee entrance next to the pulverized overhead door, hoping there would be a switch nearby. Surely whoever came in through that door would need to have access to lights, right?

The beam of light shook in her grasp, vibrating with the trembling of her hands as she searched.

It seemed to take forever, but as she neared the door, she saw a series of switches.

She sprinted over the dusty floor, praying that the power here was stil on—that whoever was trying to sel this place had left the electric on for potential buyers.

Hope shoved up al four switches at once. There was a muted thunk, then an electric buzz. Light poured down over the room, and while many of the bulbs were burned out, it seemed as bright as the surface of the sun compared to a moment ago.

She blinked and turned, forcing herself to look at what her flashlight had touched.

The room was large and open. Lines that had been painted on the floor to outline separate areas were now covered in dust. A stack of wooden pal ets had been toppled, and the dust from their fal had not yet settled.

Across the room was a giant, hulking creature poised over someone she couldn’t quite see. Al she could tel was that they were surrounded by that yel ow aura of hunger and suffering she’d come to know so wel .

The beast’s head swiveled toward her, the movement sinuous and fluid. Its green eyes fixed on her, and she swore they flared brighter for a brief moment.

An unnatural fear rose inside her, screaming for her to run. Hope knew what this thing was. She An unnatural fear rose inside her, screaming for her to run. Hope knew what this thing was. She didn’t know its name or where it came from, but she knew that it wanted her blood.

A roar fil ed her ears as a distant memory tried to surface. Her head spun, and she clutched the wal behind her to stay on her feet.

Please, God. Not now.

As much as Hope wanted to remember her past, she wouldn’t survive the distraction. She fought off the memory, mourning its loss even before it passed.

The beast snorted out a heavy breath, sending four curls of steam into the cold air. Its mouth opened, revealing sharp, wicked teeth.

Hope was sure the thing wore a sinister grin.

“Run!” shouted a man.

She couldn’t see him, but it was his aura that peeked out from behind the monster. It pulsed with a flare of bright blue courage, and a second later the monster roared as if it had been struck.

Now that its attention was no longer focused on Hope, her knees unlocked and started working again. She needed to find help. Fast.

She had turned to do just that when she caught a glimpse of an aura peeking out from behind the toppled pile of pal ets.

Hope rushed over and found a man lying unconscious on the floor. One side of his face was darkened with a bruise, and in his loose grip was a board covered in the same shiny stuff that coated the monster’s skin.

His aura was faint, the colors flickering like the flames of a dying fire.

He wasn’t going to make it if she didn’t do something.

Across the room, a crash sounded as the fight wore on. Hope didn’t waste time figuring out who was winning. It was going to take al her strength to get this man out of harm’s way. Just in case it was the monster who won.

She shoved the pal et that was pinning him down off his legs. His jeans were dark with blood.

Hope patted his face, hoping to wake him. His eyes fluttered open, but she doubted his ability to focus. His pupils were huge, and sweat covered his brow. “Logan. I need Logan. Poison. He can fix it.”

Hope didn’t know how he knew that, but she doubted he’d waste his breath lying.

Her gaze slid across the room to the fight. The man battling that beast must be Logan. She had to help him. She had no idea how to defeat the monster, but she’d seen a length of metal pipe near the door, and she wasn’t afraid to use it.

If you like bad boys, hot magic, and high stakes, be sure to check out Jessica Andersen’s latest instal ment in the Nightkeeper series,

STORM KISSED

Available from Signet Eclipse in June 2011

Reese didn’t know Cancun that wel , but she knew cities. She knew the taste and smel of their dark underbel ies, and understood the creatures that ruled them.

She also knew that if Strike and his crew went looking for her, they would start with the airports, bus terminals, and hotels, al the normal places that normal people went to. So, heart thudding sickly in her chest, she headed for what her gut told her was the bad section of town and flung herself into a warren of narrow streets that dwindled rapidly to al eys, losing layers of respectability in the process. And becoming entirely familiar.

Scrawny al ey cats and lean, hard-eyed mutts of both the human and animal variety slunk in the shadows.

This was her world.

As she worked her way deeper into the maze, moving fast but not too fast, she was aware of beady eyes watching her from shadows, and the way they shifted, sending a silent message flashing ahead: Grab her. We’ll share.

A minute and three al eys farther in, a lean-hipped youth with shark-dead eyes and a four-inch blade dangling from one hand moved out from behind a Dumpster and gave her a spittle-flecked,

“Hey, baby, you looking for me?” in English rendered almost singsong by his thick accent.

She rattled back in barrio Spanish, “Get these cops off my ass and you can have whatever you want.”

“Fuck that.” He disappeared himself, and the shadows melted away. They wouldn’t stay gone for long, but the threat of the cops had bought her a few minutes, a little space to think.

Not that she wanted to think. It hurt too damn much.

Dez. God. Throat so tight it hurt to breathe, she kept going until her gut told her she had gone far enough, and then picked out a narrow, open-ended al ey that smel ed pretty much like every other al ey on the planet—a mélange of piss, body odor, and rot, with a spicy overtone that said she was far from home.

Putting herself about halfway down the al ey, she scoped out her exits, both horizontal and vertical, before she leaned back against a padlocked doorway, causing her .38 to dig into her lower back. Then she braced her hands on her knees, let her head hang for a second, and concentrated on not losing her shit.

Dez was alive. As in not dead. Which meant . . . “Nothing,” she told herself, hating that her voice cracked on the word. This didn’t change anything.

She couldn’t let it change anything. He wasn’t her cowboy or her white knight, wasn’t her best friend, wasn’t her partner, wasn’t anything to her anymore. She had saved his life by putting his ass in jail long enough for Fal on to get the guys who were gunning for him, and then cutting the deal that had gotten him out again. Word had it he’d even straightened up—to a point—while he’d been inside. She doubted he had found God, but she had hoped he had found some perspective, and maybe even a few shreds of the guy who had saved her ass back in the day.

That had evened them up. A life for a life. Which meant she didn’t owe him.

Her stomach rumbled.

This isn’t your problem. She didn’t need to get involved—hel , she shouldn’t get involved. She should give the info to Fal on, and let him decide what—if anything—to do about it. And if the thought brought a twist of grief and regret, she made herself ignore them both as she dug into her carryal , going for the false bottom where she kept a second set of IDs and plastic that would get her home and ought to keep her off the radar unless Strike and his people had major clearance or a big-ass back door into the system.

Given that they were looking for Dez, the latter seemed a far stronger possibility, as did their being paramilitary. He hadn’t been—wasn’t?—an acronym kind of guy.

Dez. God. Her throat closed; a sob rattled in her chest, but she made herself keep going, her fingers shaking as she popped the bottom of the carryal .

Then, unexpectedly, a strange tickle shimmied down the back of her neck and her instincts kicked hard. Oh, shit.

She spun, but didn’t see a damned thing. Then a strange crackle laced the air, displaced air whoomp ed, and Strike freaking materialized right in front of her. He looked around, saw her, and looked profoundly relieved.

Relieved? What the hel ? She went for her .38 reflexively, but his expression shifted to one of fucking-get-it-done determination. Moving lightning fast, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, twisted, grabbed the gun with his other hand, and chucked it away.

“Sorry about this,” he said, which didn’t make any sense, either.

Then the air crackled. The shimmies got worse. And sudden vertigo slammed into her, tunneling her vision.

“What . . . ?” Heart hammering, she reeled, tried to run, and staggered drunkenly instead. She had been drugged!

She felt herself fal ing, felt strong arms catch her in an impersonal grip. Then there was only a strange, shimmying darkness that took the world away but left the panic behind.

Don’t miss the next thril ing instal ment in Deidre Knight’s Gods of Midnight series, RED MORTAL

Coming from Signet Eclipse in April 2011

Leonidas swung Daphne down off the horse and into his arms. Cradling her close, he stared into her pale blue eyes until his breath hitched. Lovely didn’t begin to cover her ethereal beauty. A demigoddess, an immortal creature of Olympus, a Delphic Oracle . . . and, of late, a Goth girl. Any sane king would’ve kept his distance and never taken on the chal enge.

But he’d come up the hardest way, in the Agoge training school of Sparta, where he’d clawed for every crumb he’d ever gotten. It had been true survival of the fittest, with Leo struggling to thrive like a desperate weed in the sundried bricks of that place. That was when he’d learned to face any chal enge, physical or psychological. He’d brought that iron-wil ed strength to Thermopylae, to al the battles he’d waged in the old days and ever since, and he wasn’t about to start backing down now.

Daphne belonged to him; it was only a matter of ful y claiming her before the Highest God himself. In his human life, he’d loved his wife, Gorgo, deeply, but now, al these years later, he could no longer recal her face, much less her touch. But when he kissed Daphne, something unearthly, mystical, ignited inside his heart; it was an eternal love, the kind that could survive the bonds of death and rebirth. And if that bastard brother of hers continued to separate them by intimidation, Leo wasn’t above waging war against the cruel god. He’d done so already, besting Ares in two recent battles.

She slid both arms about his neck as he lowered her slowly to her feet. She was light, so light, in his grasp—and yet so ful y a woman that his breath hitched as her breasts pressed against his thick chest. For one long moment their gazes locked—Daphne with her thin arms twined about him, her breath warm against his skin as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck. His lips parted slightly, and he nearly pressed his mouth to hers. But no . . . Not yet.

There was something he wanted much more than a kiss. To feel her body, that lithe, feminine body, beneath his own much larger, bulky one, just as he’d promised. Maybe it would be awkward, a bit inelegant, but he didn’t care. He always had been the bul dreaming of making love to a fairy queen, of holding a butterfly against his warrior’s chest. And he’d had plenty of practice taking Daphne without hurting her—al in his fantasies. He would be gentle with her now; he vowed it.

Rummaging through his saddle bag, he located his crimson cape. He’d brought it intentional y, with a particular plan in mind. Keeping one arm about her waist, he unfurled the crimson fabric with a romantic flourish, making a blanket for them in the crisp field of grass. He watched the Spartan cloak settle and, swal owing hard in anticipation, he turned to Daphne. Her blue eyes had grown wide, and a rosy flush infused her cheeks as she stared at the makeshift bed. She chewed her lower lip, seeming troubled. Wasn’t this what she wanted?

But then she turned back to him, her pale blue eyes flashing with heat and desire, al hesitation completely gone. He seized the moment, pul ing her into his arms, and into a fervent kiss. Pain spiked through his right knee as they sank to the ground, tumbling together—the ancient war wound had been hurting more with each passing day. But for once, he ignored the torturous injury, losing himself in Daphne’s arms. Her hands were in his hair, tangling in his short, thick curls, grasping as if she couldn’t possibly have enough of him.

Shifting his hips, he used his thigh to part her legs, and settled heavily there. He was an imposingly large man, and she was so delicate and smal by comparison. He tried to go slowly, but after al these months it was hard to rein himself in, especial y when she drew her knees up about his legs. The shifting movement positioned his groin squarely against her intimate place, and he ached to feel her, damp and wet with desire, and to stroke her there.

She seemed to crave that very thing because she squeezed her thighs, lifting and urging him onward with a muffled, enthusiastic cry against his neck. In response, he began a subtle rocking motion, each thrust tightening his groin even more, every motion causing her to respond in kind, the two of them mimicking the act he so desperately longed to complete.

“Oh, gods, Daphne.” He released a low, hot groan against her neck. He could smel the sweet aroma of arousal on her skin, feel the way her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. “Daphne mine, you’re blessed torture.”

She smiled up at him, a gleam in her eyes. “I want to make you hot and bothered and unable to hold back. I want you begging me. . . .”

He released a groan of frustration and desire. “So . . . that’s your evil plan. I hope you wil see it through to the very end.”

She tangled her thin arms about his neck, pul ing him closer. Pressing her lips against his temple, she whispered, “I intend to rule the universe, with you my only subject.”

He pul ed back, gazing into her eyes. “Are you saying you would consent to be my queen?” he asked, searching her face. He’d spent the past year so intent on simply capturing her that he’d never even contemplated formalizing their relationship.

She answered by holding him closer, drawing his mouth to hers for a kiss. He grew so aroused that he ached with it, his cock pushing painful y against the metal zipper of his pants, and his bal s tightening like bowstrings.

But she didn’t shy away; in fact, she kissed him harder. She stroked her tongue against his in slow, tantalizing sweeps, each time seeming to taste him more deeply. Her hands roamed his back, his hair, his shoulders. In response, he cradled one palm beneath her buttocks, drawing her upward on a twin surging motion of their bodies.

After a moment, when he felt drunk with that kiss, she final y pul ed away. Sinking back against the ground, her breathing came in ragged, uneven pants. “Leo, I want you . . . more than I’ve ever wanted you.”

He stared down into her eyes, the clear blue of them like gazing into the Aegean . . . but with a tempest coming. He kept his body atop hers, suspended there, wanting her with more desperation than he’d ever felt before. And yet an invisible force held him in check: the knowledge that she would likely leave him again after this. Every separation from her became more unbearable.... What would such a parting be like once they became lovers? Unendurable, he was certain.

“Daphne.” He leaned up on both elbows, staring at her solemnly. “Promise me you won’t vanish on me, not after this. Not if we become . . . if I take you, uh . . . make . . .” His face flushed, and final y he clamped his mouth closed, giving up on the effort. Why did his asinine shy streak always surface with Daphne, and when he most needed composure?

“Go on, Leo,” she prompted, smiling up at him with gentle patience. She placed a cool palm against his heated face. “You know you can speak your mind with me.”

He drew in a sharp breath and started again. “If we are lovers,” he managed to force out, “then you wil stay.”

She stroked his cheek, studying his face with an intensity he didn’t quite understand. As if memorizing his features, trying to ensure she knew every line, every scar. “I won’t go again, Leonidas. Not this time,” she vowed, threading her fingers through his hair.

Suddenly her eyes grew wider, and panic fil ed her gaze. Her hand froze, stil twined in one of his short, wiry curls.

He frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head mutely, her gaze flicking over his countenance with silent intensity. What had she just seen in him? What was causing her to be so fearful that she began trembling beneath his big body?

“Daphne, tel me,” he urged, but she responded by tugging his head downward decisively. She covered his mouth with hers and sank her tongue deep inside his mouth, as if she meant to consume him, take him into her very core and hold him captive. It was the most fervent, aggressive kiss she’d ever given him. She began pul ing at the hem of his linen shirt, working it upward. He complied hungrily, breaking the kiss only long enough to strip out of the rough fabric.

Her smal , warm hands swept over his back. She didn’t seem to notice the hideous scars that marred his shoulders and middle back, kneading her fists against his muscles, moaning into his mouth as they kissed.

He cupped a hand firmly along her nape. “Daphne,” he murmured against her lips, “I love you. I love you with al that is in me, and—”

He wasn’t able to finish; a hard male laugh rang out, piercing the field’s mel ow, late-day quiet like a pistol shot.