At the first touch of his hands on her bare breasts, she murmured incoherently, the words trapped between their lips, and pressed closer.

He held her, for long moments simply savored the sensations—of her mouth freely offered, all his, of her tongue slowly tangling, caressing his, of the way she softened as he explored, claiming at will, then artfully stoking her fires. A deep pleasure coursed through him, part victory, part desire, at the tactile confirmation his hands reported; he had her in his arms all but naked, her breasts bare, pressed to his chest, her hips, the cradle in which he ached to lie, screened by nothing more than a thin barrier of silk.

Now she was his, it was time to feast.

His hands shifted over her body, then he lifted her, knelt on the chaise and laid her on the damask, following her down so their lips didn’t part, settling beside her, his longer, harder frame trapping hers on the cushions. One hand rising to cradle her face, he plunged once more into her mouth.

Plunged them both back into the building flames.

Alicia went willingly, eager to know, to experience whatever and wherever he led. She knew it was dangerous, yet when he finally lifted his head and released her lips, and she struggled to breathe, to fill her starved lungs, there was no thought in her mind of drawing back.

Not when he looked at her with desire, hot and glowing, behind his black eyes. His gaze had dropped to her breasts; they were swollen and aching. Nerves tightening, she waited for his touch, waited for the burning delight of his mouth, for the sharp, addictive pleasure.

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, briefly locked, then his lips curved, knowing and sure. He looked down, bent his head, and gave her all she’d wanted, all her tight nerves craved, the intoxicating play of lips and tongue, the hot, wet suction of his mouth.

He orchestrated the whole until her gasps filled the room, until her fingers were clenched on his skull, her body bowing under the hand he’d splayed across her midriff.

A deep rumble of satisfaction reached her; he shifted lower, leaning over her. One hand still massaged her breasts, stroking, tweaking, caressing as his lips trailed down between, down over the centerline of her body. With one finger he drew the silk folds of her chemise aside, so he could continue his line of openmouthed kisses to her navel.

Raising his head slightly, he circled the indentation with one fingertip, then lowered his head and boldly probed with his tongue, an echo of their kisses, of the plunder, the claiming.

Dazed, her limp fingers retensing on his skull, she watched him minister to her body as if it was a thing worthy of his worship.

Finally lifting his head, his eyes met hers; they were dark and fathomless, hot yet unreadable. Watching her, he shifted, parted her legs and settled between, ran his hand up her thigh, sliding it under the layer of silk to lay it over her stomach, hard possessive palm to her hot, soft skin.

She couldn’t take her eyes from his, from the intent, burning look burnished in the black, didn’t dare shift her gaze even when she felt his hand move, felt his fingertips brush her curls, then slide further to caress her as he had before.

Her breath strangled, her lungs slowly seizing as he artfully, deliberately explored, then stroked, caressed, finally probed. One large finger slid a little way in, just enough to tantalize, to freeze her mind, and send her frenzied senses searching. Reaching.

He caressed and her body came to life, muscles tensing, flickering, her hips lifting in anticipation. Slowly, he slid one long finger into her, pressed steadily deeper, deeper.

Her lungs locked; her hips lifted, but he held her down, moving lower, his shoulders sliding from her weakened grasp.

He looked down, watched as he worked his hand between her spread thighs, as he worked his finger within her, then he glanced up at her face, with his thumb circled that critical spot he’d discovered before, simultaneously reaching deeper still.

On a moan, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back. This had to be wicked; it was too glorious to be right.

A wave of sheer sensual delight swept through her, caught her wits, trapped her mind in sensations. Wild, wanton, indescribable pleasure flooded her; this time, he seemed content to let the wave lap at her, lap at her, rather than build.

The deliberate, flagrantly intimate repetitive penetration encouraged her to wallow in the warmth, to let her body simply enjoy every moment.

She was hardly relaxed, yet with every minute the landscape grew more familiar, less threatening. The urgency hadn’t infected her yet, but she knew it would. Before it did…

She managed to catch her breath and look down at him. Reach for him, with her fingers brush his shoulders. He looked up; his eyes were so black she could read nothing of his thoughts, but his face was a graven mask etched with a desire she comprehended instinctively.

“You…” She moistened her dry lips. “I’m the one who’s grateful. I want to give to you, not…”

Her gesture encompassed her body, thrumming with warmth and pleasure, and him, now propped between her knees, one shoulder cushioned against one of her thighs.

His hot black gaze didn’t flicker. He glanced briefly down to where his hand steadily pandered to her senses, then he looked up and met her eyes.

“Then lie back, close your eyes, and let me take this, at least.” His thumb swirled about the tight nub nestled within the now slick and swollen folds.

She tensed, but he held her with his eyes.

His words reached her, gravelly, low, primitively dark. “If you can’t be mine yet, give me this instead. Let me claim this much.”

Caught in his eyes, captured by the sheer need she could feel pouring from him, she tried to think, couldn’t—didn’t care. “Take—whatever you wish.” Caution reared. “But…”

His gaze seemed almost blank. “Just one more step.” He shifted further back. “Do as I asked—lie back and close your eyes.”

He waited; she could feel her pulse hammering in the soft flesh his fingers were tracing. She had no real idea… couldn’t imagine…

She closed her eyes, let her head fall back.

“Just like that—try not to move.”

She didn’t get a chance to reply. At the first touch of his lips, she lost all capacity even to think. Sensations buffeted her, rose and crashed through her. The intimacy all but slew her.

She heard her gasp, followed by a long moan as his fingers slipped from her sheath and blatantly, holding her thighs wide, he settled to feast.

His mouth worked, and she thought she might die. Of their own accord her hips lifted, twisted, but his hands had closed about them and he held her down, held her in position so he could, as he’d wished, claim her in this way.

A brutally explicit, intensely intimate claiming.

As she squirmed helplessly, struggled to breathe, the fact he knew of no reason to hold back, to withhold from her any degree of his transparently well-educated expertise, was forcefully borne in on her. He knew just what he was doing, to her, to her nerves, to her senses, to her mind.

To, in some way she didn’t comprehend, her heart.

She might be giving, he might be taking, yet he gave selflessly, too. If she’d harbored any doubts that lovemaking was in essence a sharing, the long, heated moments she spent under his hands, under his mouth, with his tongue stroking, probing, lapping at her softness, burned every shred of doubt away.

The flames built, expertly stoked, until the conflagration simply became too much. Too much for her to resist, to hold back from the beckoning delight. She would have warned him if she’d been able, but he didn’t look up, didn’t pause in his increasingly potent ministrations even when she tugged his hair.

And then she was there, at the heart of the firestorm, and for one blinding moment nothing else mattered but the intense, golden glory. It held her tight, a vise of his making, then she fractured, and the glory shattered, sharp shards streaking down her veins to melt deep within her, beneath her fingertips, under her skin.

Exulting, Tony savored the powerful contractions, savored her release, then licked, lapped. Eventually, he eased back and lifted his head.

Ignoring the fiery pressure in his loins, he looked at her, spent, dazed, gloriously sated. Gloriously exposed. He let his gaze travel slowly down her body, seeing and claiming anew, then he bent and placed a kiss on her damp curls, pushed up her chemise, and dropped a gentle, lingering kiss on her belly.

Next time. He promised himself that.

Lifting away, he shifted higher and lay down once more beside her. Propping on one elbow, he laid a hand on her breast, and settled to watch her return to earth and welcome her back.

An hour later, lying in her bed with the house silent about her, Alicia tried to take in, to understand, all that had happened. Not physically; shocking though that had been, stunning beyond her wildest imaginings—or, apparently, those of the authors of both sexual texts she’d consulted—she knew, to her bones, exactly what had happened, what part of him had touched what part of her, and how.

That was a problem in its own right, but what consumed her, what mystified her, was the connection she sensed, the link that steadily, day by day, interlude by interlude, seemed to be growing, forged in the fires between them.

That was something else. Something beyond the facts she’d considered when she’d decided to adhere to her widow’s role, to pretend to be as experienced as she was not.