The first fact they reported, the most overwhelming, was the blissful sense of aftermath that coursed through her veins, through her flesh, to her bones. Every corner of her being, physical and mental, seemed to glow with glorious delight, with a golden satiation, a far more powerful cousin of the sensation she’d touched in passing before.

To use his words, it seemed there was heaven, and Heaven.

Lips curving, under cover of her lashes, she glanced at him, at what she could see without shifting. The candles were only half-burned; they shed a warm steady light across the bed. He’d pulled the covers to below her shoulder, halfway up his chest. Beneath the sheet, her arm lay across him, her hand lightly gripping his side; her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. She felt more comfortable than she could remember ever feeling.

Her body thrummed, the hardness, power, and sheer masculine strength of his imprinted like some elemental memory on her senses. On her very female senses. With him, she knew what she was, could be all she was; she could deal with him confident in herself, and him. He’d always been the same, male to her female in some preordained way neither he nor she had ever questioned. She wasn’t about to start questioning now.

Shifting her head, she moved her hand and spread it over his heart. It thudded sure and strong beneath her palm. The crinkly dusting of black hair that laced across his chest, then arrowed to his groin, was a tactile fascination. She played, and knew he watched.

She didn’t stop, but pushed the covers down to his waist, baring his chest-and her own, but as to that she no longer cared. His body had always fascinated her, an illicit desire, one she’d denied, then suppressed for years. She didn’t need to suppress it now; spreading her hands, she gave it full rein.

And he let her. Remained supine in her bed and let her trace the broad, heavy muscles of his chest, run her palms over the curves of his shoulders and upper arms, then draw her fingers down to outline his ribs.

Then she pushed the covers farther still, down to his hips. Traced the long muscle bands, strong as steel, that bracketed his navel, then reached farther. Ran her palm down along his hip, down to his thigh, down to where the crisp hairs grew thicker again.

He’d tensed, unmistakably; she didn’t prolong the torture, more for herself than him. Gliding her hand up, she found him, boldly cupped him, took his scrotum in her hand and let her fingers explore, learning the weight, the texture, even as, with her forearm, she nudged the covers lower still, so that when she stroked upward and closed her hand about his erection, she could see as well as feel. Could use her eyes to guide her fingers as she stroked the ridged length, lingering over the thick, pulsing veins, then with her fingertip traced the circumference of the broad head.

He shuddered, caught her hand.

She looked up; he met her eyes briefly, his nearly black with just a hint of blue remaining. He looked down at her breasts as he laced his fingers with hers, then, pressing her hand and arm back and around, slowly rolled her onto her back.

“My turn.”

He lay beside her, one arm beneath her, still cradling her, while with his other hand he traced her body. Lightly. From her jaw, to her shoulders, over her breasts, around their ruched peaks, he drew slow whorls with his fingertips, barely touching.

Long before he sent those trailing fingers questing lower, her breasts had swollen and heated, her body had come alive.

Tantalizing. His touch was a promise, evoking sensual memories, yet leading her senses to dwell, not on what had been, but on what might be.

His fingers brushed her curls, danced lower, tracing the sensitive inner face of her thighs almost to her knees. Her skin, taut, nerves alive, flickered as he slowly returned up the other thigh, but instead of diverting inward, he took the outward track, following the outer line of her hip up to her waist.

Dragging in a breath, realizing she’d stopped breathing sometime before, she looked up at him.

He was waiting to catch her glance, to smile-devilishly-in complete understanding. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

“What?”

He closed his hands about her waist, shifted back and lifted her over him. She ended straddling him, rather lower than before.

“Let’s try it this way.”

It took an instant for her to realize what he meant, then she felt the head of his erection nudging against her. He gripped her hips, eased her back. Flattening her hands on his chest, she shifted, wriggled, found the right angle, and leaned back, slowly sat. Slowly, inch by inch, took him into her body.

The most amazing sensation, she savored it to the full, eyes half-closed, senses focused. She sat still for a long moment, simply wallowing, then the rigidity that had afflicted him registered; opening her eyes, she looked down into his. Noted the tension in his face, around his lips, evidence of the control she could sense holding back the wildness she knew was in him.

Unsure how his script read, she raised her brows at him.

With one hand, he gestured. “The reins are yours.”

Her brows rose higher. Indeed? How satisfying it would be to shatter that smug male control of his-in more ways than one.

She took him at his word and rose upon him. His hands rode lightly about her hips; he gave her little direction but allowed her to experiment, to explore the possibilities as she would. His grip tensed-she suspected involuntarily-when she nearly rose too high.

So that was the limit in that direction. In the other…

She settled to her purpose with a will, surprised to learn just how much pleasure she derived from using her body, under her will alone, to pleasure him. His comment about reins proved apt; she was accustomed to riding, and in many ways it was like that, rising up, sinking down in a deliberate rhythm.

But the contol over both rhythm and depth, over, it seemed, the very nature of their joining, was exquisite; she employed it, enjoyed it to the full. Rode him fast, then slow, then at the gallop again. Sensed the different ways she could use her inner muscles, use her hips and bottom to pressure him.

To fray those reins.

Once she was well embarked on her game, his hands rose to her breasts, to fondle, at first gently, then rather more explicitly.

Fingers flexing on his chest, her breath coming in increasingly rushed pants, she looked into his face, saw concentration, and more, possessiveness and something close to devotion. And wondered…

There was a glint in his dark eyes that was secretly triumphant. Had he been pleased she’d been with no other man, that he was the only man ever to have her? The thought focused her mind on where they joined; she shuddered, had to close her eyes for a moment, sink her nails into his chest, until the sharp temptation faded and she could pick up her reckless pace again.

She reminded herself of the questions he’d asked. Given his past, strewn with conquests she had not a doubt, had he assumed she would be the same as he? Had he cared in any possessive way about her answer? Or had he asked purely to decide whether to feel guilty or not?

He was watching her closely, pandering, expertly as the tangle of her nerves testified, to her senses, each sweeping touch of his long fingers heightening the delight she received from feeling him, hard, rigid, and hot, sliding into her body. Again, she caught an impression of orchestration; he was focused on her, on ensuring she achieved the maximum pleasure. His pleasure was not incidental, yet secondary and dependent, as least as he saw it.

He was very very good at pleasuring women. She felt the heat rise inside her, felt her nerves tighten. His reins were nowhere near frayed enough.

“You’ve changed,” she gasped, surprised at how thready her voice had become. “You’ve been with dozens of women-are you always like this, devoting yourself to their pleasure first, rather than your own?”

She’d asked the question to distract him, also because she wanted to know. She was surprised to see a hint of wariness creep into his eyes.

“I’ve always liked women.” His hands slid back to her hips, gripped; he started to undulate beneath her. “You know that.”

She did. He had one older sister and three younger; he’d been far more attuned to them than his older brothers had been. The habit of paying attention to women had been his from an early age.

“Yes, but…” She was clinging to sanity; their combined movements were driving her harder, faster, toward the sun. “That’s not what I meant,” she gasped, “as you well know.”

She sensed he would have sighed, but he couldn’t-their bucking ride was affecting him, too. Those reins, at long last, were unraveling.

Charles dragged his gaze from the junction of her thighs; meeting her eyes, he confirmed that no matter what else was occurring, she was determined to cling to her wits long enough to hear his answer.

He filled his lungs, not easy in the face of all she was doing to him. “With you, it’s different. Not the same. It never was.” He had to pause, had to wait until she released him again, enough so some blood could reach his brain. He gritted his teeth as she sank slowly down again. “No other woman ever made me feel the way you do.”

Her eyes heavy-lidded, she looked down at him, a houri sleek, sultry, and heated. In the candlelight, her skin glowed rosily. “How do I make you feel?”

“Desperate.” He gripped her hips, pulled her fully down on him, and held her there as he thrust into her, once, twice-three times was all it took and the climax that had crept up on her broke and poured through her.

His grip on her hips tightened; every muscle in his body locked as he held back the urge to ravish her. He waited, savoring her contractions, reminding himself to be civilized, or at least not to frighten her, definitely not to hurt her. Finesse, expertise-sanity. All would be useful to deploy…