She dragged her lips from his on a gasp; he felt the shudder that racked her in his bones. Her body closed hotly about his finger. Recapturing her lips, he kissed her-no longer lightly but deeply, evocatively. He stroked her in the same way.

Flick couldn't think, she couldn't reason-she couldn't imagine how she'd survive. She was hot, so hot; her skin felt afire. The flames that had started deep inside had spread to every extremity; her whole skin felt tight. As for her nerves, they were stretched so taut, so tense in anticipation of his next caress, of the next, deeply intimate invasion, that if it didn't come soon she knew she'd fly apart.

If she'd had enough breath left, she would have sobbed.

With pleasure.

She couldn't understand that. She couldn't even think of what he was doing-what she was letting him do to her. Her stunned brain wouldn't hold the mental image. She'd had no idea physical intimacy would prove so shocking. So exciting. So mind-numbing.

So gloriously delicious.

And they hadn't even got to the culmination-the moment when their bodies would join. She knew what that entailed, yet…

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.

Luckily, her lover was experienced-exceedingly experienced if her state was any guide. She was panting, squirming, ready to kill for that next bit of sensation, his next caress, the next experience he had in store.

If he didn't hurry up and give it to her, she was quite sure she'd die.

Demon was well aware of her state-not once had he stopped tracking it. He withdrew his finger from her only to slide another in beside it, deliberately stretching her, preparing her. She squirmed and adjusted instantly. He reached deep-her gasp shuddered into a soft sob. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder; he could feel her soft pants hot against his skin.

He no longer needed to hold her to him-there was no chance she would scoot back. Leaving the hand between her thighs still probing in a slow, repetitive rhythm, with the other he slipped the buttons on his trousers and guided them down his hips. He uttered a wordless thanks to fate that he was in his town rig, with shoes, not boots; he toed the shoes off, let his trousers fall, stepped out of them and kicked them away.

She felt him shift-greedy hands grasped his shoulders, hauling him to her. Momentarily off-balance, he went with her pull-then gasped, biting back a groan as his throbbing erection hit the dressing table's edge.

Her thighs were still wide, her knees clamped to his now naked hips. He drew in a breath, nudged her head up, and found her lips again. He caught her up in the kiss, then drew his hand from her slick heat; one hand at her back, he eased her forward a fraction more-until the broad head of his staff nudged into her hot softness.

Abruptly, she drew back from the kiss. Arms locked about his shoulders, she blinked dazedly as their gazes met. She licked her lips, then glanced at the bed. "Aren't we?…"

"No." He could hardly speak. The effort of holding still, poised at her entrance, her slickness scalding him like hot honey, was turning his muscles to jelly. "This way will be easier for you this time." She was small; to lie beneath him, trapped by his weight, might not be wise-not for her first time.

Her lips formed an Oh-she risked a glance down, but her chemise, stretched across her thighs, blocked her view. She cleared her throat. "How?…"

His pained grin never made it to his face. "Easily. Just-like…" He pressed nearer, simultaneously drawing her to the very edge of the table-he sank into her. "This."

The look on her face was one he would treasure all his life-her eyes widened as he entered her, slowly pushing in, stretching her softness. She was oh, so tight, but, to his relief, she didn't freeze, didn't tense. He didn't stop-feeling her untried body ease about him, he penetrated her steadily, inexorably filling her until she'd taken him in to the hilt and he was buried in her sweet heat.

Her fractured "Oh!" shivered in the air. Her lids fell-she hauled in a huge breath. Then she tensed.

Scalding hot, she closed about him, so tight he thought he'd lose his mind.

He trapped her lips and only just managed to catch his reins and haul back on the savage urge to ravish her-her mouth, her hot softness, the luscious vessel of her body. Although reeling himself, he caught her senses and steadied her-in so doing, he steadied himself.

Releasing her lips, dragging in a huge breath, clamping a firm hold on his instincts-where she was concerned, too primal, too raw-he anchored her before him, withdrew, and slid home again.

Her maidenhead had been a mere cobweb. That hadn't surprised him; she'd been riding astride all her life and still did. So there'd been no pain, only pleasure as he'd filled her-as he withdrew and filled her again.

His muscles flickered under the strain, but he kept his rhythm very slow so she could grow accustomed to the intimacy, to the slide of his body into hers, to the flexing, regular rhythm, to the elemental repetition.

His breathing sounded ragged in his ears; he was so tense his lungs felt tight. But now he was, at long last, inside her, and she was so tight and hot, and so accepting, he was determined to prolong the sweet torture to the full.

She was very wet, scalding hot; her thighs eased about him as he loved her. Then she wriggled, pressing closer. Clinging to his shoulders, clamping her knees to his hips, she arched, and picked up his rhythm. She matched him, warm and pliant, a female body more delicious, more rewarding, than any he'd known. They could barely breathe, yet their lips fused and held, melding to the same beat as their bodies, the same beat as their hearts.

She was used to riding; he realized what that meant as she continued to meet him, her body supplely flexing in his arms. She could very likely last as long as he could-which was a thought to make a strong man weak.

It only made him more rigid, more engorged. Her murmur as she adjusted was not one of complaint. So he held her lips with his, held her steady before him, and gave her what she deserved-a long, slow ride to delight.

Flick followed his lead eagerly, delighted to find that she could. That the steady rhythm hadn't overwhelmed her, although at first she'd thought it would. That first instant of feeling him deep within her-even now, she gasped at the sensual memory. She still felt their joining keenly, the internal pressure, the fullness that was so strange, especially as she'd never felt empty there before. But now he was riding so smoothly, so deeply, so effortlessly into her, some part of her wits had reengaged.

Certainly not all of them. It was as if the heat between them had reached a new level, another plane, leaving her reeling in pleasured delight but with enough wit to appreciate the sensation. As for her body…

On a gasp, she pulled back from their kiss to draw in a labored breath, aware of her body arching in his arms-aware to her toes of why. Her skin radiated heat, as did his. But aside from the heat, it was very like riding. She hadn't realized it could be done like this-she was finding it quite easy to cope.

He ducked his head; she felt his lips sear her throat. She clung to his broad shoulders and tipped her head away so he could sear as he would. She lifted her heavy lids to regauge their position-she pressed her hips closer, gripped his hips more tightly and splayed her hands over his back.

And caught sight of the mirror on the wall by the door. Directly opposite.

The reflection in the mirror stole her breath, focused her wits and transfixed her attention. In utter fascination.

She could see his naked back, down to his calves, see the flexing of his spine as he drove into her, see his buttocks clench and ease in time with their riding rhythm.

The view was enthralling.

She couldn't help but remember Bletchley in similar circumstance-which left her feeling like the cat who'd secured the prize cream. There was absolutely no comparison-not at any level. Not in the long, taut, steely muscles flexing in back and legs, not in the tight muscles that bunched and thrust, not in the steady, effortless rhythm, and certainly not in the powerful result.

Each deep thrust filled her completely, each movement effective, efficient and seemingly effortless-the outcome of harnessed, concerted power. Controlled power.

Bletchley had flailed and thrashed on top of his woman. In complete and stark contrast was the way Demon filled her. Deeply. Relentlessly. And oh, so repetitively.

Watching him thrust, feeling the result deep within her a split second later, focused her mind on the sensation, and drew her back into the maelstrom. Into the heat, and the swirling build of sensation.

Her lids were falling, her eyes almost shut when he changed his movement into a rolling thrust. She saw it-then felt it. She shut her eyes tight to better savor the moment-then quickly opened them again. To watch, and match her anticipation more acutely to his rhythm, to be ready to make the most of each sliding thrust, to shudder in his arms as he drove more deeply-to eventually let her lids fall as their glorious heat reached a new peak.

It was like riding at flat gallop through a fire.

Excitement, tense and searing, gripped her-along with a driving, compulsively urgent need. They were both breathing hard, both reaching deep-for the energy, the strength, to make the final dash.

He turned his head and their lips touched, but only briefly; she felt his hand slide, hot as a brand, up under her chemise. Skin to hot skin, he closed his hand about her breast. His fingers shifted; he found her tightly furled nipple. And pressed.