Anticipation flashed through her, a sharp, fiery wave spreading beneath her skin. Her mouth dry, Minerva searched his face, all hard angles and shadowed planes, the unyielding, uninformative expression that simply stated: primitive male. She licked her lips, saw his eyes follow the small movement. “Why?”

His eyes returned to hers. He didn’t answer, simply held the covers up, implacably held out his hand, and waited.

Cool air slipped beneath the raised sheets and found her skin. He, she knew, would be radiating heat; all she had to do to quell the shivers threatening was to stand and let him draw her near.

And then what?

An even bigger shiver of anticipation-a telltale sign he wouldn’t miss-threatened to overwhelm her. Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his, and let him draw her out of the bed, off it and onto her feet.

He walked backward, drawing her with him, until they both stood within the shaft of silvery moonlight, until they were both bathed by the pale glow. Her breath suspended, trapped in her chest, she couldn’t drag her eyes from him-a magnificent male animal, powerful and strong, every muscled curve, every ridge and line, etched in molten silver.

His fingers tightening on hers, he tugged her to him, drew her inexorably, irresistibly, into his arms. Into an embrace that was both cool and heated; his hands slid knowingly over her skin, assessing, caressing, as his arms slowly closed and trapped her, then cinched further, easing her against him, against the hot hardness of his utterly male frame.

His hands spread on her back, molded her to him; his dark eyes watched, drank in her expression as their bodies met, bare breasts to naked chest, her hips to his thighs…she closed her eyes and shivered.

The hard ridge of his erection seared like a branding rod against her taut belly.

She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes, only to find him closing the distance. His lips found hers, covered them, possessed them, not with any conquering force but with a languid passion, one all the more evocative, all the more compelling, for being so unhurried-a statement of intent he had no reason to make more stridently; she would be his however he wished-they both knew it.

The knowledge seeped into her even as she gave him her lips, then her mouth, then engaged in a hot, but undriven duel of tongues; she’d come to his room with the thought of rewarding him high in her mind. Rewarding him required no active action from her; she could simply let him take all he wished, follow his lead, and he’d be satisfied.

But would she?

Passivity wasn’t her style, and she wanted this, tonight, to be a gift from her-something she gave him, not something she surrendered.

Because he wasn’t whipping them along, the reins fast in his grasp, opportunity was hers for the taking. So she took-slid one hand between them and closed it firmly about the rod of his erection. Felt certainty bloom when he stilled, as if her touch held the power to completely distract him.

Taking advantage of the momentary hiatus, she eased her other hand down to join the first, linking them about his rigid member in tactile homage-and through the fading kiss sensed every last particle of his awareness center on where she held him.

Slowly breaking from the kiss, she moved her palms-watched his face, confirming that her touch, her caresses, possessed the power to capture him. His arms eased as his attention shifted; his hold on her weakened enough for her to ease back.

Far enough to look down, so she could see what she was doing and better experiment.

He’d let her touch him before, but then she’d been all but overwhelmed-there’d been so much of him to explore. Now, more familiar with his body, more comfortable standing naked before him, less distracted by the wonder of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the long powerful columns of his thighs, no longer held in thrall by his lips, she could extend her explorations to what she most wanted to learn-what pleased him.

She stroked, then let her fingers wander; his chest swelled as he drew in a tight breath.

Glancing at his face, she saw his eyes, dark desire burning, glinting from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Took in his clenched jaw, the muscles taut with a tension that was slowly spreading through his body.

Knew he wouldn’t let her play for long.

In a flash of recollection, she remembered a long-ago afternoon in London, and the illicit secrets shared by her wilder peers.

She smiled-and saw his gaze sharpen on her lips. Felt the rod between her hands jerk faintly.

Looking into those dark eyes lit by smoldering passion, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Knew exactly what she wanted to do, needed to do, to balance the scales of give and take between them.

She took half a step back, lowered her gaze from his eyes to his lips, then ran it down the column of his throat and the long length of his chest, all the way down to where her palms and fingers were firmly locked about him, one hand above the other, one thumb cruising the sensitive edge of the broad bulbous head.

Before he could stop her, she sank to her knees.

Sensed his shock-compounded it by angling the stiff rod to her face, parting her lips, and sliding them over the luscious, delicate flesh, slowly taking him into the warm welcome of her mouth.

She’d heard enough of the theory to know what she should do; the practice was a trifle harder-he was large, long, and thick, but she was determined.

Royce finally managed to get his lungs to work, to haul in a desperate breath, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from her, from the sight of her golden head bent to his groin as she worked her mouth over his straining erection.

The ache in his loins, in his balls and his shaft, intensified with every sweet lap of her tongue, every long, slow suck.

He felt he should stop her, bring the moment to a swift halt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what she was doing-he loved every second of tactile delight, loved the sight of her on her knees before him, his shaft buried between her luscious lips-but…he neither expected nor generally had ladies service him in this way.

They were usually too exhausted after he’d had his way with them-and his way always came first.

He should, but wasn’t going to, stop her. Instead, he accepted-accepted the pleasure she lavished on him, let his hands-hovering about her head-close, let his fingers tunnel through her silky hair and grip, gently guide…

She eased him deeper, then deeper still, until his engorged head was in her throat. Her tongue wrapped around his length and slowly rasped.

Chest swelling, eyes closing, he let his head tip back, fought to stifle a groan-fought to let her go on, to let her have her way.

To let her have him.

But there was only so far he could go. Only so much of the wet heaven of her mouth he could endure.

Her hands about the base of his shaft, she’d found her rhythm; her confidence had grown, and with it her dedication. Lungs screaming, nerves beyond taut, he fought to give her one more moment-then he forced himself to slip a thumb between her lips and draw his throbbing length from her mouth.

She looked up, licked her lips-started to frown.

He bent, gripped her waist, and lifted her-up and to him. “Wrap your legs about my waist.”

She already was. He slid his hands down to grip her hips, positioned her so the heated head of his erection parted the scalding slickness of her folds and pressed against her entrance.

He looked at her face, caught her wide, desire-darkened eyes-watched as he drew her down, as he steadily, inexorably, impaled her. Watched her features ease, then blank, as her awareness turned inward to where he stretched her and filled her. Her lids lowered and she quivered in his arms, caught on the knife edge of surrender. He gripped more firmly, ruthlessly pulled her hips into his, tilting her so he could thrust the last inch and fill her completely.

Possess her completely.

He saw, felt, heard the breath shudder from her lungs. Shifting his grip, he took her weight on one arm, lifted his other hand to her face, framed her jaw, and kissed her.

Hungrily.

She surrendered her mouth, opened to his onslaught, and gave him, ceded to him, all he desired. For long moments, sunk in her body, he simply devoured, then she tried to move, tried to ease up and use her body to satisfy the rampant demand of his-and discovered she couldn’t.

That she couldn’t move at all unless he permitted it, that impaled as she was, she was wholly in his power.

That the rest of this script was entirely his to write-and hers to experience, to endure.

He showed her-showed her how he could lift her as little or as much as he wished, then lower her, as slowly or as rapidly as he wanted. That the power and depth of his penetration of her body was wholly his to decree.

That their journey to the top of the peak would be at his command.

She’d given herself to him, now he intended to take-all and everything he could from her.

He lifted her, and brought her down, one hand still at her nape, that arm wrapped about her body, pressing it to his so the movement of their joining made her breasts ride against his chest. With one arm about her hips, that hand spread beneath her bottom, her legs wrapped, now tight, about his waist, her arms slung around his shoulders, her hands spread on his back, he could feel her all around him, and she was wholly locked within his embrace.

A naked, primitive embrace that suited him well. That would deliver her to him-make her surrender to him-at an even deeper, more primal level.