He stepped even closer, and swept her into his arms.

Splashing through the water, he carried her toward the grassy bank. Her eyes were closed. He knew he should have wondered if she dreamed of another man. He should have wondered if she had any experience with what she was doing, but he didn't wonder about anything at all. Holding her, carning her to the shore, seemed to be the most natural thing to do, and he would not have ceased with his intent had lightning come from the sky to strike him down.

He laid her upon the soft grass embankment. Her eyes remained closed as the last rays of sunlight played over the beauty of her body again. He fell down beside her, and when the light shadowed magenta upon her, he kissed her, and then where the rays fell golden, he kissed her, too. The beautiful colors and musky light were broken by the dappling patterns of the oak leaves, waving above them in the softness of the breeze.

Holding his weight above her, he kissed her lips gently, then moved down between the valley of her breasts. He ran his hand over the lush curve of her flank as his tongue laved her flesh. She tasted of the water, and of the deep, rich colors of the sun.

Malachi stood, looking down at her, feeling the pulse that lived inside of him, increasing erratically with each touch against her. He stripped away his breeches, watching her still, watching the play of the sunset over her supple form. The world receded; the echoes of gunfire could not touch him here. There was nothing but the glorious, magenta sunset, and the girl, as golden and beautiful as the wavering rays of the falling sun, as naked and primitive as the simple earth where they lay.

He lay down beside her again, half covering her with the blanket of his naked flesh. Her eyes remained closed, and she was nearly motionless. He kissed her temple, whispered against her earlobe, trailed his lips down the snowy length of her throat and over the slender line of her collarbone. His hands teased her breasts again, and she arched against him, a curious cry coming from deep within her throat. He watched with fascination, seeking to judge the responses of her body. The shaft of his desire lay naked against her thigh, warmed there by her flesh and grazed by the evening air, so that the burning ache to have her beneath him soared high and fevered, and still he held himself in check.

He wondered if she even remembered who he was. He wanted her to open her eyes. To see his face, to know his name.

He moved his hands to lazily draw circles along her inner thigh, rising higher and higher. He buried his face against her throat and between her breasts, and feathered her flesh with the soft hairs of his beard. She whimpered slightly and began to undulate against him.

With bold and deliberate purpose, he parted her thighs. A certain resistance met him at first, but he caught her lips again, and his kiss seared and invaded and seduced. He wanted to slide down between them, but he kept his eyes hard upon hers instead. He stroked surely along her thigh until he came to the juncture of it, and swiftly, surely penetrated her with an intimate touch.

Her eyes flew open at last and met his. Wide and blue and beautiful and dazed. He knew how to make love, and his stroke moved with tender, sensual finesse.

"No…" she murmured softly, color flooding her cheeks.

He leaned close against her, speaking a breath away from her lips and keeping her eyes locked with his.

"Whisper my name, Shannon."

"No…" she murmured, and he knew that she didn't protest what they did, but only that he forced her to see the reality of it.

That he forced her to look his way, and say his name.

He found the most erotic places of her body and teased her, then plundered ruthlessly within her once again. She cried out, trying to twist from him, trying to elude his eyes. He shifted, burying his weight deep inside her, and holding himself just slightly away from her. She moved, she moved so sweetly against him even as she denied him.

"Put your arms around me, Shannon, tightly around me!" he urged her, and she did so. It was easy for her to cling tightly against him. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, over his back. Tentative, hesitant, seeking to hold him close as he held her, and seeking to give him a certain pleasure.

"Whisper my name, Shannon," he insisted. He hovered over her, teasing her with the fire of his own body.  "Say my name. Open your eyes, and say my name."

Her eyes flew open again. There was a shimmer of fury deep within them. "Malachi!" she whispered tensely.

"Now…" He lowered his head to hers once again, and a ruthless grin touched his features. "Tell me what you want me to do."

She stared at him in astonishment, and a flush as crimson as the sunset touched her cheeks and seeped over her breasts. He couldn't bear it much longer. He had to have her soon. But they had always waged war between them, and this one, at least, he would not lose.

"Tell me what you want."

"No…"

"It's easy." She started to press against his shoulders. He caught her hands, and he laced his fingers with hers, and he drew them high over her head. "Say that you want me. I want you, Malachi." He kissed her. He slid his tongue into her mouth and withdrew it and then raked it along her lips. He drew her hands down and held her firm as he moved low against her, lazily taking her breast in his mouth again, slink-ing lower and lower against her. She escaped his grasp, and her nails raked into his shoulders. He heard her gasp and felt her fingers on his head when his kiss teased her belly.

She was alive with passion. Her head tossed and her hips moved, and she whispered something, moistening her lips. Her eyes were closed again, and her face lay to the side. They were both entangled in her hair.

"I can't hear you, Shannon."

"I—I want you."

"I want you, Malachi."

"I want you… Malachi.''

Her voice was breathy, barely a whisper. It was all that he wanted, all that he needed. She moved against him with grace and exquisite sensuality, and a burst of triumph and fever took hold of him as he shifted, touching her, thrusting deep, deep inside her.

She stiffened, and screamed, and he realized then that he had believed her experienced because he had wanted to believe it. He had been deceived, but only because he hadn't wanted to think…

But he felt. He felt the tear within her body, and the constriction of pain, and the trembling that filled her. He started to jerk from her, but her hands pulled him back.

Her eyes were open now. Tears touched them, but they met his with a curious honesty. "No, no—I said that I wanted you. I said I want you…Malachi."

"Damn it, you didn't tell me that you were a—"

"You didn't ask," she reminded him softly. "Please…"

Her voice trailed away. He realized that it was too late to undo any harm, and yet perhaps not too late to recapture the magic.

He began to move very carefully. Slowly he entered fully within her, and just as slowly he withdrew. Then he plunged again, slowly…slowly.

Minutes later she cried out, straining high against him.

Innately, she seemed to know the craft of womanly art Supplely, exquisitely, she moved beneath him. He matched his rhythm to hers, to the soft magic of the evening. The breeze rustled the leaves and silently caressed them. Birds cried out, and the water rippled and dazzled still. Malachi cried out hoarsely, giving himself free rein at long last, burying himself again and again with speed and fever within the moist and welcoming nest of her body.

The pressure built in him explosively, and still he held himself in a certain control, whispering to her, touching her bare flesh with kisses, urging her ever onward.

She cried out, straining hard against him, collapsing.

He allowed his own climax to come, and when it seized him it was sweet and violent; he shuddered as wave after little wave of pleasure shook him, and rippled anew. When he had finished at last he gazed down at her.

Her eyes were closed again, her lips were parted, and her breath still came swiftly…and he felt the little tremors that touched her. She seemed white, very pale.

"Shannon?" He stroked her hair, smoothing damp tendrils from her face. She moved, trying to free herself from the burden of his body. He shifted his weight, and she curled against him.

"Shannon—"

"Don't. Please, don't…not yet," she whispered.

While the twilight darkened, he held her, staring at the trees and watching the silhouette of the leaves against the sky until it was too dark to see them.

Then suddenly, in silence, she pushed away from him. She rose, and her hair fell over her eyes, obscuring them. She walked quickly to the water, and did not pause at the edge, but hurried to where it was deep, and ducked beneath it. Malachi watched her pensively, thinking that the action wasn't much different than the one she had taken that morning when she washed her hands and face as if to wash away the scent and memory of Justin.

He rose and followed her into the water. "Shannon!" She ignored him, and he caught her arm, turning her around. She jerked away from him.

"Shannon, what are you doing now?"

"Nothing."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Shannon, what just happened—"

"Shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened!" she repeated fiercely. She sat in the water, pursing her lips, scrubbing her thighs and behaving now as chastely as a nun. She sank even lower into the water until the surface rippled against her breasts, and for some reason, the sight irritated him more than her perverse denial.