In reply, she shifted her hips not at all, but instead moved her shoulders sinuously side to side, caressing his chest with her swollen breasts, teasing him with the tight buds of her nipples.

With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “For God’s sake, put me out of my misery.”

She looked down into his eyes, with one hand lightly traced his cheek, then her fingers firmed; she bent and plunged wildly into his mouth—and edged her hips lower.

His relief stuck in his chest—a hard knot—when the head of his erection touched her heated flesh.

He went to reach down, to position himself; before he could, she shifted, adjusted, and got the angle right.

In the instant he registered that, she braced her arms and lifted her shoulders, simultaneously sinking down, enclosing him.

In the slickest, most scorching embrace he’d ever known.

Caro closed her eyes, blissfully savoring every second of her descent, of his steady invasion, one she controlled.

God! What joy she’d been missing.

The thought was simply there, in her head; she tightened about him, then moved, and it vaporized. As she’d suspected, there was yet more to learn, to feel, to know; this position was different again—she felt even more in control—of both of them.

At first she did the obvious, rising up, then sinking slowly down, then she experimented. Rolling her hips, incorporating a little thrust here, a grinding movement there.

Feeling the power slowly rise, grow stronger, investing them both.

She cracked open her lids, looked down at him beneath her, at his body, hard and immensely more powerful, absorbing her rocking movements, taking them in, absorbing the pleasure.

For there was pleasure in his eyes, in the way he watched her from under heavy lids. His hands lay passive on her upper thighs, letting her have her way, letting her take him—give herself—as she would.

She was immeasurably grateful.

As if he could tell, he reached up, cupped her nape with one large hand and drew her down, lifting his shoulders so their lips could meet and he could draw her into his fire.

Trap her there. Enmesh her in a web of desire that flamed hotter with every rasping stroke of his tongue over hers, filling her mouth and her senses with pure heat. With a shattering physical need to move faster and burn.

He surged higher, propping on one elbow, one hand spreading over her back, holding her close so his chest abraded her breasts. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her against him as slowly, countering her rocking rhythm, he thrust upward, into her.

Steadily. Surging powerfully. Harder. Higher. Ultimately faster.

Until she was spinning, until the world her senses knew came apart, shards of sensation flying through her, slicing sharp with white-hot glory, burning, melting, until in the heat of the conflagration she was consumed.

And knew only ecstasy.

Michael caught her, turned and rolled her beneath him. Spread her thighs wide, wrapped her legs about his waist, and drove into her.

She was more open to him than before, more vulnerable, more his.

He took, driving solidly into her pulsing heat.

The steady pounding rhythm roused her, as he’d hoped it would. Her eyes gleamed, then a look of amazement, unfeigned and undisguised, crossed her features. Then she joined him.

Clutched his head and drew his lips down to hers, dueled with him for supremacy there even while their bodies did the same. She had a strength in her like flexing steel; she used it, not to challenge so much as to drive him on. Convince him to go further, to mate with her harder, deeper, to join with her without reserve.

He did. The result was something beyond his experience as surely as it was beyond hers, a gasping, clutching, frantic and desperate climb to an ecstasy greater, deeper, and infinitely more profound than either could have guessed, than either, when their eyes met in that last fraught moment before the maelstrom took them and whirled them from this world, had expected, or even imagined.

The cataclysm rocked them both. Fused them, seared them. Branded them with an awareness each of the other from which neither could ever shake free.

Finally, it released them. Exhausted, they collapsed. Gradually their senses returned, their surroundings reimpinged on their consciousness. Dimly. Neither had the strength to do more than settle into the other’s arms.

Still breathing deeply, his heart still thudding in his ears, Michael kissed Caro’s hand, laid it on his chest, and let his eyes close.

Never, not ever before, had he lost himself so completely, given himself so thoroughly. As he sank into beckoning oblivion, all he knew was that he wanted, desperately needed, to do it again.

That he needed to ensure that he had the chance.

Needed to ensure that she remained by his side.

Always. Forever.

When he awoke, the sun had moved on and shadows dappled the interior of the cottage. The day was warm; their lack of clothes posed no problem, yet the air within the cottage had grown sultry. Caro lay asleep, curled on her side, facing away from him, her bottom snug against his side. Smiling, he savored the sensation, locked it in his memory, then, easing away, rolled from the daybed.

Padding barefoot across tiles warmed by the sunshine, he quietly unlatched a window and set it wide. The sound of the stream gurgling and rushing drifted in; birdcalls added to the bucolic symphony.

He breathed in, then turned. A light breeze, warm and caressing, danced in, and followed him back to the daybed. He stood looking down at Caro, at the slender, shapely limbs relaxed in slumber, at the ripe swell of her hips, the lush curves of her breasts, at the delicate features lightly flushed with slumber. The breeze lifted strands of her fine hair, caressed and stirred them.

She slept on.

In the past two days, he’d spilled his seed inside her five times. He hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t tried to avoid it, and nor had she.

Of course, the only interludes she until now had dreamed of had been with Camden, her husband. Instinct, distinctly primitive, urged him to leave the matter as was, leave that particular stone unturned. Yet…

Was it fair to simply let what might be—what was very likely to be—happen without her considered agreement? Without her consciously being aware of it and giving her consent?

Yet if he mentioned it… it would certainly break the spell, and he had no guarantee how she would react. He didn’t even know how she felt about children.

A vivid image of Caro with his son in her arms, with two daughters clinging to her skirts, filled his mind.

For long moments, he was blind, held captured, entranced. Then he blinked back to reality… stunned, unsettled. Suddenly wary.

Never had any conjured vision made him feel his heart was standing still—and would until he had it, until he’d secured the thing he’d seen and now so desperately, beyond thought or doubt, wanted.

That thing he now sensed was critical for him, for his continued existence, for his future.

It took a moment or so more before he was breathing freely.

He looked again at Caro. His decision had been made—not, or so it seemed, by him. He wouldn’t mention the risk of pregnancy.

He would, however, do whatever it took, give whatever was needed, to make his vision come true.

Caro woke to the feel of Michael’s fingertips lightly tracing her bare skin. She lay still, eyes barely open, registering the sun still shining, the faint shadows playing across the tiles, the airy touch of a breeze drifting through a window he must have opened.

She was lying on her side, facing the fireplace. He was lying stretched out behind her, on his back, the fingers of his right hand idly stroking her hip. Smiling, she let her eyes close, the better to savor the warmth that still enveloped her and his light, repetitive caress.

A change in her breathing, or some tension in her body, must have given her away; a moment later, he shifted, coming up on one elbow, his body rearranging to spoon about hers.

Her smile deepened; he bent his head and nuzzled the spot where her shoulder and throat met, placed a hot, lingering, openmouthed kiss over the pulse point there.

Then he murmured, soft, low, infinitely dangerous, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, to just lie there, and let me make love to you.”

Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened even before he pushed his hand over her side, nudging her arm higher so he could close his hand and knead. Languidly, lazily. As if assessing her anew.

Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.

He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.

Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.

His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.

She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.

“Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, mur-murously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.

He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.