She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A tight knot of tension he’d carried for so long he’d become unaware of it unraveled and fell from him. The relief was immense. He drew in a huge breath, felt as if it was the first truly free breath he’d had in weeks.

But he wasn’t finished with her—hadn’t finished extracting promises from her—yet.

Straightening from the desk, he trapped her gaze. “You agree to be my wife, to act in all ways as my wife, and obey me in all things?”

This time she hesitated, frowned. “That’s three questions. Yes, yes, and in all things reasonable.”

He raised one brow. “‘In all things reasonable.’ It seems we need some definitions.” He closed the distance between them, halted directly before her. Looked into her eyes. “Do you agree that wherever you go, whatever you do, should any activity involve the smallest degree of danger to you, then you will inform me of it first, before you undertake it?”

Her lips compressed; her eyes were locked on his. “If possible, yes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re quibbling.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“It’s unreasonable for a man to want to know his wife is safe at all times?”

“No. But it’s unreasonable to wrap her in some protective cocoon to achieve that.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

He growled the words sotto voce, but Leonora heard them. He shifted intimidatingly closer; her temper started to rise. She determinedly reined it in. She hadn’t come to war with him. He was far too used to conflict; she was determined to have none of it between them. She held his hard gaze, as definite as he. “I’m perfectly willing to do everything possible—everything within reason—to accommodate your protective tendencies.”

She invested the words with every ounce of her determination, her commitment. He heard it ring; she saw understanding—and acceptance—flow behind his eyes.

They sharpened until his gaze was crystalline hazel, intent on her. “If that’s the best offer you’re prepared to make…?”

“It is.”

“Then I accept.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Now…I want to know to what lengths you’re prepared to go to accommodate my other tendencies.”

It was as if he’d lowered a shield, abruptly dropped a barrier between them. A wave of sexual heat washed over her; she suddenly remembered he was a wounded wolf—a wild wounded wolf—and she’d yet to appease him. At least on that level. Logically, rationally—in words—she’d made amends, and he’d accepted. But that wasn’t the only plane on which they interacted.

Her breath slowly strangled. “What other tendencies?” She got the words out before her voice grew too weak—anything to gain a few more seconds…

His gaze drifted lower; her breasts swelled, ached. Then he raised his lids, looked into her face. “Those tendencies you’ve been running from, trying to avoid, but nevertheless enjoying for the past several weeks.”

He shifted closer; his coat brushed her bodice, his thigh touched hers.

Her heart thudded in her throat; desire spread like wild-fire beneath her skin. She looked into his face, at his thin, mobile lips, felt her own throb. Then she lifted her gaze to his mesmeric hazel eyes—and the truth broke over her. In all that had passed between them, all they’d shared to date, he hadn’t yet shown her, revealed to her, all.

Revealed, let her see, the depths, the true breadth of his possessiveness. Of his passion, his desire to possess her.

He reached for the ties of her cloak, with one tug had them free; the garment slid to the floor, pooling behind her. She’d worn a simple, deep blue evening gown; she watched his gaze roam her shoulders, frankly possessive, frankly hungry, then once more he met her gaze. Raised one brow. “So…what will you give me? How much will you yield?”

His eyes were locked with hers; she knew what he wanted.

All.

No reservations, no restrictions.

Knew in her heart, knew by the leaping of her senses that in that they were matched, that regardless of any ideas to the contrary, she was and would always be incapable of denying him exactly what he wanted.

Because she wanted it, too.

Despite his aggressiveness, despite the dark desire that smoldered in his eyes, there was nothing here for her to fear.

Only enjoy.

While she finished paying his price.

She moistened her lips, glanced at his. “What do you want me to say?” Her voice was low, her tone unashamedly sultry. Meeting his eyes, she arched a haughty brow. “Take me, I’m yours?”

A spark to tinder; the flames flared in his eyes. Crackled between them.

“That”—he reached for her; hands spanning her waist, he drew her uncompromisingly flush against him—“will do nicely.”

Bending his head, he set his lips to hers, and whirled them straight into the fire.

She parted her lips to him, welcomed him in, gloried in the heat he sent pouring through her veins.

Gloried in his possession of her mouth, slow, thorough, powerful, a warning of all that was to come.

Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, and abandoned herself to her fate.

He seemed to know, to sense her total and complete surrender—to him, to this, to the heated moment.

To the passion and desire that spilled through them.

He raised his hands and framed her face, anchored her as he deepened the kiss. Melding their mouths until they breathed as one, until the same pounding rhythm had laid siege in their veins.

With a low murmur, she pressed to him, wantonly inciting. His hands left her face, drifted down, curving about her shoulders, then boldly tracing her breasts. He closed his fingers, and the flames leapt. She shuddered, and urged him on. Kissed him as hungrily, as demanding as he was. He obliged, his fingers finding the tight peaks of her nipples and squeezing slowly, excruciatingly, tight.

She broke from the kiss on a gasp. His hands didn’t stop; they were everywhere, kneading, stroking, caressing. Possessing.

Heating her. Setting fires beneath her skin, making her pulse rage.

“This time, I want you naked.”

She could barely make out the words.

“With not a stitch to hide behind.”

She couldn’t imagine what he thought she might hide. Didn’t care. When he turned her and set his fingers to her laces, she waited only until she felt the bodice loosen to slip the gown from her shoulders. She went to slide her arms from the tiny sleeves—

“No. Wait.”

A command she was in no position to disobey; her wits were whirling, her senses in eager tumult, anticipation building with every breath, with every possessive touch. But he wasn’t touching her now. Lifting her head, she drew in a shaky, broken breath.

“Turn around.”

She did, just as the level of light in the small room increased. Two heavy lamps sat on either end of the huge desk. He’d turned the wicks high; as she faced him he settled, sitting propped against the front edge of the desk midway between the lamps.

He met her gaze, then his lowered. To her breasts, still concealed behind the gauzy shimmer of her silk chemise.

He raised a hand, beckoned. “Come here.”

She did, through the tumbling cascade of her thoughts recalled that despite the fact they’d been intimate on numerous occasions, he’d never seen her naked in any degree of light.

One glance at his face confirmed that he intended to see all tonight.

His hand slid about her hip; he drew her to stand before him, between his legs. Took her hands, one in each of his, and laid them, palms flat, on his thighs. “Don’t move them until I tell you.”

Her mouth was dry; she didn’t answer. Just watched his face as he slid the sleeves of her bodice farther down her arms, then reached—not for the ties of her chemise as she’d expected—but for the silk-screened mounds of her breasts.

What followed was a delicious torment. He traced, fondled, weighed, kneaded—all the time watching her, gauging her reactions. Under his practiced ministrations, her breasts swelled, grew heavy and tight. Until they ached. The fine film of silk was just enough to taunt, to tease, to have her gasping with need—the need to have his hands on her.

Skin to burning skin.

“Please…” The plea fell from her lips as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to cling to sanity.

His hands left her; she waited, then felt his fingers close about her wrists. He lifted her hands as she lowered her head and looked at him.

His eyes were dark pools lit by golden flames. “Show me.”

He guided her hands to the ribbon ties.

Her gaze merged with his, she gripped the ends of the ribbons, and tugged, then, totally enthralled by what she could see in his face, the naked passion, the driving need, she slowly peeled the fine fabric down, exposing her breasts to the light.

And to him. His gaze felt like flame, licking, heating. Without looking up, he caught her hands and drew them back to his thighs. “Leave them there.”

Releasing her hands, he raised his to her breasts.

The real torture began. He seemed to know just how much she could take, then he bent his head, soothed an aching nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth.

Feasted.

Until she cried out. Until her fingertips clung to the iron muscles of his thighs. He suckled, and her knees quaked. He locked one arm beneath her hips and supported her, held her steady while he did as he wished, imprinted himself on her skin, on her nerves, on her senses.

She cracked open her lids; panting, glanced down. Watched and felt his dark head move against her as he pandered to his desires—and hers.