a moment she did not move. He was the only thing she could see, green eyes and that crooked smile, as if nothing else existed. She let that wash over her, through her. Then she stepped toward him, closing the distance between them with a single step.
Surprise warred with desire in his gaze, on his face, but his hands moved to her hips—anchoring her against him as she moved to stand between his legs. She rested her hands against his sculpted chest, tested the softness of his shirt and the muscles beneath with her palms, eliciting a faint, rough laugh from him.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, threading one hand into her bun and starting to pull the pins out, one by one, with an easy confidence, as if she was already his. His other hand tucked beneath the soft hem of her sweater, then moved hot and hard against the small of her back, urging her even closer.
She could do this. It might even be easy.
“Do you?” she countered. She leaned into him, pressing her heavy breasts against the wall of his chest, letting her body slide against his, bringing their mouths within a scant inch of each other.
She had the impression of scorching green fire and hectic color. Of exhilaration pounding through her like wine. And a sense of absolute rightness that might have scared her, had she not already decided to take him—on her terms.
And then, finally, she leaned up and kissed him, taking control, she thought, and everything burst into flame.
* * *
Lucas allowed himself to remain surprised for roughly three seconds, and then desire took over. He did not care why she was doing this, only that she was doing it.
Finally.
He slanted his mouth over hers, determined to make her his, determined to prove that she was no more than any other woman, no different, no matter what yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation had indicated.
He had been alone forever, and he liked it that way. It was simple. Easy.
But she tasted like honey, like her Texas drawl, warm and sunny and sweet. She went straight to his head, until he could not seem to care about protecting himself as he knew he should, as had always been second nature to him before.
He did not like the feelings she aroused in him. The need to protect her, even from her own past. Yesterday’s searing need to unburden himself. This obsession, this need, to lose himself in her. He hated it, he told himself, and so he kissed her again and again, deeper and harder and longer, surrendering himself to her exquisite taste, her scent, the sweet perfection of her body pressed against his.
This was sex, he told himself. Nothing but sex. And he happened to be particularly talented in that arena.
She pushed him back on the bed, and he let her, bemused by this sudden show of assertiveness. But who was he to argue? He lay back and watched appreciatively as she climbed up on the bed with him, straddling him.
He hissed in a breath as the core of her came up flush with his groin, making him harder than he could ever remember being before. More. He wanted more. He wanted to bury himself inside of her and lose himself entirely. He wanted to make her scream his name. He wanted to taste every inch of her body, every freckle, every moan. He wanted her in every possible way, all night long.
Only then, he told himself, could he exorcise her. Make these uncomfortable feelings disappear as if they had never been. Make her no more and no less than another conquest, indistinguishable from the rest. That was what he wanted. He didn’t know how to want anything else.
She settled against him, her wild blond hair falling forward, making her look like some kind of goddess. His goddess, he thought and stretched out his hands to test her hips, the indentation of her waist. He pulled a long strand of hair to his mouth, rubbing it over his lips. She smelled like rosemary and wine, and the feel of the long blond waves was like raw silk. But she batted his hands away, and then frowned down at his shirt as her fingers started to work the buttons.
Her fierce concentration, her focus on the task at hand, kept him from flipping her beneath him as every instinct shouted at him to do. That stern frown of hers made him stir against her, made the fire blaze even higher, even hotter, within him. She finally bared a swathe of his chest and bent over to taste it, him. Her tongue was soft, wet, maddening. He tangled his fingers in her hair and urged her up to eye level, taking her mouth with a swift possession that made some kind of bell toll, long and true, deep inside of him.
He ignored it, because he was tasting her—hot and female and deliciously, undoubtedly Grace—until he felt drunk from her. Wildly, fantastically drunk, and more than happy to stay that way.
But she had other ideas. She reared back up, and pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she returned to work on his shirt. When he moved to pull her close again, she shook her head at him. He was mesmerized by the silken fall of her hair across her shoulders, the way it teased her breasts, the way the length and wave of it softened her face, making her seem more flushed, more open, more his.
“Just lie back,” she said, bracing one hand on his abdomen, as if she thought she could keep him there against his will.
“And think of England?” he asked dryly. “I’m afraid that’s not my style.”
“It can be a brand-new experience for you,” she said in the prim voice that drove him crazy with need, her attention drifting back toward the bare skin she’d uncovered. “I doubt you have many of those.”
Lucas did not. But he had also never been one to wait.
He sat up, holding her flush against his hips, and only smiled against the delicate skin of her neck when she made a sound of protest. When she had settled against him, her arms loose around his shoulders, he let his hands skim down her back to slip under her sweater. The soft cashmere was almost harsh compared to the warm silkiness of her skin beneath. He tugged the sweater up and over her head, baring her to his view, then threw it aside.
She was perfect. Taut, full breasts encased in decadent black lace that said far more interesting things about the real Grace than the depressingly austere suits she preferred. Lucas cupped her breasts in his hands, dragging his thumbs slowly across the peaks, making her head fall back as she moaned out her pleasure. The sound was like petrol on a bonfire—he ached to be inside of her. He reached behind her, expertly unhooking the bra with a single hand, then caught a hard nipple with his mouth as he pulled the garment free of her flesh.
He heard her breath stutter as her body tensed and then shook beneath him. He tasted one breast, then the other, taking his time, learning her. He traced a path from her breasts to her collarbone, pressing kisses against her as he went, tasting her with his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He reached her mouth and took it in a hard, deep kiss, holding her face between his hands, his fingers deep in her wild mane of hair.
“Wait,” she whispered, pulling away. She shifted against him and then lifted shaky hands to his shoulders to push his shirt off, so that when she pressed back against him they were skin to skin.
Yes. So hot. So soft. So perfect.
He was delirious. He wanted more. And then still more.
Growing impatient, he swung her around and then rolled her under him in a swift, simple move. She blinked up at him, her chocolate-brown eyes molten with passion, her generous mouth faintly damp from his.
“You
