“You’re not so sure,” Brie murmured as she brushed his cheek. Excitement was rising in her, quicker, freer than she’d anticipated. He had doubts, she realized. He had second thoughts. It relieved her, aroused her. How inadequate she would have felt if he’d been so sure and she’d been the only one with nerves. “I come to you without any past. For now, for this moment, let’s forget either of us has a future. Just today, Reeve. Just an hour—or a moment.”

He could give her that. He would give her that. Take just that. This time when their lips came together it wasn’t lightly, wasn’t briefly. When it’s only for the moment, needs intensify. They drive; they compel. Passion pent up; passion held back. Passion set free.

It was only for the moment. They’d both agreed; they’d both decided. They’d both forgotten.

Bodies pressed, flesh to flesh. Mouths tasted. Hungry, so hungry. He felt her hands skim up his back, small and smooth with the nails oval and tidy again. First they brushed, then they gripped and held. Strength—it poured from her making it easy to forget the delicacy. Needs—hers throbbed against him, making it easy to forget logic, plans, decisions. Longings had no logic; there was no plan to passion. The scent of the sea was mild. Her perfume was heady. Swimming in both of them, Reeve drew her with him onto the neat, narrow bunk.

Brie felt the tiny ridges of the woven spread as her back pressed against it. He’d told her there would be no roses, no satin sheets for them. Nor did she want them. Illusions weren’t important. Reality was what she’d been searching for. With him she’d find it.

Legs tangled, arms tight, they drove each other. Some journeys are fast, furious and uncontrollable. She no longer thought, have I felt this before? Now was all they had. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. His face was close, shadowed. It filled her vision. Now was all she wanted.

She reached up to bring his mouth back to hers.

Sweetness. Perhaps rose petals growing hot and ripe in the sun would taste like this. Pungent, like wine mulled over an open fire. Intoxicating, like champagne just uncorked. The more he tasted, the more he understood the meaning of true greed. And when he touched, he understood obsession.

She was like a statue, finely crafted, lovingly polished. But she was flesh and blood. Under his hand she moved, she pulsed. A statue might be admired, revered, studied. He could do that as his gaze roamed, as his hands stroked. But it was the woman he wanted. And the woman, he realized, had little more patience than he.

On a moan of pleasure she rolled, pinning him beneath her so that she could touch as freely as he. Pounding inside her was a need so wild it had no form, no beginning. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t fight it. Neither did she have a beginning.