Her system erupted; her mind blanked. Even as she went limp, his fingers continued to stroke her. “I want to do more.”

He used his mouth. Sliding down her, breast, torso, belly. She began to move again. And then to writhe while pleasure and need pounded together inside her. Her eyes were blind, her body quaking when he rose over her.

With his heart hammering, and his mind crowded with her, he filled her with one long stroke. With a low sound of pleasure he held himself there, sustaining the moment, letting the thrill of it batter his system.

Her hips lifted, then fell away to draw him with her. Beat for beat they moved together, eyes locked, breath tangled and ragged. Her hands groped for his, gripped. The slide of flesh to flesh, slow and silky, the pulse of heart to heart, solid and real.

And when the wave rose up to swamp them both, he lowered his mouth to hers and completed the joining.

She lay limp as melted wax, eyes closed, lips curved and enjoyed the sensation of Brody collapsed on top of her. His heart continued to knock—hard, fast raps—that told her his system had been as delightfully assaulted as hers.

It had been a wonderful way to discover they were compatible in bed.

It was so fascinating to be in love. Really in love. Not like the couple of times she’d been enchanted with the idea of love. This was so unexpected. So intense.

She drew a long, satisfied breath and told herself she’d give the matter—and the consequences of it—a great deal of careful thought later. For the moment, she was going to enjoy it. And him.

No one had ever made her feel quite like this. No one had ever opened her up to so many feelings. Fate, she thought. He was hers. She’d known in some secret place inside her, the first instant she’d seen him.

And she was going to make certain he understood, when the time was right, that she was his.

She’d found him, she thought, utterly content as she stroked his back. And she was keeping him.

“For a man who claims to be out of practice, you certainly held your own.”

He was trying to decide if he had any brain cells left, and if so, when they would begin to work again. He managed a grunt. That response seemed to amuse her, as she laughed and locked her arms around him.

He managed to find the energy to turn his head, found his face buried in her hair and decided that was a fine place to be. “Want me to move?”

“No.”

“Good. Just give me an elbow if I start to snore.”

“O’Connell.”

“Just kidding.” He lifted his head, levered some of his weight off her and onto his elbows. The green of his eyes was blurry with satisfaction. “You’re incredible to look at.”

“So are you.” She lifted a hand to play with his hair. Not really blond, she thought idly. Not really brown. But a wonderful mix of tones and textures. Like the man himself.