“What time is it?” She turned away, following the scent from her coffeemaker, which was set to brew at 7:20 each morning. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.” He followed her weaving progress through the living area and into a big white-and-navy kitchen. There was a huge arrangement of fresh orchids on the center island. Orchids in the kitchen, he thought. Only Bess. “About 7:30.”

“In the morning?” Blindly she groped for a mug. “What are you doing here at 7:30 on a Thursday morning?”

“This.” He spun her around. The taste of her mouth, warm and soft from sleep, had him groaning. Before she could think—he didn’t want either of them to think—he slipped his tongue between her lips to seduce hers. Her body went stiff, then melted, softening against his like candle wax touched by a flame.

Through the roaring of his blood, he heard the crash as the china mug she’d held slipped from her fingers and smashed on the tiles.

Was she still dreaming? Bess wondered. Her dreams had always been very vivid, but this… It wouldn’t be possible to feel so much, need so desperately, in a dream.

And she could taste him. Really taste him. A mingling of man and desire and salty sweat. Delicious. His mouth was so hot, so unyielding, just as his hands were through the thin silk she wore.

She could feel the cool tiles beneath her feet, a shivery contrast to the heat roaring around her. Under her palms, his cheeks were rough, arousingly rough. And she heard her own voice, a muffled, confused sound, as she tried to say his name.

“I have to wake up,” she managed when his mouth left hers to cruise over her throat. “I really have to.”

“You are awake.” He had to touch her—just once. However unfair his advantage, he had to. So he cupped her breasts in his hands, molding their firmness through the silk, brushing his thumbs, feather-light, over straining nipples. “See?”

She’d never been the swooning type, but she was afraid this would be a first. “I have to—” She gasped, for as she’d started to step back, he’d swept her up into his arms. A skitter of panic, completely unfamiliar, raced down her spine. “Alexi, don’t.”

He covered her mouth again, felt her trembling surrender. And knew he could. And could not. “Your feet are bare,” he said, and set her on the counter. “I made you drop your cup.”

Shaken, she stared down at the shards of broken crockery. “Oh.”

“You have a broom?”

“A broom.” She was awake now, wide-awake. But her mind was still mush. “Somewhere. Why?”

He was making her stupid, he realized, and grinned. “So I can clean it up before you cut yourself. Stay there.” He walked to a likely-looking closet and located a dustpan and broom. Because he was a man whose mother had trained him well in such matters, he went about the sweeping job quickly and competently. “So, have you missed me?”