“A) you’re right, and b) you’re right. You’re welcome t’try, though.” His eyes gleamed. “I like to play chase.”

Oh, Jesus. She slid from the bed, and he was right behind her. “Now, now,” he said, almost purred, “a promise is a promise. Right, Giselle sweetie?”

Odd, the way he said that…like it was one word: Gisellesweetie. She liked it. Liked him. And a good thing, too, because they were about to get down to it. “You’re right. I gave my wor mmmphhh!” His mouth was on hers, he was pulling her toward him, and she went up on her tiptoes. His tongue was in her mouth, jabbing and darting, and she could actually feel that between her legs. One of his hands was on the back of her neck, holding her firmly to him. The other arm was around her waist—luckily, he had long arms.

He broke the kiss—with difficulty, she was delighted to see. As for herself, she was panting as if she’d just run a marathon. And as elated as if she’d just won one. “Now,” he said, almost gasped. “You said anything. That you’d do anything. Until the sun came up.”

“Yes.” It was hard to breathe. Black excitement swamped her. A promise was a promise, dammit, and she had his personal physician’s word that he wasn’t sick. More, she trusted him implicitly. She had been handed a fantasy on a plate, and she meant to take full advantage. After tonight, she’d never see him again. But by God, she had tonight. “Yes, anything. Anything you want.”

“Ooooh, verra good,” he crooned, almost growled. He sank to the bed and pulled her down with him—and kept pushing her down until she was on her knees, facing him. “Un-buckle my belt. Please,” he added with a wolfish grin.

She did, with fingers that were clumsy and stupid. She finally pulled the belt free and wordlessly handed it to him. He tossed it in a corner. “Since you’re keeping your promise—so far—we likely won’t be needing that.” She gulped—what the hell had she gotten herself into? “Now. My slacks, love. All the way off.”

She did so, and then, when asked, relieved him of his boxers. It was too dark in the room to see their color—navy blue? puce?—but by their slippery feel she guessed they were made of silk. No flannel for him.

“Now,” he breathed. “Kiss me.”

She understood him perfectly, kissed the head of his cock, and then rubbed her cheek against him like a cat. He smelled warm and musky and undeniably male. He was also quite thick; she had difficulty closing her fingers around him. “Again,” he groaned, “kiss me again, Giselle sweetie.”