It’s the way a goddess’s name should be spoken.

“On your bed it was all about the luxury,” I continue. “The softness of your blankets, the grandness of the bed frame, pricey comforts. Decadence.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s worshipping me with his eyes.

He worships me. Right here, in this moment, he worships me. Me, the embodiment of war. What does that say about his heart?

“And now . . . now I want to make love here, where you work, where you think.” I step forward and slide my fingers down his arm. “I want you to enter me here,” I say, taking his hand and pressing it between my legs. He immediately begins to move his hand, making me shiver. “And I,” I continue as I run my index finger along his forehead, “I want entry into here.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he continues to move his hand, adding pressure, watching as I respond. Then slowly he bows his head, lowers his lips to my neck, makes a trail of warm, sensuous kisses up to my ear before whispering, “Bell, you’ve been in my head since the moment we met.”

It’s not what I meant, but it’s not a bad start. Desire and longing make men careless.

And yet right now he doesn’t seem careless at all. Not as he deliberately pulls his hand away, removes his jacket, then mine, and throws them both on the desk already covered in papers . . . papers I’ll look through later. But not now. Now all I can do is look at him.

He quietly removes my shirt and then steps back, just a little, as he runs his fingers down my bra straps.

“That’s nice.” He runs his thumb over my nipple as it hardens, his touch making me jump ever so slightly. “I like that.”

I grab the bottom of his shirt, yank it off him with considerably less grace and much more urgency. In a moment I feel my bra loosening, then falling to the floor, right as I move into him, pressing my bare flesh against his, feeling the competing drumbeats of our hearts. His lips press against mine again, making my whole body warm and vibrant. My jeans loosen around my waist, and as his lips move back to my neck and then to my shoulder, my jeans are pushed down inch by inch until I finally bend over to pull them off. Again he sweeps me off my feet and into his arms, but instead of bringing me to the bedroom, he lowers me onto the black leather sofa. And there he is, by my side, on one knee, his fingers looped into the waistband of my panties. With the perfect precision that I’ve come to associate with him, he pulls them off slowly, their motion both scratching and caressing my skin.

And when they’re off, he just stares at me.