He moaned and closed his eyes. She tried it again, shifting her weight up his body and back down again, still with the barrier of his trousers between them. It felt so delicious to slide against him like this, to feel the power she held over him.

“Enough,” he said through gritted teeth, stilling her hips with his hands. He flipped her over onto her back. His hands roamed, finding the hem of her chemise, and going higher.

She shifted her thighs apart to give him better access to the place that was waiting impatiently for his touch.

His fingers played her, stroked her, parted her thighs.

This was life, lusty life. And she was living it. Not watching from the wings. Not hearing about it secondhand.

This was life. Her life. She wanted it all. More. Give her more.

“Give me more,” she said, her words tumbling out. “I want more.”

He moved down her body and his head went underneath her chemise. “You want this?” His lips and tongue moved over her core, drawing music from her as a cellist created warm, sonorous tones with a bow.

“Mmm.” She bit her lip. It was strange. It was so, so beautiful. “Yes.”

His tongue flicked over her lightly, and then he dipped inside her with his fingers—two of them, she judged—sliding inside her, using her body’s wetness to ease their passage.

His tongue stroked her core while his fingers moved inside her, stretching her, exploring and claiming.

She heard music, the beginning of the melody she’d been writing about him.

She heard how it grew, how it changed and how it became more passionate.

It was building to a crescendo, becoming more frenzied. She began moving with him, her body finding a rhythm that pleased her.

Her head fell back against the pillows. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see her face because she must be grimacing now. There was some effort involved here, some work she was doing.

It was a race, and she was about to win.

The sensations swelled and she clenched her inner muscles around his fingers and then the race was won. She shuddered, pleasure breaking, timpani crashing, with violins playing a lilting finale.

She collapsed back onto the bed feeling boneless, wrung out, and oh so happy.

But not finished yet. Not nearly finished.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear the words that came from her heart. “I want more. I want everything.”

She touched his arousal, shaping it with her palm.

“Damnation, Viola.” He shuddered, his body tense. “You don’t know how much I want to give you more.”

“Then do it.”

“If we . . . do it . . . I’ll be forced to . . .”

He didn’t finish the rest of the sentence so she finished it for him in her mind.