His hands, so strong, so quick, so powerful. They cupped her, bruised, destroyed. Her own were lost in his hair, dragging him down until his mouth found hers again, until she could answer that hard, vicious kiss with one of her own.

His body was so tight, so relentlessly male, muscles bunching under her hands, ridges of old scars sliding under her questing fingers. His skin was hot, burning, and bloomed damp when she bit desperately at his shoulder.

The air was ripe, thick, and tasted of him on each gulping breath she took. Whatever he did to her, she welcomed; whatever he demanded, she gave.

He lifted her hips, high, and his eyes burned into hers. With one violent thrust, he was inside her, hilt deep. The hands she’d gripped on his arms slid limply to the hay as her body simply erupted.

“Stay with me, Laura.” His fingers dug into her flesh, and he began to move. “Stay with me.”

What choice did she have? She was locked, trapped, steeped. Her breathing was slow now, shallow, her vision misted at the edges, but she moved with him. Stroke now for stroke.

He shuddered when she came, when she closed around him like a damp fist, and he fought a vicious war with himself not to follow. Not yet. There was more. Even as the blood roared like the sea in his head, he wanted more.

And so he dragged her up until her legs locked around him, until her body flowed back so fluidly it might have been made of water. Worked her until her new frenzy was met, matched, until her head dropped on his shoulder.

Then, and then only, he buried his face in her hair and let himself fall.

His weight pinned her to the floor. It was an odd and drugging feeling, having a man’s full weight on her again. And it was a triumphant feeling to know that he was incapable of moving, that he was as dazed, as sated, as she.

She didn’t have to doubt it. She’d seen his eyes, felt his hands, heard the gritty groan sound in his throat. He had been caught, trembling, on that stunning moment when he had lost himself and come inside her.

There, in the darkened stables with the sweet smell of hay and horses, her clothes in tatters and her blood singing, she felt like a woman again. Not like a mother, a friend, a responsible member of society. Like a woman.

She didn’t want to fumble now, to begin stuttering out foolish truths. That it had never been this way before, that she hadn’t known it could be. Better, she thought, for both of them, to keep it light.

So she smiled, found the strength to lift her hand and stroke his hair. “Looks like I redeemed that rain check.”

His chuckle tickled her throat. “What was your name again, sugar?”