She landed with a grunt, her knees hitting the floor as her torso fell across the long end of the chaise. It knocked the breath out of her, disorienting her for precious seconds, and before she could gather her wits, he was on top of her, hard thighs bracketing her hips, leaning into her to pin her down. She bucked, fighting for the space to get her hands out from between her chest and the chaise, but he just pressed down harder, his greater weight and size combining with her ungainly position to keep her in place.

“None of that, now,” he said, the words guttural with a distinctly English lilt. His hand pressed into the middle of her back, holding her down when she bucked again.

Her cheeks hurt so much from the earlier press of his fingers she’d hadn’t realized he wasn’t holding her anymore. “What do you want?” she ground out, her face throbbing, fear a sharp taste in her mouth.

The quiet snick of a knife reached her ears a second before she saw the blade, inches away and gleaming in the moonlight, and she froze.

“I thought that was obvious, darling,” he purred in a gravelly voice. “I want you.”

She held herself still when he laid the flat of the knife against her cheek, the metal so cold against her heated skin that she shivered. Her heart was pounding, pumping blood through her body so fast and hard she could feel her pulse in her fingertips, in her toes, in the bruises forming on her face.

In the suddenly needy flesh between her thighs.

He dragged the knife down her cheek. It slid across her skin slowly, almost teasingly, and she fought not to flinch. In other circumstances, she might have described it as a gentle caress. But the blade was thin and sharp, and there was nothing gentle about this man.

“I have money,” she managed, forcing the words out. He was pressing her so hard into the chaise that she couldn’t draw an easy breath, and she knew she’d soon be too lightheaded to fight. “Cash, and my debit card. You can have it all.”

He laughed softly, so close his breath danced over her face. His voice was like smoke over gravel, somehow soft and harsh at the same time. He fisted the hand planted between her shoulder blades, gathering the thick terrycloth of the robe she’d put on after her bath. It pulled across her arms and shoulders, digging in painfully, the tough fabric holding fast.

“Sorry, darling, but money’s not what I’m after. Hold still now,” he said, and lifted the knife from her cheek.