He was for her. And she rose up, wrapping herself around him with a kind of giddy glee.

Their mouths met again in a deep, shuddering kiss that had his heart flipping over inside his chest.

She smelled of something secret, of seduction. Those quick, catchy gasps coming from her sliced through him like tiny silver knives. He wanted to bury himself inside her until the world ended. And when her hands cruised over him, when those soft sounds of approval hummed in her throat as she explored him, he wondered if it already had.

She scraped her nails over his belly and had him quivering like a stallion. “I want you. I want you inside me. Tell me you want me.”

“I do. I want you.” He lowered his mouth to hers once more. “Malory. From the first minute.”

Her lips curved under his. “I know.” She arched her hips. “Now.”

He braced himself, then a sliver of sanity cut through the madness. “Oh, Christ. Condom. Wallet. Pants. Where are my pants?”

“Mmm. It’s okay.” She rolled over him, nipping at his shoulder as she pulled open the nightstand drawer. “Condom. Drawer. Nightstand.”

“Have I mentioned that I love practical, prepared women?”

“Why don’t I help you on with this?”

She took her sweet time so that he had to fist his hands in the tangled spread to keep himself from flying to the ceiling.

The woman had wicked hands, he thought and bit back a groan.

Wonderful, wicked hands.

She rose over him, shook her hair back. And smiled. “Now,” she said.

He moved fast, flipping her onto her back, pinning her body with his. “Now,” he repeated and drove deep inside her.

He watched the shock race over her face, felt the waves of it vibrate through him. They trembled there, each caught on some fine edge.

And with her eyes locked on his, she began to move. A rising up, a falling away, so smooth, so fluid it was like sliding through silk. Her name echoed in his head, like a song, or a prayer. He clung to the echo of it, clung to the frayed threads of control as she shattered around him.

She fell apart. Oh, God, the most wonderful sensation. A losing of self, then a gathering back. Her mind hazed. And with one last liquid sigh, she rode the final crest.

Locking him close, she took him with her.

HE didn’t want to think. Thinking under the current circumstances couldn’t be productive. It would be much better for all involved if he kept his mind a solid blank and just enjoyed the superior sensation of having a soft, sexy woman under him.

If he didn’t think, he might be able to keep her there long enough to make love with her again. Then there’d be another period of not-thinking.

Who knew how long he could keep up that pattern? Maybe indefinitely.

When she moved under him, a lazy kind of stretch, it seemed a very good possibility.