“My thoughts exactly.”

When the phone did ring, Juliet merely groaned and slid down under the sheets. For the second time, she found herself buried under Carlo as he rolled over to answer it. Without complaint, she lay still, hoping the ringing of the phone had been part of a dream.

“Come now, Juliet.” Shifting most of his weight from her, Carlo began to nibble on her shoulder. “You’re playing mole.”

She murmured in drowsy excitement as he slid his hand down to her hip. “Mole? I don’t have a mole.”

“Playing mole.” She was so warm and soft and pliant. He’d known she would be. Mornings were made for lazy delights and waking her was a pleasure just begun.

Juliet stretched under the stroke and caress of his hands. Mornings were for a quick shower and a hasty cup of coffee. She’d never known they could be luxurious. “Playing mole?”

“An American expression.” The skin over her rib cage was soft as butter. He thought there was no better time to taste it. “You pretend to be dead.”

Because her mind was clouded with sleep, her system already churning with passion, it took a moment. “Possum.”

“Prego?”

“Playing possum,” she repeated and, guided by his hands, shifted. “A mole’s different.”

“So, they’re both little animals.”

She opened one eye. His hair was rumpled around his face, his chin darkened with a night’s growth of beard. But when he smiled he looked as though he’d been awake for hours. He looked, she admitted, absolutely wonderful.

“You want an animal?” With a sudden burst of energy, she rolled on top of him. Her hands were quick, her mouth avid. In seconds, she’d taken his breath away.

She’d never been aggressive, but found the low, surprised moan and the fast pump of his heart to her liking. Her body reacted like lightning. She didn’t mind that his hands weren’t as gentle, as patient as they’d been the night before. This new desperation thrilled her.

He was Franconi, known for his wide range of expertise in the kitchen and the bedroom. But she was making him wild and helpless at the same time. With a laugh, she pressed her mouth to his, letting her tongue find all the dark, lavish tastes. When he tried to shift her, to take her because the need had grown too quickly to control, she evaded. His breathless curse whispered into her mouth.

He never lost finesse with a woman. Passion, his passion, had always been melded with style. Now, as she took her frenzied journey over him, he had no style, only needs. He’d never been a man to rush. When he cooked, he went slowly, step-by-step. Enjoy, experience, experiment. He made love the same way. Such things were meant to be savored, to be appreciated by each of the five senses.

It wasn’t possible to savor when you were driven beyond the civilized. When your senses were whirling and tangled, it wasn’t possible to separate them. Being driven was something new for him, something intoxicating. No, he wouldn’t fight it, but pull her with him.