Gemma moaned into his mouth. Her last conscious thought was, be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

Then began the wild storm that was Lysander unleashed.

Each thrust near to split Gemma in two. Each withdrawal made her gasp with loss. The heat and weight of him upon her, between her thighs, pressing them wide with his big body, the way he cradled her so carefully in his arms with each powerful thrust—

I think I might die.

I think it might be worth it.

She came again, tossed helplessly upon the waves of pleasure, unsure of up or down, uncaring of wrong or right. Lost in him. Lost in the way he made her feel.

Lost, she thought as she floated dizzily down off the crest of her orgasm.

I never want to be found.

LYSANDER LOST HIMSELF IN the gift that was Gemma. He forgot his soul wounds at the squeeze of her silken thighs about him. He forgot his life in London when she cried out and he felt her orgasm ripple through her.

He forgot his own name in the urgent passion of her mouth and the languid tangle of her arms as he spent himself within her.

But he remembered hers.

Gemma. The wonder and revolution that was Gemma. She saw pain and it did not frighten her. She'd known violence and battle and horror in the medical tents that he'd never had the nerve to step within. She'd tended the shattered and dying. She had marched through the blood-soaked mud and the memory hadn't stolen her voice, hadn't shut her away in a locked room inside herself, hadn't left her floating a few feet behind her own body like a near-ghost.

I am in my body now. I feel everything.

I feel the warmth, the tenderness, the sweet, aching heat of her, the heart of her.

He turned his face into her neck as if he turned it up to the sun. He remained over her, within her, around her. He could hear her pulse in her throat. He could feel her sighs on his ear. She slid her hands upward, stroking his back in a blissfully weary way.

He didn't want to lose this moment. He didn't want to open his eyes and find himself unchanged, still broken, still locked in place and twitching with battle instincts.

But most of all, he did not want to look in her eyes and see regret or shame. Or worse yet, pity!

Passion could burn itself out. What if, to her, he was simply a relief from her cold widow's bed? What if he was nothing more than temptation gratified?

Then he must consider it an honor to be the one chosen to warm her chilled, lonely flesh and give her pleasure.