She’d never been touched this way, as if she were something rare and precious. What that touch stirred in her was so new and warm. Her skin seemed to soften and sensitize under the brush of his lips, the blood beneath to go thick and lazy. She only sighed as her dress slid down to pool at her feet.

When he eased back again, she could only stare up at him in wonder. Her lashes fluttered, her pulse skipped when he stroked his fingers lightly over the swell of her breast above her simple cotton bra. She had to bite her lip to hold back the groan when he flicked open the hook, when he gently cupped her breast in his palms.

‘‘Do you want me to stop?’’

‘‘Oh, God.’’ Her head fell back, and this time the groan escaped. His workingman’s thumbs were skimming slowly, rhythmically over her nipples. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Hold on to me, Grace.’’ He spoke quietly, and when her hands came to his shoulders and gripped, he brought his mouth to hers again, drawing more this time, asking more until she went limp.

Then he lifted her into his arms. He waited until her eyes opened again. ‘‘I’m taking you, Grace.’’

‘‘Thank God, Ethan.’’

He had to smile when she pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder. ‘‘I’ll protect you.’’

For a moment as he carried her off, she thought of dragons and black knights. Then the more practical meaning got through. ‘‘I—take the Pill. It’s all right. I haven’t been with anybody since Jack.’’

He’d known that in his heart, but hearing it only added to his steadily rising need.

She’d lighted candles in the bedroom as well. Slim tapers there that lanced up out of tiny white shells. The white of her iron headboard glowed in the soft light. White daisies sprang out of a clear glass vase on the small table beside the bed.

She thought he would lay her down, but instead he sat, cradling her, holding her, drugging her with those slow, endless kisses until her pulse beat thickly, grew sluggish. Then his hands began to move.

Everywhere he touched a small fire fanned into flame.

Callused hands, slipping, sliding over her skin. Long, rough-edged fingers stroking, pressing. There, oh, yes, just there.

The day-long stubble of beard rubbed the sensitive curve of her breasts as his tongue circled, then flicked. And always, always, his mouth coming back to hers for one more, just one more endless, mind-reeling kiss.

She tugged at his shirt, hoping to give back some of the pleasure, some of the magic. Found the scars and the muscle and the man. His torso was lean, his shoulders broad, the flesh warm under her seeking fingers. The breeze whispered through the open window, the call of the whippoorwill chasing after it. And the sound no longer seemed so lonely.