For all his intensity, for all the force of his personality, the kiss was meltingly soft. Though his fingers were strong and firm in her hair, so firm if she’d tried to move away she’d have found herself trapped, his lips were as gentle and warm as the light that flickered on the table beside them. She didn’t know when she reached for him, but her arms were around him, bodies merging, silk rustling. The quiet, intoxicating taste of wine was on his tongue. Lee drank it in. She could smell the candle wax and her own perfume. Her ordered, disciplined mind swam first with confusion, then with sensation after alluring sensation.

Her lips were cool but warmed quickly. Her body was tense but slowly relaxed. He enjoyed both changes. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself freely or easily. He knew that just as he knew she wasn’t a woman often taken by surprise.

She seemed very small against him, very fragile. He’d always treated fragility with great care. Even as the kiss grew deeper, even as his own need grew surprisingly greater, his mouth remained gentle on hers, teasing, requesting. He believed that lovemaking, from first touch to fulfillment, was an art. He believed that art could never be rushed. So, slowly, patiently, he showed her what might be, while his hands stayed only in her hair and his mouth stayed softly on her.

He was draining her. Lee could feel her will, her strength, her thoughts, seeping out of her. And as they drained away, a flood of sensation replenished what she lost. There was no dealing with it, no … explaining. It could only be experienced.

Pleasure this fluid couldn’t be contained. Desire this strong couldn’t be guided. It was the lack of control more than the flood of feeling that frightened her most. If she lost her control, she’d lose her purpose. Then she would flounder. With a murmured protest, she pulled away but found that while he freed her lips, he still held her.

Later, he thought, at some lonely, dark hour, he’d explore his own reaction. Now he was much more interested in hers. She looked at him as though she’d been struck—face pale, eyes dark. Though her lips parted, she said nothing. Under his fingers he could feel the light tremor that coursed through her—once, then twice.

“Some things can’t be explained, even when they’re understood.” He said it softly, so softly she might have thought it a threat.

“I don’t understand you at all.” She put her hands on his forearms as if to draw him away. “I don’t think I want to anymore.”

He didn’t smile as he let his hands slide down to her shoulders. “Perhaps not. You’ll have a choice to make.”