He pulled the clip from her hair so it tumbled down. Sunlight to vie with the moon. She was warm silk in his hands, and he thought it miraculous to be given someone so open, so honest. Beyond the face and form that pulled at him—had pulled at him from the first—he marveled at her generosity of spirit, and the courage she failed to recognize.

To have such a partner in this dark quest was more than he’d ever believed in.

Her hands, those strong artist’s fingers, ran under his shirt, kindling new fires of lust. He laid her back on the bed, warning himself to have care. There was still an innocence in her.

She shifted over him, even that casual move warring with his control. And smiling, traced his face with her fingertips.

“I know this face, so well. So many dreams. It terrified me.”

“Why?”

“What if?” She glided her finger over his cheekbones, his mouth, the line of his jaw. “If I could create my perfect lover? Man of my dreams. But he would only be there.” On a sigh, she rested her brow to his for a moment. “On my canvas, in my mind. Only there. And when I woke or put my brush down, I’d be alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“I thought it was best to be, so convinced myself I wanted to be.” She touched her lips to his. “I want so much more now. That’s a little scary, too.” She brushed her lips where her fingers had glided. “I dreamed of us like this so many times. I want to try to show you.”

And as she’d dreamed it, she touched her lips to his, a bare whisper. Once, twice, before easing his shirt up his torso and away. Her body to pleasure now, all the long lines of it. Her mouth to tempt with another whispering brush.

Her lips glided over his jaw, down that strong column of throat. A pulse beat there, and she knew the thrill of making it quicken.

Knew the power and pleasure of moving down, learning his secrets as he had learned hers.

He fisted a hand at the back of her shirt, fought the brutal urge to just rip it away and take. He would let her set the pace, the tone, and her slow, yes, dreamy, explorations taught him the gilded torture of pleasure.

In moonlight and shadows, with sighs and whispers, she undressed him. And she glided them along layers, shimmering, building layers of sensation. The air seemed to thicken with it, movements languid, pulses thrumming.

Her body slid up his again, inch by quivering inch, until her mouth took his. No whispering brush this time, but a strong, deep mating, one that poured emotion into him until he ached with it.

She rose up, struck by moonlight, tossing her hair back as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt up. When he reached for her, she shook her head, and moved to undress as she’d undressed him.