One of his hands slid up and down her spine. His black eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered there until she almost felt the imprint of them, like a hard, rough kiss. Her nails bit into him where her hands clung.

She wanted him. He could feel it. She wanted his mouth, his hands, his body. Her breath was coming in tiny gasps. He could feel her heartbeat behind the soft, warm little breasts pressed so hard to his chest. Her mouth was parted, moist, inviting. He could grind his own down into it and make her moan, make her want him, make her open her arms to him on the long, soft sofa that was only a few steps away...

She was eighteen. She’d never lived. There hadn’t been a serious romance in her young life. He could rob her of her innocence, make her a toy, leave her broken and hurting and old.

“No,” he whispered. He forced himself to put her down. He held her arms, tightly, until he could force himself to let go and step back.

She was shaky. She felt his hunger. He wasn’t impervious to her. But he was cautious. He didn’t want to start anything. He was thinking about her age. She knew it.

“I won’t...always be eighteen,” she managed.

He nodded, very slowly. “One day,” he promised. “Perhaps.”

She brightened. It was like the sun coming out. “I’ll read lots of books.”

His eyebrows arched.

“You know. On how to do...stuff. And I’ll buy a hope chest and fill it up with frothy little black things.”

The eyebrows arched even more.

“Well, it’s a hope chest. As in, I hope I’ll need it one day when you think I’m old enough.” She pursed her lips and her gray eyes twinkled. “I could fake my ID...”

“Give it up.” He chuckled.

She shrugged. “I’ll grow up as fast as I can,” she promised. She glowered at him. “I won’t like it if I hear about you having orgies with strange women.”

“Most women are strange,” he pointed out.

She hit his chest. “Not nice.”

“How’s the driving?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I haven’t hit a tree, run off the road or approached a ditch since you left,” she said smugly. “I haven’t even dinged the paint.”

“Good girl,” he said, chuckling. “I’m proud of you. How’s the job coming along?”

“It’s great! I’m working on this huge story! It may have international implications!”

Odd, how worried he looked for a few seconds. “What story?”

“It involves a kidnapping,” she continued.

He frowned.

“A chicken was involved,” she added, and watched his face clear and become amused. “A little girl whose doll was taken away for punishment stole a chicken and dressed it in doll’s clothes. I understand she’ll be cleaning the house for days to come.”