“Then do it now,” she urged. “Hold nothing back. Not here, not with me. It will be our gift to each other.” A gift before parting. Bronwyn closed her eyes, refusing to think of the end before they’d even started. “Your turn. I wish to see you as well.”

He pulled the shirt over his head as she pushed up to her knees to unfasten his trousers. He kicked them loose. When they knelt facing each other in the altogether, bare of everything but skin and burning passion, in the middle of his bed, Bronwyn felt an odd sense of accord. That this was right where she was supposed to be in this moment. Here with him, her body making a forever pledge that only his could hear.

I am yours.

She reached up to touch his tight jaw. “Make love to me, Valentine.”

***

The choice of words did not escape him. Strangely, they did not scare him either. This would not be like either of their previous encounters—he knew that for sure. Valentine had never brought a woman back to this chamber. Even when he’d been “married” to Lisbeth, any consensual relations took place in her room or when they were on assignment.

Kneeling toward each other as he and Bronwyn were now with no clothing or barriers between them, he felt a deep sense of vulnerability, as if every part of him, including his pounding heart, were laid bare before her. And for once in his life, Valentine didn’t want to hide. He wanted to give her everything…all his flaws, his scars, his darkness.

Her fingertips traced over his smooth jaw, then traced over the parted contours of his mouth. First the upper lip and then the lower. Valentine resisted the urge to lick the pad of her finger. His eyes met her brilliant blue ones, almost glowing in the muted firelight. He could get lost in those eyes. It was as though she wanted him to see into her, too.

When her hand moved to cup the back of his neck and draw him close to her, Valentine didn’t resist. Her lips brushed softly over his once, then twice, the achingly gentle strokes making his heart flutter quite unnecessarily. Hinging nearer so that her pert breasts grazed his chest, she kissed his nose, his cheeks, then his brow, the soft pulses bursting across his skin like the most treasured of touches. The tenderness of them sank deep into his marrow.

He let her, because he wanted it, too.

Valentine knew it was dangerous, this game they were playing with each other as if they had a future beyond this moment and this room…as if they were a duke and his duchess retiring for the evening in languorous familiarity. For one night, he could pretend that she was his. That they were each other’s.