Cheeks hot, insides flip-flopping, she reluctantly dragged her gaze from his button fly up to his face with its newly shaven jaw and square chin. “No,” she murmured, almost missing the dark thick beard and long hair. When she’d first arrived, he’d looked so primitive and primal. So undeniably male that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pushed her up against the wall and taken her there.

Perhaps a little part of her wished he had.

Instead he’d vowed to stay away from her, and she knew Drakon took his vows seriously. Was it so wrong of her to wish he’d kissed her properly before he’d made that vow? Was it wrong to crave his skin even though he’d made the vow already?

Just thinking of his skin made her glance at his chest, at that broad expanse of hard muscle, and her body reacted, her inner thighs tightening, clenching, while her lower belly ached with emptiness. She hadn’t been honest with him. She had loved to make love with him, loved the way he felt inside of her, his body buried deeply between her thighs and how he’d draw back before thrusting back in, over and over until she raked her nails across his shoulders and gripped his arms and arched under him, crying his name.

And just remembering, she could almost feel the weight of him now, his arms stretching her arms above her head, his hands circling her wrists, his chest pressed to her breasts. He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth even as his hard, hot body thrust into hers, burying himself so deeply she couldn’t think, feel, want anything but Drakon.

Drakon.

And now she was here with him. Finally. After all these years.

Morgan, it’s not going to happen, she told herself. He’s letting you go. You’re moving on. There will be no sex against the wall, or sex on the floor, or sex on the small dining table painted gold and rose with the lush sunset.

But wouldn’t it feel good? another little voice whispered.

Of course it’d feel good. Everything with Drakon had felt good. Sex wasn’t the problem. It was the distance after the sex that was.

“Something to drink?” he asked, gesturing to the bar set up in the corner and filled with dozens of bottles with colorful labels. “I can make you a mixed drink, or pour you a glass of wine.”

“A glass of wine,” she said, as a breeze blew in from the sea, and caught at her hair, teasing a dark tendril.

“Red or white?”

“Doesn’t matter. You choose.”

He poured her a glass of red wine. “Were you able to sleep?” he asked, handing her the goblet, and their fingers brushed.

A frisson of pleasure rushed through her at the brief touch. Her pulse quickened and she had to exhale slowly, needing to calm herself, settle herself. She couldn’t lose focus, had to remember why she was here. Her father. Her father, who was in so much danger. “Yes,” she said, her voice pitched low, husky with a desire she could barely master, never mind hide.