Morgan buried her face in a pillow and knotted her fists and screamed. And screamed some more.

She wanted him. She wanted him, wanted him, wanted him and he could give her what she wanted, too. He’d do it. He’d do anything she wanted and yet it was wrong. They weren’t together, they hadn’t been together in years, and she couldn’t use him to scratch an itch … no matter how powerful the itch.

And yet, oh, God, her body ached and throbbed and she felt wild … hot and tense and so very raw.

Dammit. Damn him. Damn that kiss in the stairwell. Damn this terrible incredible unforgettable chemistry.

It wasn’t right to want him this much still. Wasn’t fair to still feel so much, either, especially when she knew how bad he was for her, how very destructive. She couldn’t blame him entirely. The doctors said the problem was hers … that she didn’t have proper boundaries. She didn’t have a clear or strong sense of self and the only way she’d achieve a strong, mature sense of self was by leaving Drakon….

As if it were that easy.

Just leave him. Forget him. Forget he ever existed.

And now he was downstairs, so intense and real, so physical, so sensual, so fiercely beautiful.

Morgan beat the bed with her fist, maddened by the futility of her desire. Blood drummed in her veins, need coiled tightly, hotly in her belly, and her entire body ached with emptiness. How could emptiness throb and pulse? How could emptiness burn? But it did. And she felt wild and furious and frustrated beyond reason.

If only she could go to him, and beg for him to help her, beg him to give her release. Beg for pleasure.

She’d happily crawl for him, crawl to him, if it meant that he could tame the beast inside her … that voracious hunger that made her feel too wild, too frantic, too much.

Drakon stood just inside the doorway of Morgan’s suite and watched her beat her fist against the bed, her dark hair gleaming, her tunic riding high on her thighs, the soft fabric clinging to the firm, rounded curves of her hips and butt.

She had a gorgeous butt, and it made him want to spank her, restrain her, knowing it’d arouse her, make things hotter, make her wet and anxious and hungry for him.

And then he’d make love to her.

With his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, his hands, his cock. He loved the softness of her skin and the scent of her, the way she blushed, the way her tongue traveled across the bow of her upper lip and the way she’d squirm beneath him, her slim body arching, her hips grinding up to meet his, her legs opening for him.

“Undress,” he said, his voice pitched so low it sounded like a growl.

Morgan swiftly sat up, eyes enormous in her face, cheeks flushed.

“Do it,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.