“I’m not looking for a saint, Elijah,” she whispered.

He groaned and took her mouth again. She should have protested. She knew she shouldn’t have invited his mouth or his hands or the slow, beautiful assault on her body, but the moment she had him back, she slid right into meltdown mode. Her brain turned to slush. Her body caught fire.

Elijah’s hand continued to move up her left leg, her uninjured one, with exquisite languor, giving her plenty of time to protest. She didn’t. She kissed him back harder, pouring herself into his kiss. Seeking his heat. Seeking oblivion. Bliss. She found it there in his mouth, in his touch.

“There comes a certain point, mi amor, where there is no turning back. I’ve been with you every day for nearly three weeks, and it hasn’t been easy keeping my hands off of you,” he warned.

“I wasn’t asking you to turn back,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Just to be careful of me. Don’t hurt me, Elijah.”

Elijah stared down at her. His face going soft. Tender even. She never thought to see that look on his face. When they’d come together before, both had been so hot, so out of control, the fire raging between them, that there’d been no time to look into his eyes, to see his face, to see him like this.

“You’re safe with me, Siena,” he reiterated, his voice stroking over her skin, very much like his fingers. He reached for her hair, the long thick braid that kept the mass of silk confined. She didn’t protest when he pulled out the tie and used his fingers to unweave the strands, allowing her hair to cascade around her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Like silk.” His mouth settled over hers again. He gave her long, lazy kisses. As if they had all the time in the world. His hands dropped to the buttons of the shirt she wore—his shirt—and, even with his mouth burning his particular brand and taste into her mouth, never stopping, he managed to slide the buttons open so that her breasts spilled out.

Elijah kissed his way from Siena’s soft mouth to her chin. He liked her chin. He’d spent some time studying her chin. She lifted it whenever her eyes flashed fire at someone. She’d been doing that as long as he could remember. He’d dreamt about her lifting her chin at him. The last time he’d seen her do that was at the club when some man tried freak dancing with her. She’d done that little chin lift of absolute defiance. The gesture brought out the leopard in him. What self-respecting leopard wouldn’t want to tame his female when she gave him that little chin lift?