Vittorio and Giulia glanced uncomfortably at each other, then moved reluctantly back into the garden. Anna and Marta disappeared, leaving only the four of them. Ren bore in for the kill.

“I want to know what’s happening on my property. And don’t insult me with any more crap about water problems.”

Vittorio looked so uneasy that Isabel almost felt sorry for him. “It’s very complicated,” he said.

“Simplify it so we can understand,” Ren drawled.

Vittorio and Giulia gazed at each other. A trace of stubbornness appeared in her jaw. “We have to tell them, Vittorio.”

“No,” he said. “Go to the car.”

“You go to the car!” Giulia’s hands flew. “You and your friends haven’t been able to do this. Now it is my turn.”

“Giulia . . .” His voice sounded a warning note, but she ignored it.

“This—this goes back to . . . Paolo Baglio, Marta’s brother,” she said in a rush.

“No more!” Vittorio had the helpless expression of a man who knew he was looking at disaster but couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

Giulia pushed past him and faced Ren. “He was—he was the local . . . representative. For . . . the Family.”

“The Mafia.” Ren sat on the wall, much too comfortable with the subject of organized crime. Vittorio turned away as if his wife’s words were too painful for him to hear.

Giulia seemed to be trying to decide how much to tell them. “Paolo was . . . he was responsible for making sure our local businesspeople did not meet with misfortune. You know what I mean by this? That a shopkeeper’s windows were not broken at night or that the florist’s delivery truck did not disappear.”

“Protection money,” Ren said.

“Whatever name you wish to give it.” She twisted her hands in front of her. They were small and delicate, with a wedding band on one finger and smaller rings on the others. “We are only a country village, but everyone understood how this worked, and the businesspeople paid Paolo the first day of each month. Because of this, windows were not broken, the florist made his deliveries, and there was never any trouble.” She turned her wedding band. “Then Paolo had a heart attack and died.”

She bit her lip. “At first everything was fine—except for Marta, who missed him very much. But right before you arrived, Isabel, some men came to town. Not nice men. Men from Naples.” Her lips pursed, as if she’d tasted something sour. “They—they found our mayor and . . . it is too horrible. But when they were done, we understood that Paolo had been very foolish. He had lied to them about how much money he had collected, and then he had hidden away millions of old-fashioned lire for himself.” She pulled in a deep breath. “They have given us a month to find the money and turn it over. And if we don’t . . .”

Her words trailed off, and Vittorio came forward. Now that Giulia had begun, he seemed resigned to finishing the story. “Marta is certain Paolo hid the money somewhere near the house. We know he didn’t spend it, and Marta remembers that he was always working on the wall before he died.”

“We are running out of time,” Giulia said. “We didn’t want to lie to you, but what else could we do? It is dangerous for you to be involved, and we only wanted to protect you. Do you understand now, Isabel, why we wished for you to move into town? We are very worried that the men will grow impatient and show up here. And if you should be in their way . . .” She made a sharp, cutting gesture.

“It is very bad, this thing that has happened,” Vittorio said. “We must find the money, which means we must finish taking apart the wall as quickly as possible.”

“Si. These man are very dangerous.”

“Interesting.” Ren rose. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Please don’t take too long.” Giulia beseeched him with her eyes.

“We are very sorry we had to lie to you,” Vittorio said. “And, Isabel, I am also sorry about that ghost last night. It was Giancarlo. If I had known, I would have put a stop to it. You will still come for dinner next week, yes?”

“And the porcinis?” Giulia said to Isabel. “The next time it rains.”

“Of course,” Isabel replied.

When the couple left, Isabel sighed and sat down on the wall. For a moment she let herself drink in the peace of the garden, and then she gazed at Ren. “Do you believe them?”

“Not a word.”

“Neither do I.” She’d started to nibble her thumbnail but caught herself in time. “One thing I do believe: There’s something hidden here.”

“The country’s crawling with buried artifacts.” He patted the back pocket of his jeans, then seemed to realize he’d already smoked his daily cigarette. “When an artifact is found, even if it’s on private land, it becomes the property of the government. Maybe the good people of Casalleone have a bead on something so valuable they don’t want to turn it over.”

“You think the entire town’s in on a conspiracy? Bernardo’s a cop. It doesn’t seem too likely.”

“Cops have been known to be crooked. Do you have a better idea?” He gazed out at the hills.

“It would have to be one heck of an artifact.” A leaf landed on the wall beside her, and she brushed it away. “We need to go along with this, I think.”

“I agree. I also intend to be around when they’re tearing that wall apart.”

“So do I.” One of the cats came up and rubbed against her legs. She reached down to pet it.

“I need to get the car, and then I have to go up to the villa for a while, God protect me.”

“Good. I have work to do, and you distract me.”

“The crisis book?”

“Yes. And don’t you dare say a word.”

“Not me. So I distract you, do I?”

She tucked her thumbnail into her fist. “I mean it, Ren. Don’t bother turning all that smolder on me, because this isn’t going any further until we talk.”

He sighed and looked resigned. “We can have dinner tonight in San Gimignano. And we’ll talk.”

“Thank you.”

His lips curved in a cocky smile. “But the minute you’re done talking, I get to put my hands anywhere I want. And wear something sexy. Preferably low-cut and definitely without underwear.”

“You high school boys crack me up. Any other requests?”

“No, I think that about uncovers it.” He whistled as he walked away, looking more like a gorgeous goof-off than Hollywood’s favorite psychopath.

She took a quick bath, then grabbed a pad of paper and jotted down a few ideas for her book, but her brain wasn’t working, so she set the pad aside and made her way up to the villa to see how Tracy was doing.

“Just peachy.” Ren’s ex-wife lay on the chaise by the pool, her eyes closed. “Harry and the kids hate me, and the new baby is giving me gas.”

Isabel had spotted the children climbing out of Harry’s car in the drive, their faces smeared with gelato. “If Harry hated you, I don’t think he’d still be here.”

Tracy raised the back of the chaise and put on her sunglasses. “It’s only because he feels guilty about the kids. He’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Have the two of you tried to talk?”

“I mainly talked, and he acted condescending.”

“Why don’t you try again? Tonight, after the children are asleep. Pour him a glass of wine and ask him to list three things you could do for him that would make him happy.”

“That’s easy. Raise my IQ twenty points, get organized instead of pregnant, and change my entire personality.”

Isabel laughed. “Feeling a little sorry for ourself, are we?”

Tracy squinted at her over the top of her sunglasses. “You’re one weird shrink.”

“I know. Think about it, okay? Ask the question, and make it sincere. No sarcasm.”

“No sarcasm? You just lost me. So tell me about you and Ren.”

Isabel slouched back in the chair. “I’d rather not.”

“The good doc can dish it out, but she can’t take it. Nice to see I’m not the only screwed-up female sitting around this pool.”

“Definitely not. And what can I say other than noting the obvious—I’ve lost my mind.”

“He does that to women.”

“I am way out of my league.”

“On the other hand, you have a low tolerance for bullshit, so you know exactly what you’re getting into. That gives you a distinct advantage over his other women.”

“I suppose.”

“Mommyyyy!” Connor shot around the corner, his fat blue shorts bobbing from side to side as he ran.

“Hey, big guy!” Tracy rose, scooped him up, and covered his gelato-stained cheeks with kisses. He peered at Isabel over her shoulder and grinned, showing sparkly little teeth.

Something constricted around Isabel’s heart. Tracy’s life might be in disarray, but it still had its rewards.

 

Ren grabbed the FedEx envelope he’d been waiting for from the console in the villa’s entrance hall and beat a hasty retreat to the master bedroom. He locked the door against small intruders and settled into a chair by the window. As he gazed down at the midnight blue cover with night kill typed across it in unassuming letters, he felt a sense of anticipation he hadn’t experienced in years. Howard had finally finished the script.

He knew from their initial discussions that Howard’s intention was to challenge audiences with the film’s fundamental question: Was Kaspar Street simply a psychopath, or, more disturbing, was he the inevitable by-product of a society that took violence for granted? Even Saint Isabel would have to approve of that message. He smiled as he remembered the way she’d looked less than an hour ago, with the sun shining in her hair and those beautiful eyes drinking him in. He loved the way she smelled, like spice, sex, and human goodness. But he couldn’t think about her now, not when his entire career was about to open up. He settled back and began to read.

Two hours later he was in a cold sweat. This was the best work Jenks had ever done. The part of Street had dark twists and subtle nuances that would stretch Ren’s acting chops to the limit. It was no wonder every actor in Hollywood had wanted a shot at this film.

But there’d been a major change since they’d last spoken, a change Howard hadn’t discussed with Ren. With one brilliant stroke he’d intensified the film’s theme and turned it into an existential nightmare. Instead of being a man who preyed on the women he loved, Kaspar Street was now a child molester.

Ren leaned back and shut his eyes. The change was pure genius, but . . .

No buts. This was the part that would put him on the A-list of every top director in Hollywood.

He grabbed some paper to begin making notes on the character. This was always the first step for him, and he liked to do it immediately after his initial reading, while his impressions were still fresh. He’d jot down sensory memories, ideas about costume and physical movement, anything that came to mind that would eventually help him build the character.

He toyed with the cap of the pen. Usually the ideas flowed, but the change Jenks had made had thrown him off balance, and nothing was happening. He needed more time to absorb it. He’d try again tomorrow.

Several hours later, as he headed back to the farmhouse, he decided not to mention the change to Isabel. No sense in getting her all riled up. Not now. Not when their long waiting game was about to come to an end.

 

Isabel ignored Ren’s suggestion that she wear something sexy and chose her most conservative black sundress, then added a black fringed shawl scattered with tiny gold stars to cover her bare shoulders. She was feeding the cats when she heard movement behind her. A tiny pulse jumped in her throat. She turned to see an angsty-looking intellectual standing in the doorway. With his rumpled hair, wire-rimmed glasses, clean but wrinkled shirt, well-worn khakis, and the backpack slung over one shoulder, he looked like Ren Gage’s poetically inclined younger brother.

She smiled. “I was wondering who my date would be tonight.”

He took in her subdued outfit and sighed. “I knew a miniskirt was too much to hope for.”

Outside she saw a silver Alfa-Romeo parked behind her Panda. “Where did this come from?”

“My car won’t be ready for a while, so I had this delivered to hold me over.”

“People buy candy bars to hold them over, not cars.”

“Only poor people like you.”

 

The city of San Gimignano sat like a crown on the hilltop, its fourteen watchtowers dramatically outlined against the setting sun. Isabel tried to imagine how the pilgrims on their way from Northern Europe to Rome must have felt as they caught their first sight of the city. After the hazards of the open road, this would have looked like a haven of strength and security.

Ren’s thoughts had apparently taken the same path as hers. “To do this right, we should really approach by foot.”

“I don’t think these heels were designed for pilgrimages. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“The best-preserved medieval town in Tuscany. In case you didn’t have time to read your guidebook, that’s a lucky accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“This was an important city until the Black Death wiped out most of the population.”

“Just like the castle.”

“Definitely a tough time to go without antibiotics. San Gimignano was no longer a major stop on the pilgrimage route and lost its status. Fortunately for us, the few citizens who survived didn’t have the money to modernize the place, which is why so many of the watchtowers are still standing. Parts of Tea with Mussolini were filmed here.” A tour bus whizzed by in the opposite direction. “That’s the new Black Death,” he said. “Too many tourists. But the town’s so small that most of them don’t stay overnight. Anna told me it clears out by late afternoon.”

“You talked to her again?”

“I gave her permission to have the wall taken apart starting tomorrow, but only if I’m around to supervise.”

“I’ll bet she didn’t like that.”

“Ask me if I care. I put Jeremy in charge of guard duty.”

Ren parked in the lot just outside the ancient walls and slung the backpack over his shoulders. Although his angsty intellectual’s disguise didn’t hide as much of him as his other disguises had, most of the sightseers had left, and he didn’t attract too much attention as they toured the town.

He shared what he knew about the frescoes in the twelfth- century Romanesque church and was remarkably patient as she poked into the shops. Afterward they walked through the narrow, hilly streets to the Rocca, the town’s ancient fortress, and climbed its surviving tower to gaze out at the view of distant hills and fields, spectacular in the fading evening light.

He pointed toward the vineyards. “They’re growing grapes for vernaccia, the local white wine. What do you say we sample some of it with our dinner while we have that talk you’re so keen on?”

His slow smile made her skin prickle, and she nearly told him she wanted to forget both the wine and their talk so they could go straight to bed. But she was too bruised to handle any more blows, and she needed to do this right.

The small dining room at the Hotel Cisterna had stone walls, peach linen tablecloths, and another of the spectacular views that Tuscany gave away for free. From their table tucked in a corner between a set of windows, they could look down on the sloping, red tile rooftops of San Gimignano and watch the lights come on in the houses and farms that surrounded the town.

He lifted his wineglass. “To talking. May this conversation be mercifully short and wildly productive.”

As she took a sip of the crisp vernaccia, she reminded herself that women who didn’t claim their own power got stomped on. “We’re going to have an affair.”

“Thank you, God.”

“But we’re doing it on my terms.”

“Now, there’s a surprise.”

“Do you have to be sarcastic about everything? Because if you do, I need to tell you right now that it’s not attractive.”

“You’re just as sarcastic as I am.”

“Which is why I know how unappealing it is.”

“Just go on, will you? I can tell you’re dying to lay out your terms. And I’m hoping ‘lay’ is the operative word here, or is that too sarcastic for you?”

He was already enjoying himself.

“Here’s what we need to be clear about.” She ignored the fact that his eyes were flashing a dozen different kinds of amusement. She didn’t care. Too many women lost their spirit to their lovers, but she wouldn’t be one of them. “First . . . you can’t criticize.”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“Because I’m not the sexual triathlete you are, and because I threaten you, which you don’t like.”

“Okay. No criticism. And you don’t threaten me.”

“Number two . . . I won’t participate in anything kinky. Just straightforward sex.”

Behind the lenses of those scholarly glasses, his silver-blue wolf’s eyes grew cagey. “What’s your definition of straightforward?”

“The accepted definition.”

“Got it. No groups. No toys. No Saint Bernard. Disappointing, but I can live with it.”

“Forget it! Just forget it.” She threw down her napkin. “You are way out of my league, and I don’t know why I entertained the notion, even for a moment, that we could go ahead with this.”

“Sorry. I was getting bored.” He leaned across the table to flip her napkin back into her lap. “Do you want strict missionary position, or would you rather be on top?”

Leave it to him to try to turn this into a joke. Tough. Men had dozens of ways of protecting the illusion of their superiority, but she wasn’t buying into any of them. “We can be spontaneous about that.”

“Can we take our clothes off?”

“You can. As a matter of fact, it’s a requirement.”

He smiled. “If you don’t want to undress, that’s fine with me. A nice pair of black fishnets and a garter belt should help retain your sense of modesty.”

“You’re all heart.” She traced the rim of her wineglass with her finger. “Stating the obvious, this is only going to be about our bodies. There won’t be an emotional component.”

“If you say so.”

Now came the tough part, but she wasn’t backing off. “One more item . . . I won’t engage in oral sex.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s just not my thing. A little too . . . earthy.”

“You know, you’re kind of limiting my options here.”

She set her jaw. “Take it or leave it.”

Oh, he was going to take it all right, Ren thought as he watched that delectable mouth set in a mulish line. He’d made love both on-screen and off- to the most beautiful women in the world, but not one of those exquisite faces had as much life going on behind it as Isabel’s. He saw intelligence, humor, determination, and an overriding compassion for the human condition. Even so, all he could think about was scooping her up right this minute and carrying her to the nearest bed. Unfortunately, Dr. Fifi wasn’t exactly a scoopable sort of woman, not when she had an agenda. He wouldn’t be surprised if she whipped out some kind of contract and made him sign it first.

The pulse fluttering lightly in her throat encouraged him. She wasn’t nearly as self-possessed as she pretended to be. “I’m feeling a little insecure,” he said.

“Why should you feel insecure? You’re getting what you want.”

He knew he was working with a short rope, yet he refused to let her call all the shots. “But what I want seems to have some big warning stickers plastered across it.”

“You’re just not used to women openly communicating their needs. I understand that might feel threatening.”

Who would have figured a great brain could be so sexy? “Regardless, my ego’s getting pretty deflated.”

“Metaphysically speaking, that’s a good thing.”

“Physically speaking, it isn’t. I want to believe I’m irresistible to you.”

“You’re irresistible.”

“Could you manage to sound a little more enthusiastic?”

“It’s a sore point.”

“My irresistibility?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. This was more like it.

The waiter arrived with an antipasto that included sausage, olives, and golden bites of deep-fried vegetables. Ren chose one and reached across the table to hold it to her lips. “Okay, just to summarize the agenda: no criticism and no oral sex. That’s what you said, right? Nothing too kinky.”

He’d hoped he could get another rise out of her, but she was made of stronger stuff. “That’s what I said.”

He slipped the morsel between her lips. “I guess I shouldn’t ask about whips or paddles.”

She didn’t even bother responding to that silliness. Instead, she took a delicate dab at the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“Or handcuffs,” he said.

“Handcuffs?” The napkin stalled halfway to her lap.

Was this a spark of interest? She looked flustered, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let her see that he’d noticed. “Forget it. I was being disrespectful, and I apologize.”

“A-apology accepted.”

He heard that little stammer and fought down a chuckle. So, Ms. Control Freak might not be averse to a little light bondage. Even though he had a pretty good idea which one of them was going to end up in handcuffs, he decided it was a good start. He just hoped to hell she wouldn’t lose the key.

Ren took every excuse he could find to touch her during the meal. His legs brushed hers under the table. He stroked her knee. He played with her fingers and fed her tidbits from his plate. In a corny move he must have picked up from one of his films, he rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. How calculated could a man get? And every bit of it was working.

He pushed aside his empty cup of cappuccino. The meal had been delicious, but she couldn’t remember a thing she’d eaten. “Are you finished?” he asked.

Oh, she was finished all right.

When she nodded, he led her from the dining room toward a crooked flight of stairs, but instead of descending, he steered her up.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought you might like a bird’s-eye view of the piazza.”

She’d seen enough views for today. She wanted to get back to the farmhouse. Or maybe he’d like to do it in the car. She’d never done it in a car, but tonight seemed like a good time for new experiences. “I think I’ll pass on the view. Maybe we should head for the car.”

“Not so fast. I know you’re going to want to see this.” With his hand on her elbow, he turned down a corridor and pulled a heavy European room key from his pocket.

“When did you get that?”

“You didn’t really think I was going to give you a chance to change your mind, did you?”

The room was tiny, with gilt moldings, a swirl of cherubs frescoed over the ceiling, and a double bed with a simple white counterpane. “The only one they had left, but I think it’ll do, don’t you?” He set down his backpack.

“Very nicely.” She kicked off her sandals, determined not to let him take over. After she’d dropped her shawl on a straight-backed chair, she set down her purse, pulled out a condom, and marched over to place it on the bedside table. Naturally, that made him laugh.

“Not too optimistic, are you?” He took off his glasses and tossed them aside.

“I have more.”

“Of course you do.” He turned to lock the door. “And so, by the way, do I.”

She reminded herself that tonight had nothing to do with love or permanency. It was about sex, the predictable outcome of being around Lorenzo Gage. And right now he was her personal plaything. Oh, he did look delicious.

She tried to make up her mind where to start. Should she undress him first? Unwrap him like a birthday present? Or did she want to kiss him?

He set the key on the dresser and frowned at her. “Are you making a list?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you have that list-making look on your face.”

“Makes you nervous, doesn’t it?” She slipped across the carpet, wound her arms around his shoulders, and drew his head down far enough so she could reach that great mouth. Then she took a small nip at his bottom lip—”Hey!”—just to let him know he had a tiger to contend with.

She grinned, hugged him tighter, and gave him a big, sloppy open-mouth kiss to heal that little wound, all the time making certain it was her tongue that stayed in the driver’s seat.

He didn’t seem to mind.

She snaked one leg around his calves. He gripped her bottom and lifted her off the ground, which was perfect, because it made her taller than he was, and, oh, she did love a position of superiority. She put a little more of herself into the kiss and slipped one foot between his legs.

He definitely enjoyed that move, and he started walking her backward toward the bed, already trying to take over. “Strip first,” she said into his mouth.

“Strip?”

“Uh-huh . . . and make it slow.”

He set her on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her, all dangerous sex and raunchy intention. Those chiseled lips barely moved when he spoke. “You sure you’re woman enough to deal with it?”

“Fairly certain, yes.”

“I don’t want you to get ahead of yourself.”

“Give me your best shot.”

She could tell he was enjoying himself, even though he didn’t betray it by so much as a flicker of those dark, spiky eyelashes. She also knew there wouldn’t be any muscle flexing or cheesy calendar-boy posing. He was the real thing.

Slowly . . . languidly . . . he unbuttoned his shirt. Taking his time, freeing each button with the barest twist of his fingers. The shirt fell open. Her whisper was husky. “Excellent. I do love having my own private movie star.”

The shirt slithered to the floor. He dropped his hand to his belt buckle, but instead of opening it, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Inspire me first.”

She reached under her dress, pulled off her panties, and tossed them aside.

“Excellent,” he said. “I do love having my own sexy guru.”

By the time he’d cast his belt aside, lost his shoes and socks, and dragged his zipper down the first few inches, she was dry-mouthed. This was definitely a two-thumbs-up performance.

She waited for him to tug his zipper the rest of the way, but he shook his head. “A little more inspiration.”

She reached behind herself and dragged her zipper down a lot farther than he’d opened his. Her dress slid off one shoulder. She unclipped her earrings.

“Pathetic.” He discarded his slacks and stood before her in a pair of silky, midnight blue boxers, 190 pounds of rough trade, all for her. “Before you see any more, I’m going to require another dose of inspiration.”

He was trying to take charge again, but what would be the fun of that for either of them? She crooked her finger in a come-hither gesture she’d never used in her life, never thought to use, and yet she wasn’t a bit surprised when he came hither.

She leaned back into the pillows and held out her arms, so ready for him she felt as if she were melting into the covers. He reached down and flicked up her skirt. Not all the way, just to the tops of her thighs, which was far enough to make her skin steam. The mattress dipped as he settled over her. He braced his weight on his forearms so their chests weren’t touching and dropped his head.

It was so tempting to answer the invitation of his kiss. But the idea of exerting her own kind of power over this dark-haired beast was too exhilarating to give up, so she scooted out from under and gave him a good push. He obliged by rolling to his back. “This just keeps getting better and better,” he said.

“We aim to please.”

When she settled on top of him, he couldn’t quite keep the devil from his eyes. “Happy?”

She grinned. “Pretty much.”

A nicer, more sensitive man would simply have let her do this on her own terms, but he wasn’t a nice man, and he nipped her shoulder, biting just hard enough so she felt it, then sucking on the spot. “You shouldn’t play with fire unless you’re ready to feel the burn.”

“You’re scaring me.” She slid her leg over his hips. “And when I get scared, I get a little hyper.” Drawing up her knees, she settled on top of both him and his silky midnight blue boxers.

He sucked in his breath.

She wiggled. “Do I need to slow down a little? I wouldn’t want to frighten you.”

“Uh . . . no. Stay right where you are.” He pushed his hands under her skirt and curled them around her bottom.

She’d never imagined how exquisite it would be to have both her mind and body so aroused at the same time. But she wanted to laugh, too, and the contrast made her dizzy.

“Are you going to sit there all night,” he said, “or are you going to . . . get moving?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Whether I’m ready for you to excite me.”

“You need more excitement?”

“Oh, yes . . .”

“That does it!” He pushed her off him and flipped her to her back. “Never expect a woman to do a man’s job.”

Her skirt flew to her waist. He shoved her thighs apart. “Sorry, sweetheart, but this has to be done.” Before she could object, he plunged down on her and buried his mouth.

Rockets shot off inside her head. She let out a low, hoarse cry.

“Hang on,” he muttered against her wet flesh. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

She tried to clamp her legs together, but his head was there, and her knees wouldn’t have shut anyway, because it was all too exquisite.

His tongue delved, his lips stroked, and wild shards of sensation made her feel as if she were floating up off the bed. He could have teased her, but didn’t—and she flew.

When she came back to herself, the midnight-blue boxers were gone. He rolled her on top, then pushed inside, not quite all the way. His expression grew tender, and he reached up to brush a lock of hair from her face. “It was necessary.”

To her astonishment, her voice worked, although it croaked. “I told you I didn’t want you to do that.”

“Punish me.”

Oh, she wanted to laugh, but he’d stretched her full, and she was languid and hot and ready for more.

“I’m only wearing one.” He tilted his head toward the condom wrapper on the bed. “You’ll have to hope for the best.”

“Go ahead and make fun of me, lover boy. You won’t be laughing for long.” She crossed her arms over her body and pulled off her dress, conscious of the feel of him embedded inside her, almost—but not quite—all the way.

He drew her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. Now she wore only a black lacy bra and her gold bangle with breathe engraved inside. Slowly, she began to move, reveling in her power, feeling every inch a woman who could satisfy a man like this.

His hands didn’t stay still for long. They flicked open her bra and tossed it aside so he could claim her breasts. Then he gripped her bottom and stroked her where their bodies met. Finally he drew her down so he could have her mouth. His hips thrust beneath her, and she wanted it to be as wonderful for him as it was for her, so even as their mouths mated, she forced herself to hold back, move slower and slower, ignore her own body’s fierce demand.

His skin gleamed with sweat. His muscles quivered. She moved slower . . . Slower still . . . She was dying, and so was he, and he could have driven into her to finish off, but he didn’t, and she knew that the effort was costing him. Costing her . . . But she went even slower.

Slower still. Barely moving.

Only the slightest friction . . . The smallest contraction . . .

Until even that . . .

. . . was too much.