She drew away and took a ragged breath.

When Cyril leaned in to renew the kiss, she planted her hands on his chest and pushed gently. “Let me look at you for a moment.”

He straightened and gave her a panty-dropping smile.

His unseeing eyes were as handsome as ever. His complexion had darkened with desire, and the bulging muscles of his chest flexed under her touch. Through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and through the air between them, she could feel the heat coming off his body. There was something feline—graceful and hard—about his posture.

Like a wild cat before a bound.

He was magnificent.

Cyril bent toward her, angling his head for a kiss. “Your time’s up.”

And she abandoned herself to his demanding mouth and hands all over her.

When he drew back, it was to yank his T-shirt off. She took in the expanse of his chest, sculpted muscles everywhere. Giddy with excitement, she stepped closer and pressed her lips to him, trailing hot kisses on the bulges and hollows of his chest. Her hands caressed his upper back then slid down and found his firm buttocks. He had a fantastic ass—tight with muscle and rounded just so—a treat to stroke.

And to squeeze.

He tugged her T-shirt and pulled it up and over her head. Buckles clinked undone, zippers came open, jeans slid down and thumped to the floor.

Thank God it was still warm and she hadn’t yet started layering her pullovers or wearing pantyhose. She would have died from an excess of lust before her winter getup came off.

He reached down between her legs, stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and cupped her through her panties. A wave of pleasure shot through her and stole the strength from her legs. She gripped his shoulders and threw her head back as his skilled fingers drew heat to her core.

When she felt herself nearing the edge, she grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from her.

He leaned forward, a plea in his raspy voice. “Emma.”

She searched for words to tell him she didn’t want to climax this way, not now. It was their first time as Cyril and Emma. On some deeply significant level, it was their real first time together. And she needed him to be with her—in her—when she came.

But words failed her, so she laced her fingers through his and led him to her bedroom. They toppled to the bed, kissing and removing each other’s underwear in a heated frenzy. An unbearably long intermission later, caused by too much eagerness and a stubborn foil packet, he finally entered her with one delicious thrust.

Dear God.

She moaned her pleasure, straining with anticipation, but no other thrusts followed. Instead, he captured her hands in his, yanked them up, and pressed them into the pillow. She kissed his chin and whispered his name, her voice breathless with desire. Her legs wrapped around his thighs, and her hips rocked under him, urging him to resume his lovemaking. But he lay perfectly still, only his rattled breathing and flushed skin betraying the effort it cost him.

He held her hands for a few moments, his palms pressing into hers, fingers interlocked. Then he brought her hands closer together. She panted with the sweet torture of it. He clasped her wrists with one large hand and tongued her earlobe while his free hand traced the contours of her neck, clavicles, and shoulders. Then it slipped between their chests and cupped her right breast.

She whimpered softly as he kneaded and fondled it, applying just the right amount of pressure, rubbing the pad of his thumb across its peak. Then his fingers slid down to her tummy, caressed her hip, and dug into the yielding flesh of her bottom. She tilted her head and kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. He groaned and began to tease her tongue with light strokes. When he pulled out of her mouth, her tongue followed him into the warmth of his, and she shivered when he caught it between his teeth and bit lightly.

As their tongues danced their fevered tango, his hand returned to her breast, and he gently rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. She gasped against his mouth and thrashed in another desperate attempt to get him to do her bidding. He wanted her to beg, did he? Was that what he was after? Very well, she’d beg because right now she didn’t care if she did something wrong, if she was awkward or ridiculous. She didn’t care about her lack of sexual prowess anymore. She didn’t care about anything except how badly she needed him to start moving again.

Inside her.

“Please,” she rasped. “I can’t… I need you to…”

He stopped stroking her breast and smiled. “Yes? What is it you need, mon ange? I’ll do anything. Just say it.”

Just say it? “You fiend,” she growled. “You know very well what I need.”

His face grew serious. “Yes, I do.”

And so he did.

An hour later, he rummaged through the pile of discarded clothes they’d left on the floor and found his boxer briefs. He pulled them on and rose from the bed. “Which way is the entrance door?”

Emma burst out in laughter. “Wow. You’re really in a rush to leave.”

He chuckled. “No chance. I won’t leave here until you kick me out. I just need the bag I left there.”

“I’ll fetch it.” She padded to the door and back in her bare feet and handed him his bulky duffel bag.

He unzipped it, took out a faded black guitar case, and opened it.

She held her breath. Could it be? Was he playing again?

“I wrote a song last night—”

“You what? Oh my God, Cyril, that’s fantabulous! Can I hear it? Please?”

He nodded. “Just keep in mind that I haven’t had time to polish it.”

“I’m sure it’s good.”

“I hope so.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. This song isn’t for the public. It’s… private.”

He strummed a few chords and cleared his throat. But instead of singing, he smiled self-consciously and said, “It’s called ‘Falling for Emma.’ ”

It took her a few seconds to register his words. As soon as she did, her eyes began to cloud over. She blinked ferociously to hold the tears back. Being with a blind guy had its perks—no need to worry he would see her cry and think she was a cornball.

He was still strumming, his expression betraying a mix of concentration and nervousness.

She wiped her cheeks with her palms and sat on the bed, tucking her knees under her chin. “Let’s hear it. With that kind of title, I’m sure I’ll like your song no matter how terrible it is.”

He grinned, his facial muscles suddenly relaxing.

And then he began to sing.

Sweet Lord, that voice. So intense and yet perceptive. So quintessentially masculine—deep, velvety, a little ragged on the edges. It always had the same effect on her ever since she heard him sing for the first time in Geraldine’s room all those years ago. In fact, “hearing” didn’t even come close to conveying what his songs did to her. They enveloped her, penetrated every inch of her skin, every muscle and tissue held under it, and went straight to the twenty-one grams of mysterious substance people called a soul.