If she proceeded, at long last, her actions would be as scandalous as society had always expected them to be. And she would likely pay.

But she would not regret.

Indeed, if she did not take her one night . . . she would regret it forever.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The only light in the room was from the fireplace, and it took Juliana a moment to see Simon, standing by the fire, tumbler of scotch in hand, dressed only in his boots and breeches and pristine white shirtsleeves.

He spun toward the door as she closed it firmly behind her, the shock on his face quickly replaced with something more dangerous. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her before stopping midstride, as though he had hit an invisible wall.

She took a deep breath. “The night is not over, Simon. You owe me the rest.”

He closed his eyes, and she thought he might be asking for patience. “Tell me you are not in this room with me. Tell me you are not here wearing nothing but your nightclothes.”

He opened his eyes, and his gaze found her, warm and liquid, like honey. It seared through her, reminding her of how much she loved his heat, his touch, his kiss . . . him.

She could not live the rest of her life without this moment . . . this night . . . without knowing what it was like to be his.

It was now or never. And there was no time for hesitation.

She put her hands to the sash of her silk robe and undid it in quick, economical movements, before he could stop her. Before she could stop herself.

One night.

Calling the siren in her, she said, “I am not wearing nightclothes, Simon.”

She let the silk drop to her feet in a lush sapphire pool.

As Simon took in her stunning, bare body, all long and lush and perfectly beautiful, he was not thinking that she was a staggering beauty, although she absolutely was.

He was also not thinking that he should resist her—that he should pack her back into the silk bit of nothing that she had discarded and return her to her bedchamber—although he absolutely should have done so.

Nor was he thinking that he should forget this had ever happened, because in all honesty, he knew an exercise in futility when faced with one. And he would never, ever forget this moment.

The moment when he realized that she was going to be his.

The truth of the words was almost unbearable as he watched her facing him—bold and brave and perfect, and willing him to take what she offered.

She was here. And she was naked.

And she loved him.

He had neither the will nor the strength to turn her away—not when he wanted her so much.

There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist her.

And he was through trying.

Everything would change.

The words whispered through his mind, and he was not sure if they were a warning or a promise. But he no longer cared.

She stood proud and still, facing him, her beautiful skin gleaming in the flickering golden light, casting wicked, enticing shadows across her. She had taken down her hair, and it cocooned her, all ebony curls wrapping about her shoulders and high, firm br**sts as though she were a classical painting and not real at all.

Her hands were by her side, fingers clenched as if she were consciously trying not to cover the perfect, dark triangle that hid her most tempting secrets. He nearly groaned at the perfection of her.

She was a sacrificial offering at the temple of his sanity.

She took a deep breath, letting it out on a long, shaky sigh, and he noticed her trembling—the soft skin of her lush, curving belly, the hesitant rise and fall of her br**sts, the tremor in her throat.

She was nervous.

He dropped the glass in his hand to the floor, not caring where it landed or what it ruined—caring only about reaching her.

And then he was holding her, lifting her against him, and she had wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and plunged her fingers into his hair, and his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was rough and searing, and she matched his need; where he went, she followed, opening for him, giving him everything for which he asked with a series of little, wanton sighs that set him aflame.

She was his.

He tore his lips from her, giving her scant space to breathe. “If you stay . . . you give yourself to me.”

She had to understand that. Had to make her own decision.

She nodded, eyes heavy with desire. “Yes. I am yours.”

He shook his head, knowing he had seconds before his passion took over, and they were both lost. “Leave now if you have any doubts.”

There was a pause, and the need to possess her coursed through him, thick and unforgiving and earth-shattering. Her gaze cleared, blue and beautiful. “I have no doubts, Simon.” She leaned close, her lips barely touching his, threatening to drive him mad. “Show me everything.”

His control snapped, and he no longer cared. He was overwhelmed with a primitive desire as he kissed her again and again, his hands running over her warm, endlessly smooth skin, pressing her to him, clasping her full, round bottom in his hands.

He pulled away enough to speak. “You are mine,” he said, and he heard the lack of control in the words. Didn’t care. What he felt for her in that moment was utterly unrefined. “Mine,” he repeated, refusing to let her have the kiss she was reaching for until she looked into his eyes. “Mine.”

“Yes,” she said, rocking into him, her heat against the length of him making him wild. “I am yours.”

He rewarded her with another kiss.

God, he loved kissing her. Loved her taste, her enthusiasm, the way she set him on fire with the stroke of her tongue. When he pulled back just briefly to meet her eyes again—stunningly blue with her desire—she shook her head almost instantly. “I am yours,” she repeated, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling him back into the kiss. He groaned at the roughness, punctuated by the soft, unbearably wanton stroke of her tongue over the spot where her teeth had been.