She was his siren. Had been from the beginning.

Gone was the refined duke who had turned her away in the town square—who had sent her back to her family with all the gentlemanly restraint befitting his position. In his place was a mere man—flesh and blood and starving.

And she was his banquet.

He carried her to the bed, knowing that everything was about to change and failing to care. He followed her down to the crisp linen sheets, pressing between her long, warm thighs and taking her mouth again and again, whispering to her between kisses in both English and Italian.

“My siren . . . carina . . . so soft . . . so beautiful . . . che bella . . . che bellissima.”

She writhed beneath him, pressing and rocking against him as her hands yanked on the linen of his shirt, pulling the garment up until she had access to bare skin. And then her fingers were on him, leaving trails of fire along his back, and he thought he might die if he could not get closer to her. He lifted off her, hissing his pleasure as the movement pressed him—hard and thick—against the softest, warmest part of her.

Looking down at her, he took in her wide, kiss-stung lips, her flushed cheeks, and her enormous blue eyes, filled with desire. Her hands traced around to his stomach and pushed up under the shirt, running over his chest until one wayward thumb found a nipple and he gasped.

Wicked knowledge flashed in her gaze, and she did it again once, twice, before he whispered, “You are killing me,” and leaned down to take her mouth once more.

When he lifted his head again, she said, “Take it off. I want to be closer. As close as possible.” And he thought he would drown in the heat of the words.

The shirt was gone instantly, and he took her mouth again, stroking deep before he rolled off her to give himself access to her lush body. She cried out at the loss of him, reaching for him before he captured her hands and pulled them over her head, holding them easily in one of his. “No. You are mine,” he said, his free hand trailing down to stroke the tip of one beautiful breast, teasing until it was hard and begging for his mouth. “You came to me,” he whispered at her ear, tonguing the soft lobe there. “Why, Siren?”

“I—” she began, stopping when he rolled the tip of one breast between his fingers.

“Why?” he repeated, desperate to hear her answer.

“I wanted the night . . .” she gasped.

“Why?” He trailed his lips down her throat, dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base.

“I—” She stopped as he pressed soft kisses to the skin of her breast, leaving a trail as he headed toward the aching tip. “Simon . . .” the whisper was a plea. God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. He blew one long stream of air over the nipple, reveling in the tightening of the skin and her gasp. “Please . . .”

“Why did you come to me?”

Say it, he willed, knowing it was not his place. Knowing he did not deserve it.

“I love you.”

A thrill coursed through him at the words, so simple. So honest. He took the straining tip between his lips, rewarding her with long pulls at the sweet flesh there. Loving the way she writhed against him, the way she cried out when he ran his tongue and teeth over her sensitive flesh, the way her hands twisted so that her fingers could thread through his.

When he lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and he was desperate to touch her everywhere.

To taste her everywhere.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

He released her hands, sliding down her body, placing warm kisses along her br**sts and stomach and the soft crease where her thigh and hip met and the scent of her was unbearably perfect.

He was addicted to her softness, to the feel of her, to the way she pressed against the sheets and rocked her hips against him. He had never wanted anything in his life the way he wanted her. Now.

And she was here.

And she was his.

Simon slid off the bed, kneeling beside it. She sat up, instantly. “Where are you—?” The question gave way to a little squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side, and stroked up her smooth soft skin from ankle to knee. He watched his hands, large and brown, follow the curve of her legs, and could not resist palming her strong, lean calves and easing her legs apart.

“What are you—? Simon!” she gasped, and he leaned forward, insinuating his body between her thighs. Her hands flew to cover the place he was desperate to touch, and he nipped the edge of her jaw lightly with his teeth.

“Lie back, Siren.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. You can’t.”

“You can. And I shall.” He heard the gravel in his tone. Felt the desperate desire coursing through him. If she did not let him touch her soon . . . “You asked for everything,” he said, the words thick at her ear. “This is part of it.”

She pulled back, and if he had not been as hard and aching as he was, he would have laughed at the skepticism in his gaze. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“You gave yourself to me,” he said, pressing her thighs wider, sliding his hands higher, touching his tongue to the perfect arch of one of her cheeks. “This is what I want.” She caught her breath as his fingers reached her hands, shielding her from view. He stroked his fingertips down the skin of her hands, a light, barely there touch that they both felt acutely. He stroked again, up to one delicate wrist, then back down. “I think you want it, too.”

He moved back to her ear, loving her shyness, her uncertainty. Wanting to teach her to share her secrets. “You ache here, don’t you?” She nodded, barely, and a surge of masculine pleasure coursed through him. “I can take it away.”