She opened her eyes, and he licked again, loving the way desire flooded her. “Tell me.”

“It feels —”

He repeated the movement, lingering at the top of the caress, where she wanted him most, and she cried out. He spoke there. “Go on.”

“Glorious.”

“More.”

He swirled his tongue over the little, straining bud, and she sighed. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t if you tell me.”

“It feels like… I’ve never…” He sucked, loving the way she lost her words. “Oh, God.”

He smiled, letting his tongue play at her. “Not God.”

“Duncan.” She sighed his name, and he thought he would die if he wasn’t inside her soon.

“Tell me.”

“It’s beautiful.” Her hands found his hair, her fingers pressing him toward her as her hips rocked against him. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, and he was shocked by the words. And then she said something thoroughly unexpected. “It feels like… love.”

And there, in that moment, with the word hovering in the air, he realized that that was precisely what he meant for it to feel like.

He loved her.

The realization should have terrified him, but instead, it washed over him with the warm pleasure that came from truth, finally revealed. And at the far edge of that pleasure was the edge of something unpleasant. Devastation. Denial.

He ignored it, instead making love to her with slow, slick strokes. She moved against him, showing him what she liked, where she liked it, and he gave it to her without hesitation. She was manna, and he fed upon her, wanting to bring her pleasure only to give her pleasure. To give her the memory of this moment.

Of his love – a love that could not be.

Slow circles became fast, moving in time to her breath and her sighs and the feel of her fingers in his hair and the rise and fall of her glorious hips. And then she found her release, and he held her, stroking her, kissing her softly, guiding her through it, and back.

As her last, pleased sigh echoed around them, he rose from his knees, desperate for her, adoring the way her gaze tracked him, eyes wide, lips parted. He stripped out of his coat and cravat, watching her watch him, wanting her as she wanted him. He pulled his shirt over his head, lowering his arms and resisting the urge to preen as her attention fell to his chest, to his stomach.

She closed her mouth, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

He wanted to roar his pleasure at her obvious approval.

“Poseidon,” she whispered.

He raised a brow in silent question, wondering if he would be able to wait for her answer before he took her in his arms and made her his. Forever.

He could ignore the word and its insidious whisper in the dark recesses of his mind, because she answered. “At your home, in your swimming pool…” She reached for him, her fingertips running along his shoulder, down the curve of his arm, where his muscles were taut with the effort it took not to claim her. “You were Poseidon in the water, so strong…” The fingers moved to the muscles of his abdomen. “So perfectly made…” trailing up through the hair there, “so handsome…” sliding over the skin of his chest until they found the flat disc of his nipple and he nearly groaned his pleasure. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest in a lovely, lingering caress.

She pulled away and met his gaze. “God of the sea.”

“And you, my siren,” he said, reaching for her, letting his fingers slide into the soft hair at the nape of her neck, lifting her face to him.

“I hope not,” she said, and he paused, waiting for her to explain. She smiled, and the expression was small and filled with sin. “Poseidon could resist the sirens.”

He could not resist her. Not for all the world. He took her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss, even as her hands came to the fall of his trousers and he thought he might die from the wait as she worked at the buttons there. She fumbled with the fastenings and he moved to take over.

“No,” she said, pulling back and meeting his gaze. “I want to do it.”

He took a breath, steeled himself. “Do it, then.”

And then there was a glorious release, and her hands were sliding into the placket of his trousers, finally, finally touching him. He swore, the word harsh and soft in the room as she freed him. He watched her, loving the way her gaze fell to him, the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, and he would have given his entire fortune to know what she thought of him. And then the tip of her pink tongue came out, sliding along her lower lip, and her hands moved, stroking, long and lush.

Once. Twice.

He placed his hand on hers, staying the movement. “Stop.”

She froze, her gaze flying to his. “Am I…” She hesitated. Tried again. “Did I do something wrong?”

He stilled at the words, at the expression in her wide eyes – concern, apprehension. He narrowed his gaze on hers, hating the falseness. He loved her. And still she lied to him. “No. Don’t play the innocent. I want the real you. Not the fantasy.” He put his hands to her cheeks, turning her up to him. “I don’t care about the past. Only about the present.”

The future.

No. He could not care about that.

It was not for him.

Something flashed in those beautiful amber eyes. Something like frustration. She looked away, then down at where their hands were entwined, wrapped about him. “Show me,” she whispered finally. “Show me what you like.”

He leaned in, kissing her again, wanting to return them to the moment. He slid his lips to her ear. “I like it all, love. I like every bit of you on every bit of me. And I like your hands wrapped around me, tight and hot like a promise.” Her breathing was fast at his ear, and he guided her hands on him. “I like your beautiful eyes on me. I like you watching me. I like you watching yourself touch me.” He moved back enough to let her look down their bodies, at their hands, at the length of him, so close to her. So close to the place he wanted to be. “Shall I tell you what else I like?”