When he lifted his head, she said, “No.”

Dropping a kiss to her nipple, he shifted his attention to her other breast and it was just as good. It tightened her stomach muscles, made her thighs clench around him. “Janvier.”

“Let me, ma belle sorcière.”

She gave in, allowed him to do what he would, and was panting so hard by the time he lifted his head again that she had no breath to form words. Janvier stroked his hand down her ribs, then reached underneath and up to undo her bra clasp. When that proved difficult with her on her back, he grinned at her. “I’ll replace it.” Lace and cotton tore and her top half was nude to him.

Stroking her, shoulder to thigh, he kissed her mouth, her jaw, whispering sweet, dirty things in her ear that had her hips rising toward him even before he undid her jeans and slid his hand inside her panties. The shock of contact would’ve lifted her off the bed if he hadn’t been pinning her down with his body.

“So wet for me, cher.” His breathing as harsh as her own, he accompanied each word with a kiss. “You make me lose my mind.”

Her own mind a chaos of sensation, she clutched at his shoulders and, unable to resist the temptation, looked down. The sight of his hand between her thighs, his muscular forearm lightly dusted with hair, made her moan. She needed his kiss, needed to find an anchor again. He bent his head, gave her what she wanted without a word passing between them.

When he withdrew his hand ten seconds later, she dug her nails into his shoulders.

“I would see you.” Going down off the bed with those words—with a pause for a kiss or three along her body—he hooked his fingers at the sides and pulled off her jeans and panties in one strong tug. Dropping them onto the floor, he came to kneel between her thighs, taking hold of her knees to spread her wide.

Fingers closing on the sheets, she watched him watch her. His eyes were heavy lidded, his cheeks flushed at the arch of his cheekbones, his breathing ragged. And when she ran her eyes down his body, it was to see that he was thickly aroused, the zipper of his jeans doing a very bad job of containing his length.

“Take off your jeans.” She wanted to see him, too, wanted to have every inch of him touch every inch of her.

“In a minute.” Inserting his hand back between her thighs, he began to stroke her lightly, so lightly. Again and again and again until her skin shimmered and she was rising up against him, caught on the edge of a pleasure so intense, she could feel it building under her skin like an electrical storm surge.

He withdrew his hand.

She threatened to murder him in creative ways.

Janvier’s responding smile imprisoned her, seduced her. When he kissed her, she bit him. It only made his smile deepen. Wrapping her legs around his hips had no effect. He made his way down her body, and then . . .

The scream that came out her mouth as his own closed over her clit was a thin echo, her lungs devoid of air. He sucked hard, eating her up like she was candy, and the storm surge crested, collided. Her mind splintered, rode the crest . . . and he kept on kissing her, long slow licks, small sucks, and quick flicks that had her riding the wave for so long that she was boneless when it passed, her muscles quivering.

Pressing a kiss to her inner thigh, Janvier rose and got rid of his jeans at last.

Beautiful, she thought but couldn’t say, her mind too fuzzy from the exquisite, erotic thing he’d done to her.

“You are the beautiful one, sugar.”

She frowned, but then he was coming over and she had other things to think about. His naked body on hers, it felt even better than she’d imagined, all heat and strength and a wholly masculine weight, his skin silk under her possessive hands.

Rubbing against her, Janvier reached down to stroke her again. She shivered, sensitive but not in a bad way. “Yes,” she murmured, before he could ask the question.

He kissed her again, and this time she kept her eyes open. So did he. The intimacy was blinding. When he slid his finger inside her, she shuddered but didn’t break the eye contact. Neither did he . . . and nudged in another finger. Spreading his fingers slightly inside her, he curved them to stroke her deep and slow.

Feeling the storm surge begin to build again, she stroked his cheek. “Together this time.”

Turning his head, he kissed her palm.

Her heart squeezed.

She ran her fingers through his hair and down over his nape as he removed his hand from between her legs and shifted position. When he slid his palm down her inner left thigh, she let him push her thigh out wider, and then he was nudging at her with his cock. She moaned at the feel of him pushing into her, the blunt head of his cock wide enough that she definitely felt it, her muscles stretching in an effort to accommodate him.

A small sound escaped her throat. He went motionless.

Tightening her legs around his hips, she rocked up. “I want you inside me.” Kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his throat, her hands cupping his face. “I need you.”

“Ashwini.” The fingers of one hand digging into her hip, he took a shaky breath and pushed.

It burned but the hurt was a good one.

He slid in another inch, both of them sucked in a breath . . . and he began to retreat. But he pushed back before she could complain, going in an inch deeper. Again, and again. By the time he got to the fifth stroke, she’d forgotten the edge of discomfort and was thinking only of the pleasure. Muscles clenching around him, she heard him swear and then there was no more thinking.

Just heat and sex and Janvier’s body stroking in and out of her, their mouths ravenous on one another and their eyes open. She gave him her soul, took his, and it was as it had always been meant to be.