At last she had her way. He was there, thrusting vigorously in the way she loved. She drove back against him, drawing him deep into her, knowing this excited him to madness. She loved his strength, the fierce power in his loins, his tirelessness. To match it she offered her craving for him that could never be satisfied for long, her delight in pleasing him as much as he pleased her.

Later she tormented herself with questions. Had she spoiled things by being too forward, too eager, too always ready? Should she have held off, teased him, made him wonder about her? That might have been subtle and clever, but it would also have been a kind of deception that her passionately honest nature couldn't have managed. She was young and bursting with health. To enjoy sex with your lover seemed natural, like discovering the secret of life itself, or being given a Christmas present every day. And each day the present was a little different, a little better. But had her own gifts to him grown better? Or had he gradually become bored with her? She would always wonder. Or perhaps wondering was just a word for knowing the truth but not admitting it.

But there were other memories to set beside these, glorious nights when she'd lain naked in his arms while he worshipped her body by moonlight. And other nights when he acted like a clown, spicing passion with wit, making her laugh even while her body was in a fever. Once he'd said, "I'm trying to work out which part of you I like best. It's a tough decision because you have the most perfect breasts of any woman in the world."

As he spoke he was tracing a finger over the swell of her right breast, lingering over the nipple, teasing it until the excitement stormed along her nerves and it was all she could do to say, "You'd know, would you? About all the others?"

"Mmm-" he seemed to consider this "-maybe not all the others."