The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close, then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.

She stirred in his encircling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her-even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.

And couldn't. She was facing ignominious defeat-with not a clue of what followed-when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip, one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.

Her jaw eased, her lips parted.

He entered.

The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.

Even while he took arrogance to new heights.

She hadn't thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her-languorously, unhurriedly-as if he had all the time in the world.

Then he settled to play.

To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game. The very idea shocked her to her toes-and sent shards of excitement flying down her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their tantalizing dance.