He never did-knowing better, intent on the ultimate sensation-and after a millisecond suspended at the extremity of his withdrawal, he’d plunge in once again and smile faintly at her gasp of pleasure.

Her orgasm wasn’t long in coming.

Not that he’d thought it would be in her self-described slam-bang mood.

She quietly climaxed on one of his downstrokes, dying away on a sigh and a wave of molten bliss.

He was surprised at her constraint, having expected something more violent and vocal from a woman who approached sex with such dispatch. As he rested in her, waiting for her last ripple to fade away, she lay motionless and silent.

Christ, had he hurt her?

Or had she freaked out?

Was she some head case? Not an impossibility in the idiosyncratic world of modeling.

Although, primed as he was for his own climax, he decided further speculation could wait. Time enough to worry after he came.

Moving into a smooth, practiced rhythm, he’d no more than settled into a lazy rock ’n’ roll undulation than Liv picked up the dance, her hips swinging in time to his, matching each deft flux and flow with gratifying precision. Her little breathy pleasure sounds started up again, too, warming his throat and curiously insinuating themselves into his psyche that had been, to date, immune to such tender sensibilities.

Fucking had always been just about fucking.

Why his psychic receptors were absorbing her soft, frenzied utterances with such clarity was weird, although not altogether bad, he had to admit, bombarded as he was by a full array of seriously prodigal sensation. In fact, it was pretty much the opposite.