His answer was a ghost of a smile as his lips descended on hers again, this time courting her pleasure with tenderness. With a lazy, slow movement, his palms traced the shape of her, molding, exploring her hips and then her waist. One hand slid up to cradle the orb of her breast, then trailed higher to simply caress the soft skin of her throat. Simply? The hollow in her throat suddenly felt as soft as satin, as fragile as a rose petal, as sensitive as the pulse that beat so erratically within it. His lips tasted, savored, promised, deliberately coveting her response, taking pleasure from it. “Always so loving, Misha,” he murmured. “So much love in you. So sweet…”

He slid the back zipper of her dress halfway down, then pushed the material aside, baring her neck and shoulders. He kissed the hollow above her collarbone, his lips so smooth and warm on that sensitive skin that a shudder rose from deep inside her. His tender mastery stirred sensual yearnings so strong that all her blood seemed to rush to her head. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, feverish. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands still, wanting to touch him, wanting to explore his skin. “Misha,” he murmured, “you know damn well what you’re asking for…”

Yes. Him. Matthew. An hour with him, a day. She felt richer where he touched; her skin felt cherished; she felt a freedom to touch and explore that she had never felt before, a need to please and to know… Her lips clung to his, groping to tell him. It was not just sex, but she didn’t know what it was. She was a little frightened and very, very high, and she drank in his warmth, her hands roaming his back.

His breathing was harsh and labored. “God, I want you,” he groaned. He unzipped her dress completely, and his hands stole inside, kneading the flesh of her back, making sensual circular motions on her thin silk slip…