The Desert Virgin

“Tell me,” he said, his voice urgent with need. “Tell me what I make you feel.”

Cam slipped his hand between their bodies. Slid it up her leg. Felt the heat of her skin. His nostrils flared at the sudden, unmistakable scent of her desire.

“God,” she whispered, “God…”

She raised her head from the pillows. Sighed and offered him her mouth.

With a fierce growl, he took the kiss she’d offered. Sank into it. Felt the first, tentative touch of her tongue against his, heard her sigh and knew he was taking her with him into a dark velvet whirlpool of desire where nothing and no one mattered except this.

He felt her starting to tremble against him.

Stop, a voice deep within him whispered. This is a mistake. For God’s sake, man, stop!

But it was too late. He was aching, as much for her final surrender as for his own release.

She moved against him, a little roll of her hips that made him groan. This—making love to her, feeling her swift response and knowing that the restraints still tied around her wrists and ankles left her exquisitely open and completely vulnerable to him—was incredibly exciting.

But he wanted more.

He wanted her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips as he poured himself into her.

Cam ran his hand higher, heard her swift intake of breath when he reached her thigh. Her skin was hot. Burning, as he was burning. He kissed her throat, heard her make that little sound women make when they stand balanced on the brink of forever in a man’s embrace.

“Tell me now,” he said. “What you like. What you want. I’ll make it happen, I promise.”