He swept her up. It wasn’t like being carried to bed but like being dragged into a cave. And she reveled in it.

When she was under him, she arched up, pressed urgently against him.

“Now. Now, now, now.”

He managed to shake his head. “You’re killing me.”

He couldn’t want so much and end it almost as it had begun. But the whiplash of lust was brutal, and she was a storm raging, slashing under him, around him, over him. Her body, so firm, so arousing with that silky skin over disciplined muscle, eroded control. He needed more of it before he took all.

Not to savor, since he knew savoring would drive him mad, but to devour in great gulps of greed.

Those perfect br**sts possessed at last by hands and mouth while her nails dug into his back, his hips. Those incredible legs, open for him, winding around him, the muscles of her long thighs quivering as he did what he liked. All he liked.

And that face, the cool, classic beauty, flushed now, fierce now, eyes deep and blue, lips hot and avid.

He drove her up once, his hands rough, ruthless, for her, for himself. He wanted to see her break for him, rise and shatter. She cried out, her nails digging deeper. And as she broke, he plunged into her.

She cried out again, a strangled sound that gasped out pleasure. That pleasure, wild and whippy, blew through her like a gale, again, again, until there was nothing else.

Lost in the speed, drowned in sensation, she drove as she was driven, with a kind of dark fury.

He thrust deep; she rose high, their bodies sheened with the sweat of effort and greed. She saw his face above her, the tumble of dark hair around it, those feral eyes fixed on hers.

She tried to speak, to tell him . . . something. But all that would form was his name.

When the phone rang, she only heard the frantic pounding of her own heart.

She lay stunned under him, breathless from the storm and from the full weight of him that had dropped on her like a stone.

They’d torn each other to bits, she thought, in every way but bloody. She’d always considered herself open and responsive in bed—with the right partner—but this had been like a pitched battle with one goal.

Give me all you’ve got, then give me more.

Which, she concluded, explained the sensation of mild shock and smug satisfaction.

She liked to think he felt the same, or he’d just dropped into a coma. Not a heart attack, at least, since she could feel that beat slamming against her.

When she lifted her hand to his hair, he grunted.

Not comatose then, but a . . .

“You’re a flopper,” she told him, and his head shot up.

“What?”

“You’re a flopper, which is why . . .” The sheer insult on his face turned on the light in her brain. “Oh God, not that way.” Laughter bubbled up, fought to get past the anvil on her chest. She gasped with it, waved her hands in the air, fought to get words out through the uncontrollable giggles. “After.You flop after.”

“I’m a guy, which you should’ve figured out by—”

“Not that way either.” More laughter, helpless, finally rolling free when he shifted. She sucked in air, had to sit up, hold her own ribs. “After-after. You just collapse.” She slapped one hand on the other.“Dead weight. But it was all right because I’d stopped breathing anyway somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He shoved the hair out of his face. “You count orgasms?”

“It’s a hobby.”

Now he laughed. “Happy to add to your collection.”

She didn’t cover herself, and he admitted he’d thought she’d be the type to grab for the sheets once the heat of sex cooled a little. But she sat there, rosily naked, smiling at him.

“You’re full of surprises, Legs.”

“I like sex.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed.”

“I often forget I like sex during extended periods when I’m not having sex. It was nice to be reminded.”

She reached out, traced a finger over the cross-hashing scars over his hip and thigh. “That had to hurt.”

“That’s from the big one. Mangled me some.”

“And this?” She brushed the thinner lines over his ribs.

“Yeah.There, the shoulder. A few others here and there.”

“This?”

He glanced down at the sickle-shaped scar on his right thigh. “That’s from another gag. A little miscalculation.You don’t have any.”

“Scars? Yes, I do.”

“Baby, I’ve been over every inch.”

“Here.” She rubbed a fingertip a few inches above her hairline on the left side of her head.

He sat up, gave a rub himself. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Well, it’s there.” And seemed, ridiculously, a point of pride now. “Four stitches.”

“That many?”

“Don’t brag.”

“How’d you get it?”

“We were in Provence, and it had been raining all day. When the sun came out, I ran out onto the terrace. I was seven. I slipped and went headfirst into the iron railing.”

“Wounded in Provence.”

“It hurt just as much. How about these?” She frowned at the thin, almost even grouping of horizontal scars on his left shoulder blade. And felt his body tense this time when she touched them.

“No big. I got knocked into a locker. Metal louvers.”

She left her hand where it was. “Your uncle.”

“It was a long time ago. Got any water handy?”

Ignoring the question, she leaned over, laid her lips on the scars. “I never liked him.”

“Me, either.”

“Now I like him less. I’ll get the water.”

She got up, walked into the closet. He was sorry to see she’d pulled on a robe when she came back with two little bottles.

Cold ones.

“You’ve got a fridge in there?”

“A small one built in. It’s convenient. And . . .” She twisted the top on her bottle. “Efficient.”

“Hard to argue.” He saw her eyes slide over to her phone, had to smile. “Go ahead. No point in you being distracted.”

“I promise our brides round-the-clock availability. And even if I didn’t,” she added as she walked over to pick up the phone, “some of them would call whenever they got an itch. A wedding can and does take over the world when it’s yours. Clara Elder, both times,” she said when she checked the display. She switched to voice mail.