He knew what he was doing when he kissed someone. He knew it and clearly relished the act, as he put the full force of his considerable concentration into it. Skillfully he teased her lips apart so that he could penetrate deeper. By then, her muscles were melting and her mind had switched off.

She wound one arm around his neck and kissed him back. There was something she was supposed to remember. One thing. One job. But oh wait, that job didn’t matter anymore if she was going to proposition him for (tremendous, mind-blowing, screaming, utterly fantastic, wildly pleasurable) sex.

Just the thought of it had her melting down further. Oh my God, if they did end up deciding to have sex, he would take his clothes off.

She had already gotten a hint of what that would be like when she had seen him without his shirt. The thought of him totally nude broke the logical part of her brain. Hunger gained control of the wheel and began to drive her actions.

Sliding her fingers through his hair, she lost herself in the sensual pleasure of his mouth. He gripped her hips, pulled her tight against him and held her stationary, pelvis to pelvis. She felt his cock harden, and a sheen of sweat broke over her skin. His entire body was hard as a rock, the muscles rigid underneath her stroking fingers, while his breathing roughened.

He broke off the kiss, ran his open mouth down the side of her neck, and muttered against her skin, “What the fuck are we doing?”

Afterward, he ran his teeth along the sensitive cord at the side of her neck and bit her lightly. Her knees threatened to buckle. She gasped. “Still can’t speak for you, but I’m not over jet lag yet. Plus I’m drunk.”

That brought his head up. He stared down at her, eyes narrowed. He looked like he had been thoroughly kissed. His elegant lips were darkened with color, his hair falling onto his brow.

She had made him look like that. The knowledge sent another thrill through her body. She was hungry for him, literally, physically hungry.

“You took one swallow of your wine,” he accused.

She hadn’t realized he’d been watching her so closely. That was sexy too. She lied, “I’m sensitive to alcohol.”

“You’re so full of shit.” He slid one large hand underneath her shirt, and the sensation of his callused fingers stroking over her sensitive skin sent a flash fire of sensation rippling over her. He cupped her breast.

She let him. Slipping her own hand inside his shirt, she ran her palm over the bulge and hollow of his muscular chest. “And your reasons are still inexplicable.”

“I’ve got nothing else to do,” he growled.

She burst out laughing. “You’re bored? That’s your excuse right now?”

“Why?” Lowering his head, he nipped at her lower lip. Huskily he whispered, “Do you have anything better to do?”

Her critical thinking skills had already been in trouble. Now her mind flatlined as he molded and stroked her breast with such clever, clever fingers, teasing the tip of her nipple through the thin material of her bra.

She wanted to push herself into his hand, rub herself all over him like a cat. She felt addicted, drugged. It was like he exuded some kind of pheromone that promised pure pleasure.

She murmured raggedly, “I can’t think of anything.”

He froze. For a moment he didn’t even breathe. Standing so flush against him, she could tell, while his heart beat a rapid tattoo against her fingers.

When he withdrew his hand from underneath her shirt, she almost groaned in disappointment. He cupped her face with both hands. Stroking her lips with his thumbs, he looked into her eyes for a long moment, and she knew in that moment they had gone past all joking.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “Tell me, and I’ll walk away and say nothing more about it.”

There it was: decision time. If he said he would walk away, she believed him, because for all their differences, he kept his word too.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered back. “We both know what this is. We have a night ahead us, the opportunity to spend some time together and give each other some pleasure—there’s nothing more to it than that.”

She wanted to add we don’t even like each other, but the words stuck in her throat, and she knew, at least on her end, that it wasn’t true any longer.

“There can’t be anything more,” he said. The line of his jaw had turned tight, and his fingers moved over her skin restlessly, as if he wanted to let go of her but couldn’t. “Do you understand? I don’t have anything to give a lover. No safety, no home, not even the promise of my time and attention. Everything I have, everything I am, is wrapped up in trying to save my men and my people.”

There it was, the fineness she had sensed in him the day before, the trueness of self and purpose. If he ever chose to look at someone with that same sense of commitment, Sophie knew that woman would never doubt anything about him and would never want for anything.

For now, there was even integrity in his insistence on having this conversation at this particular point in time. He risked destroying the heat of the moment in order to make sure there was no misunderstanding between them.

“I know who you are and what is at stake for you,” she told him. Gently she disengaged, and his hands dropped as he let her go. Turning away, she said over her shoulder, “I’m getting my glass of wine and going to bed, and I would like for you to join me, but I understand if you feel you can’t.”

Behind her, all she heard was silence.