Page 72 of The Temptation of Savannah O'Neill

“It’s a now or never type thing,” he finally managed to say, forcing himself not to shove his thigh between her legs.

She pulled back, her fingers still drawing little circles over his skin. Torture. She was killing him with those circles.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” he said, watching the truth sink into those blue eyes, lighting them up from deep inside. “And, as much as I’d like to pretend I’ve got rock-solid control, I don’t. Not around you. So, we should stop.”

Her lips pursed and he had to put his hands against the wall or that robe would not live another day.

“I don’t want to stop,” she said. Those circles under his shirt grew and grew until one of her blunt nails raked across his nipple.

“I have to leave on Sunday,” he said. “I…can’t stay.”

I could come back, he thought, but didn’t say. One word from you and I would be back here like a boomerang.

“I know,” she said, her smile ghostly. “But I want this,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him, her teeth taking a small bite out of his lip. “I want everything you have to give me. For however long I can have it.”

“Savannah,” he groaned, her name a plea. It occurred to him to ask if she was sure, but then her hand slid down the front of his pants.

Doesn’t get more sure than that.

He swept her up in his arms, feeling very Rhett Butler.

Using his foot, he bumped open the door to the sleeping porch.

As she slid down onto the bed like bourbon out of a bottle, the look in her eyes was a challenge and his blood pounded in response. Savannah wanted sex. And as she leaned backward and spread herself out against the faded, soft sheets, her knees bent, her arms spread, the tie on her robe giving up the best of her secrets, he knew how she wanted it.

The same way he did.

Wild. Hot. Now.

He leaned down and pushed open her robe, revealing the perfection of her body. The tight curve of her breast, the taut belly, the gorgeous mystery at the apex of her thighs.

Her skin was silk under his hand, her nipples hard as he rolled them against his palm, pinched them, just enough that her eyes went hazy, her lips parted in a moan.

He licked her open mouth, toying with her lips, her tongue, until she pushed herself up and sealed her mouth to his.

Then the fun really started.

His clothes, barely touched by her long elegant hands, fell off his body until they were skin to skin. The electrical current between them could light up the Manor for months, years.

She was strong and her muscles held him tight, gripped him hard. A leg around his hip, an arm around his shoulders and it felt as though she might never let him go.

And that was so okay with him.

His erection brushed the liquid heat between her legs and they both gasped, arching hard into each other.

“You better have protection,” she whispered into his ear, licking the rim, biting the lobe and his brain went blank.

Protection?

Her fingertips danced over his erection, her thumb tracing circles around the head. “Condom?” she said.

He blinked, unable to tell whether she was speaking English.

“Matt?” She smiled, womanly and knowing.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed, closing his eyes when both her hands got in on the act.

“We’ll both be hurting if you don’t have a condom.”

Oh, right. A condom.

He kissed her hard and leaned up on his arms, reluctant to leave the stunning heat of her body. More so when her breasts were gilded in moonlight, the nipples dark and hard. He sucked one into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth.

“A condom!” she cried, pushing him away slightly. “Hurry.”

He leaped from the bed and found his kit bag, grateful he hadn’t emptied it since his ski trip with Pauline almost a year ago. He pulled out a ribbon of condoms and whirled back to the bed.

Man, she was beautiful. Long-limbed and naked, her eyes hot, her lips wet.

“You’re staring, Matt,” she murmured, her legs falling open slightly, an erotic invitation.

“I’m stunned, Savannah,” he said, suddenly humbled that all this was even happening.

I love you. He caught the words in time, shoving away the impulse to tell her how he felt. It seemed wrong to do it now, as if all that he was feeling was tied to sex, which couldn’t be further from the truth. When he told her—if he told her—he wanted her to know it as the truth.

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