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Her answer was a sweet, sexy moan.

“That’s good,” he said on a soft laugh. “It’s absolutely the right answer.” His hand slipped between her thighs. “And this?” he said, all the laughter gone. “Do you like me to do this, too?”

His mouth followed his hand.

She reached down to stop him. “No,” she said quickly, “Chay…”

“I want to taste you,” he said, and her protest became a soft, keening cry as he put his face against her. His mouth on her clitoris.

Bianca cried out.

The room tilted.

Nobody had ever done this to her before. She’d never wanted anybody to do this to her before. It was—it was too intimate. Too intense.

Too everything.

She’d read descriptions, even viewed educational films, but, Dio, the reality of it, of Chay’s mouth, his tongue, his teeth…

“Come for me, honey,” he whispered.

His voice cajoled. Commanded. He was not giving her a choice—and she didn’t want one. She wanted this. What he was doing. What he was making her feel.

A cry broke from her throat.

She arched off the bed. Came on a hot rush of blurred colors only she could see, a swell of music only she could hear.

And when she said Chay’s name, he rose up and thrust into her, and the world ceased to exist.

• • •

Bianca came awake to darkness shot through with ivory moonlight.

The clock radio read four a.m.

And the bed beside her was empty.

She sat up, switched on the lamp that stood on the nightstand.

His clothes were gone too.

Except for the indentation on the pillow beside hers, her lieutenant might never have been there.

Her throat constricted.

She’d been right. Chay wasn’t a man who’d hang around for breakfast.

She told herself that was okay. That she’d known what to expect. That she had no right to feel lost—but she did.

She did.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears and for a heartbeat, she almost gave in to it, the feeling of pain, of emptiness.

No.

She had grown up watching her mother do that. Weep each time her husband left. Weep as she waited for him to return. Shout and scream and curse because his promises that the next time he would stay, the next time he would not be gone so long, were only that. Promises, ones he never kept.

At least Chay had made no promises.