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Then the look in her eyes had changed. He’d tried to read it, but he couldn’t. So he’d risen to his feet, wondering which Bianca was he going to see—the Tigress who’d gone wild in his arms, or the one who was determined to keep tight control over her world.

Coward that he was, he’d opted for caution. Want some coffee? he’d asked.

And she’d smiled, gone straight into his arms and said that what she wanted was him.

Those simple words had been enough to make him hard.

Seconds later, they were on the living room sofa because the bedroom was too far away.

Yes, and the sofa was too short.

But it didn’t matter. Not once he was buried inside her, her legs wrapped around his hips, her cries of passion, the slap of their bodies against each other rising into the predawn silence until she sobbed his name and he collapsed against her.

Damn.

Chay shifted his weight again.

He’d had sex with a lot of women. And—why be modest?—he’d never needed much recovery time between sessions, but this… This was a new experience. This nonstop need, not just for sex but for her. Even just sitting here, being in the same room with her, watching her do something as ridiculously mundane as peer into the refrigerator—

The fine hairs rose on the nape of his neck.

Domesticity was not his thing. It was most definitely not his thing. Neither was confusing good sex—okay, great sex—with anything but what it was.

Sex.

Although he knew women preferred the term “making love.”

He used the words, too. Why not? They were interchangeable. Okay. Maybe one meant something more casual and the other meant taking your time, slowing things down.

What he’d never considered was that it meant more than that. That maybe it meant letting yourself feel more than the obvious things as you touched a woman. As you kissed her, caressed her, moved inside her until her response was, hell, until your response was beyond anything you’d ever known.

Until you couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wanting her.

And, dammit, there was a way to get past that.

Chay kicked back his chair and rose to his feet. The kitchen was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. He crossed it in two quick strides, clasped Bianca’s shoulders and whirled her towards him. He’d startled her; he saw it in her eyes.

“What?” she said, and then, as her gaze swept over his face, she took a quick indrawn breath. “Chay?”

She never finished speaking his name.

His mouth captured hers.

He swept the robe from her shoulders. Lifted her. Sat her on the kitchen counter. Something clattered to the floor. Silverware. The napkin holder. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. All that mattered was the kiss, the heat and savagery of it; all that mattered was unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand between her thighs and, God, and finding her hot and slick and ready, so ready.

And then he was inside her. Hard inside her. Thrusting deep. Deeper. Deep enough so there was no way to know where he ended and she began.

She grabbed his shoulders. Then she pressed her palms against the countertop and her head fell back. Her body arched like a bow.

His hands dropped over hers.

“Now,” he groaned, “now, now…”

She came on one long, glorious cry as he emptied himself into her.

And he thought, Jesus, what have I done?

His arms went around her. He gathered her in, one hand in the center of her back, the other cupping her head.