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For one night, can we pretend we have forever?

I never beg. Not ever, but I’m not above it now.

I want time to stop. I want to beg him to stay. I want to curse the gods that placed themselves between us and tell them to back the hell away. But if they mean to take tomorrow from me, then I’ll take tonight. I’ll take it greedily. I’ll hold it close for the rest of my life if I must, if this is all we get.

I watch the answer move across his face before he ever gives it voice.

“Rosie,” he says, and my name in his mouth sounds almost pained.

I tug gently at his hands. “Get up,” I whisper.

He rises slowly, and the second he’s fully upright, I put my palms against his chest and feel the hard, warm breadth of him beneath them. He’s still looking at me with the reverence of a man about to lose everything, and I can’t bear it another moment.

So I kiss him.

He makes a sound into my mouth—low, helpless, nothing at all like the man who was speaking so beautifully only minutes ago—and then his hands are on me, one at my waist, the other sliding up into my hair as he kisses me back with all the hunger he has been trying so hard to keep bridled.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to look at me.

“I—”

“No,” I murmur, already working at the fastenings of his shirt with unsteady fingers. “Ye’ve spoken enough for one night. Now I want the rest of you.”

A laugh nearly escapes him at that, though it catches and turns rougher when I pull off his shirt. My hands go to his skin at once, impatient for the feel of him. I touched him earlier, but this feels different. Before, he hadn’t promised himself to me. Promised to be mine.

Mine.

The thought flares through me, bright and untamable.

He helps me out of my dress with more care than speed, though I can feel how badly he wants to do it quickly. That tenderness nearly shatters me more than the wanting does. His knuckles skim my arms. His mouth finds my shoulder. His breath is warm at my throat.

His gaze drops over me, and the look on his face sends heat rushing through my whole body.

“Gods,” he says softly.

I smile despite myself. “You saw me naked not three hours ago.”

His mouth curves, but the expression on him is all awe. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I’d rather not,” I say, reaching for the fastening at his waist. “I’ve only just got you.”

That makes him laugh, though it turns ragged when I undress him in earnest.

By the time I push the last of him free of the offending cloth, he’s breathing harshly.

Good.

Let him suffer a little.

I have suffered enough myself.

I guide him back until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

He sits, still watching me with that dazed, stricken look that makes me feel both wicked and impossibly tender.

I look down to take him in at length, stopping for a long time to stare at his length. I wanted him badly before, but I want him worse now.

He is beautiful in the way men seldom get called beautiful—broad and hard and flushed with wanting. His glossy black hair and blue eyes catch the moonlight in such a devastating way. His body is tanned, toned, and torturous to look at.