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Exactly, infinitely, eternally right.

Chapter Twenty-five

Something’s wrong. The moment her sleepy gaze traveled up to Alan’s face, Nina felt her skin prickle, anxious hairs stirring on her nape.

He was leaning against the headboard, arms folded across his naked chest. Had she ever seen him look so grim? Or so beautiful? Her next shiver of anxiety was edged with a desire so keen it seemed to cut.

He turned his eyes on her. She squeezed hers shut. Ridiculous. Cowardly. Also, there was no fooling him.

“You’re awake,” he commented, and she forced her lids to part, propped herself on her elbow, and met his eyes.

“You’ve been awake.” She sounded strange, as though her throat were clogged with velvet. As though her voice itself had been pleasured.

She flushed. He didn’t blink.

“Doing what?” she asked, in the same embarrassingly rich tone.

“Thinking.”

She cleared her throat. “That’s the problem, then.” She managed a wry smile. “Maybe you should think less.”

He kept staring for a beat, then gave her a lopsided smile in return. “I’ll think about the possibility.”

She sat up, the sheet slipping momentarily below her breasts. His gaze flicked down. Suddenly, it was all there, between them. The air thickened with the excruciating, soul-bearing intimacy of the night. Everything he’d done to her body, everything she’d done to his.

She warmed at the recollected sensations, at the inner echo of her own voice sobbing brokenly for more, more.

He reached out, not for her, but for the bellpull. His hand hovered by the tassel.

“Hungry?” It was a question. It had a rasp she could feel, that made her catch her breath, too aware, suddenly, of the linen’s skimming contact with her nipples. She fixated on his hand, then her eyes followed the vein that snaked under the skin of his forearm.

Her mouth watered. She dampened everywhere.

She was hungry, insatiably hungry, for him. The fact should worry her. For now, though . . . he hadn’t tugged the bellpull.

She’d worry later.

With a twist, she flung her knee across his thighs, dropping into his lap. Their gazes locked. He laughed the laugh she loved and lowered his hand.

“Good morning,” he drawled, his expression amused and surprised. The proof of his arousal pressed against her, hot as a brand. She stroked it, his cock, nearly overwhelmed by her sense of achievement as he gasped.

“Good morning,” she said, and fit herself over him. Boldly, slowly, she sank until he was buried inside, until his lips parted around a groan. She ground in a small, hesitant circle. These slow revolutions—she could feel them inside her. She could feel how they affected him, winching his muscles until he was rigid beneath her.

He gripped her face. His eyes were slits. She stilled, flushed and horribly excited. She had done this, made them both shake, nerves lacing tight. She’d done it in the light of day, no shadows to lend concealment. Every facet of her need exposed.

This wasn’t a dream.

He regarded her, that silver gaze screened by his lowered lashes. She acted instinctively, moved to obliterate that whisper of distance, his maddening self-control. She gave his mouth a voluptuous lick. She consumed his smile. With a growl, he seized her hips, and she felt a thrill, the balance of power shifting. He had unleashed his own appetite. Now he was devouring, his teeth on her throat. He lifted her up, then drove her back down, hard, straining to meet her. The bed creaked as the urgency of their coupling increased. Her breasts slapped his chest. She fought his grip, writhing, found her own rhythm, which became their rhythm. More. More. Thank God, thank God, they were both gluttons.

The pleasure built from below, from where they rubbed together, and from within, where his thick cock stroked, her moans timed with each deep, lubricious glide. She was arching back, taut as a bow, and then, as he jerked, her name hoarse on his lips, the tension broke. She was dissolving into liquid, the spasm rippling from her head to her toes. Her cry surrendered even her bones.

After, she lolled in his lap, her soft thighs spread over his hard ones, her forehead on his shoulder. His arms were linked loosely around her.

“I meant,” he said finally, a low rumble, “hungry for breakfast.” He traced her clavicle as she straightened, his tone playful.

“It’s early for breakfast,” she protested, although she hadn’t a notion of the time. The curtains glowed with clear sunshine. But the end could still be deferred. And her awful knowledge: she could hold it, alone, a trifle longer.

“I have a train to catch.”