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He gaped at her, surprised at his own surprise. Then he grinned, shrugging out of his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. As he dropped his shirt onto the floor, he felt an unexpected shyness. He’d never stripped in this way, on command, a woman sitting straight-backed before him, eyes hooded. He hesitated, hands on his trouser buttons.

“Go on,” she ordered. It was little more than a croak.

When he peeled off his flannels, he heard her gasp. He kicked them away, glancing at her. She’d caught her lip between her teeth.

He was so hard it hurt.

She dropped her legs over the side of the bed and stood, laying her fingertips on his chest. Her face was bright with triumph.

“Turn,” she said.

“You like giving orders,” he observed. It felt unspeakably erotic, letting her have this power over him, watching her glory in it. He turned slowly, and her fingers trailed over him, sliding around his abdomen and across the small of his back and his hip, wandering down to trace the curve of his buttocks.

If he were drunk, he’d be inside her by now, plunged to the hilt, her knees by her ears. Crass and hot and fast. His smile faded as her hand closed around his cock.

He couldn’t stifle a groan. Now her look of exultation was tinged with wonder.

He would teach her what she had to exult in.

“My turn,” he said. He backed her up until she fell against the bed, then settled beside her. This was no narrow cot, this enormous bed with its heavy, tethered curtains, its cool, fresh linens. He had room to maneuver. He rolled her over, pulled her up so she was on her hands and knees. He unlaced the back of the robe, lifted one arm out, then the other, slid the fabric over the swell of her hips, the fullness of her buttocks. It made a frothy pile at her knees. He palmed her buttocks, curved his body over her, reached to tease her breasts as she rocked, rubbing into him. He gritted his teeth, heaving her up, forcing her head to the side so he could lean over her shoulder and plunder her lips. His hand closed on her breast, flicking the nipple, the heel of his palm grinding the flesh in a slow circle. Unconsciously, she mimicked the motion with her buttocks, grinding against him.

He could spill his seed now. He lifted her away and she made a guttural sound of protest, turning to face him. Now he could see her, the straight line of her shoulders, the upward tilt of her breasts, the slope of her waist, the curve of her belly, the tuft of hair on her mound, glinting with red in the candlelight.

Nothing blind about this experience, this feeling. He savored his awareness.

“You’ve bewitched me,” he told her, and she made a faint sound of negation that whooshed into a sigh as he lifted her breast, licking the crease beneath. She had faint freckles even there, in that delicate, secret place. He licked up the slope, tasting the salt of her skin. With his other hand, he gripped her hip, then pressed her quim, hard.

“You said you want to see. Is that all you want?” He stroked with his thumb, parting her. Her breathing rasped. He lifted his hand to her chin, tilted up her face, looked into her eyes, hazed with longing, her longing, his longing. He could no longer tell.

“If that’s all . . . I’ll stop now.”

Could he? He stilled his hand, withdrew it, sitting back on his heels.

“You don’t have to go further.”

She shivered. Cool air had rushed between their feverish bodies. Her breathing still rasped. She lunged forward and kissed him with bruising force, lips, teeth, tongue. A fierce joy rose in him, but he broke their kiss, gripped her face in his hands, held it an inch away.

“Say it,” he said. “Tell me.” He kissed her throat, her cheeks, her eyelids.

“I want you, Anthony,” he prodded. She made a sound deep in her throat, but her voice seemed to have caught there. The look she gave him was mutinous. She liked to boss but she didn’t like to be bossed. He couldn’t suppress his smile.

“You have to say it,” he said. “To get . . . this.” He dampened his thumb with his lips while she stared, face tense, brows drawn together. He pressed the wet pad to the small knot between her thighs, the center of her pleasure, and her jaw slackened, lips parting.

“Shall I make you beg me, then?” he asked, moving his thumb. She gasped, shuddering. She tried to speak.

“You can nod,” he said. And she nodded, head falling against his shoulder.

• • •

Pleasure was pulsing through her, robbing her of language, of all abstraction. But she’d never had the words to describe his beauty. Instead she’d used her hands, to paint it, and she used her hands now. She touched a vein that snaked around his forearm, followed it, felt the hard points of his elbows, stroked up the bunched muscles in his arms. She found that by scratching her fingernails across his nipples she could make him gasp, make the muscles in his stomach ripple. But then she moved her hand lower, to where the ridged abdomen flattened below his navel, and down . . .

Suddenly she was on her back, sinking into the mattress. He’d launched himself at her, covered her with his body. She wiggled, deliciously pinned. He kissed down her arms, kissed her palms; then he was kissing the instep of her foot, kissing up her legs.

No wonder the gods were always turning into beasts. The myths relied on symbols to express the most primitive fears and desires.

She felt as though feathers were about to push out through her skin. They must. She couldn’t endure this feeling much longer and remain unchanged. Her need was feathered, clawed, fanged.

“Please,” she moaned, and he laughed, low and sultry.