He moved. Striding toward her, where she lay.
She leaped up at last, standing defensively beside the bed. But it made no
difference. He reached out for her, caught her wrist, wrenched her into his
arms. His chest was bare and she felt the fevered heat of it burning through
the thin white fabric of her nightdress.
“You’ve no right,” she began brokenly. “You can’t come here like this—“
But he had. And he didn’t speak a word, just captured her face between his
two palms, found her lips with his own. Forceful, passionate.
Savage . . .
“You were just in my room,” he told her huskily. “What did you come for?”
“To say goodbye,” she whispered.
“No. The truth.”
“I came . . .”
“For me. For this . . .” His mouth covered hers again. Demanding, heated, passionate,
undeniable.
