Mychael bent his head, his lips hesitating over my mouth. When his lips lightly touched mine, I expected him to pull away after a brief kiss as he’d done before, his passion denied, our propriety maintained.

Not this time. He didn’t deny himself—or me.

Mychael’s lips gently explored mine as if tasting them for the first time, or memorizing them if this was the last time. One of his hands cradled my neck and throat, his thumb lightly stroking my face. The other was more insistent, wrapping around my waist and gathering me to him.

He opened his eyes and gazed down at me. The question was there in those sea blue eyes, unspoken, lingering between us. Did I want him to stop?

I didn’t need words to answer him.

My hands reached up to either side of his face and pulled him down to me, the stubble on his face a delicious roughness beneath my fingers. Mychael’s lips had been gentle explorers; mine were conquerors, taking what I’d wanted from almost the first moment I’d seen him. Mychael wasn’t the only one who had denied himself. Death had knocked on my door one time too many; I wasn’t going to deny myself anymore. I’d take what I could, while I could. Plunder, pillage, leave no treasure behind.

Mychael responded, his passion, his need matching my own. Any fear of the present and uncertain future faded to nothing. All that was left was him and me, taste and sensation, both delicious—both dangerous. His hands slid down my arms and around my waist and back, crushing me against him. A fire flickered and caught between us, familiar to me, new to him. Mychael’s breath caught when he felt it, but he didn’t stop. Instead he pulled me closer, as if he would wrap himself around me, shielding and protecting me. The fire was the Saghred, but it wasn’t alone. Overshadowing it, forcing it aside, was another fire, white-hot, pure, and unrelenting, burning bright and searing the darkness away from me.

His magic. Mychael.

I saw a light through my closed eyelids, and felt a glow, a warmth down the length of me, of both of us, wrapping and entwining, joining us together. I slowly parted my lips from his and looked up at him, my pulse absurdly loud in my own ears. We stood there, our bodies touching, our breathing the only sound. Mychael’s breathing was ragged as he gazed down at me in wonder—and in expectant hope.

“I’m a Benares, remember?” My voice was low and husky. “If we see something we want, we take it.”

“Do you see something you want?”

“I’m looking right at him.” My mouth was suddenly dry, and I tried to swallow. “Do you want me?” I told myself it was a stupid question, but I had to ask. I needed to hear him say it.

His hands were on my shoulders and he slid them down to just above my breasts. “I’ve wanted you—and loved you—since the moment I woke up in that bedroom in Mermeia and saw you standing in the corner.”

I think my heart stopped for a few beats. “Loved me,” I heard myself say.

His hands slid down farther. “Loved you.”

He was wearing only his uniform trousers. I was wearing way too much. I reached up to unbutton something, anything, but I was suddenly at a loss as to where to start.

Mychael caught my hands in his. “May I undress you?”

“Okay.” I suddenly felt shy, awkward.

“Are you sure?” His deep voice rubbed against me like hands in velvet gloves, sending a delicious shiver down through my belly and lower.

“No one’s ever undressed me before.”

Mychael grinned. “I have, but you weren’t awake for it.”

I was awake for it now and then some. I wrestled my way out of my sword harness, then I let Mychael take it from there. Truth be told, my hands were probably shaking too badly to undo my doublet’s buttons. Mychael made short work of them, and shorter work of the buttons on my shirt. Then he slowly pulled my shirt and doublet aside and stopped, staring down at me. The room wasn’t cold, so I didn’t have any excuse for my breasts tightening and nipples hardening except for the truth. They wanted to be touched and they wanted it badly.

Mychael bent and wrapped his arms around my hips and lifted me off my feet. When his lips closed around my nipple, the shock of sensations made me gasp.

He raised his head and my mouth took his, tasting, delving, devouring, and he backed to the bed, one arm holding me tightly against him, the other exploring, kneading. The backs of his knees bumped against the edge of the bed and he sat down, pulling me with him. I opened my eyes and looked at him. I’d seen his eyes darken before, but nothing like this; his pupils were dilated so much that they were dark pools that I could fall into, wanted to dive into.

Mychael’s fingers were spread wide under my shirt and against my bare back to touch as much skin as possible. I unwrapped my arms from around his shoulders and dropped them to my sides. Mychael didn’t need me to say what I wanted him to do. He reached up with his other hand, grabbed a handful of my doublet and shirt at the back of my neck, and pulled them down. They came halfway off, then stopped, snagged on something just below my elbows.

What the—“Dammit . . . hold on.”

Mychael’s lips were busy on my throat. “Daggers,” he murmured, his mouth working its way down to nip at my breast and lower still to pull on my nipple.

A sweet shiver ran through my body, ending with an unbearable ache between my legs, and I suddenly forgot how to breathe or what the hell daggers were.

Mychael’s mouth and tongue and hands paused from doing those wonderful things they were doing. “Daggers,” he said again, and went back to sucking and rubbing and kneading and teasing.

A tiny part of my mind that wasn’t dazed from sensation shouted at me what the rest of me couldn’t remember. Daggers. In forearm sheaths. Doublet can’t come off until they come off, stupid.

“Oh . . . wait.” I wiggled my doublet back up on my shoulders and with shaky hands unfastened the cuffs and reached inside. I pulled off one sheath, then the other. Only then did I look at Mychael. “There,” I almost panted. “Try again.”

He did. He grabbed my doublet’s leather in both fists at my shoulders and, in one smooth move, pulled it and my shirt off and threw both across the room. Nice.

I pushed him back on the bed, kissing him again, deep enough to taste the tannins of the Caesolian red he’d had. I tried to shift my hips to get closer to him, to satisfy that ache. I still had my trousers and boots on. This was a problem. A big one. I swore silently, but the only thing that made it out of my mouth was a whimper.

Mychael heard, and better yet, he did something about it. He looked up at me and grinned. “Hold on.”

I did.

He slid his hands down to pull me tight against him, and flipped me over onto my back.

I yelped in surprise, and then laughed and wrapped my legs around him.

Mychael’s grin broadened, then he leaned down and trapped my bottom lip between his teeth, nipping. “You like?”

“Oh yeah.” My heart was only about to pound its way out of my chest, I liked it so much.

“Uh . . . if you want me to do anything else, you’re going to have to unwrap your legs.”

“What? Oh . . .”

I slid my legs down from his hips and Mychael got off of the bed and went to work on my boots. They were tall boots, over my knees, and weren’t easy for me to take off under the best of circumstances, but Mychael made short work of them, and they joined my doublet and shirt on the floor.

I reached up and tugged him down on top of me. Mychael’s eyes were gleaming as he put his hands on either side of me and dipped his head to my belly, the tip of his tongue running a quick, warm swirl around the edge of my belly button. My hips arched up in a shock of sensation. Mychael slid one of his hands under me, the other quickly unbuttoning my trousers.

I swallowed and tried to pull in some air. “Nimble fingers,” I noted.