She had no idea what time it was and didn’t care. All she knew was that soon Christmas would be over, and a day she had been dreading with all her heart had been wonderful in many different ways.

She tipped her head back over Jack’s arm and looked up at him, at the man responsible for her wonderful day. “Where were you last Christmas? What were you doing? How did you celebrate?”

Jack finished his wine and put the glass down carefully on a side table. He ran the back of his forefinger along her neck, gently, up and down. “Last Christmas I was on duty all day in Afghanistan, where Christmas doesn’t exist. And if it did, it sure wouldn’t herald a day of peace. The warlords would have been delighted to nail Habib on a Christian holiday. So that was my Christmas and it was more or less par for the course, the same as the other 220 days before it. A tour of duty lasting twelve hours, a meal of stewed goat meat, which is what we ate every day, at the end of it, no wine because it’s a dry country, and reruns of Lost.” He leaned over and kissed her on the ear. “And you? Where were you last Christmas?”

“Here.” Caroline sighed. “With Toby.”

“What did you two do?”

“In the beginning, in the first couple of years after the accident, I tried inviting people over for Christmas. Both of us got depressed on Christmas Day, and I thought having people over would cheer us up.” She stopped, remembering. Remembering how awkwardly people reacted to Toby. How no matter what Christmas feast she cooked up, they would start leaving right after the coffee was served.

It was such a painful contrast to before. To when Christmas at the Lakes’ was a lavish celebration lasting days, often with houseguests, full of food and wine and music and laughter.

“And? Did it work?” He was watching her closely, as if her answer mattered to him.

“Sort of. In the beginning, anyway. Toby—Toby had some control over his movements in the first few years. But then as his physical condition deteriorated, our popularity…waned. The last few years, we just celebrated by ourselves. I always put up a tree, and played some carols, and we watched TV and played chess. Toby is—was a wicked chess player. He always beat the pants off me.”

His hand suddenly tightened around her shoulder, and Caroline looked at him in surprise. The firelight danced in his dark eyes in tiny pinpricks of light. Of heat.

“I can’t play chess worth a damn, but I’d sure like to learn how to, so I can beat the pants off you,” he whispered in a low, purely male growl that had prickles running up and down her spine.

Just like that, desire surged up, like an electric shock she could feel down to her fingertips and toes. It was a miracle her hair didn’t stand on end, like one of those cartoon characters sticking a finger in the electric socket. She’d thought the wine had created heat in her system, but there wasn’t a Burgundy in the world that could stand up to the heat in Jack’s eyes.

Warmth spread throughout her entire body, pooling in her breasts and sheath, which was already wet. He’d barely touched her, hadn’t even kissed her, and her body was readying itself for him.

And he knew. Of course he knew. Those sharp dark eyes missed nothing.

“But then,” he whispered, his arm curling her toward him, “maybe I don’t need to lose at chess to get your pants off.” She was brought up against him, and his mouth covered hers. The kiss was long and languid, his tongue deep in her mouth, stroking hers, in time with the big hand stroking her leg, from her hip down to her ankle, and back again.

On the third pass, his hand slipped under the elastic of her sweatpants to caress her bottom. Oh God, it was wildly exciting, feeling his big, warm hand on her skin, slowly stroking, reaching farther and farther down with his hand until he touched her most sensitive skin, entering her slightly with the tip of one finger. She was slick already, she knew he could feel her arousal. As she could feel his, huge and hot against her stomach. His finger pressed more deeply into her, just as his tongue delved more deeply into her mouth. She could hardly breathe with the excitement, but it didn’t make any difference. Somehow he was breathing for her.

A long finger entered her, stroking the inside walls of her sheath in slow passes. His thumb passed over her clitoris.

Caroline gasped into his mouth and felt him stiffen. In an instant, her sweatpants and panties were off. She barely felt him strip her, she was so taken with his hands and his mouth. One moment she was wearing her soft sweatpants, the next moment, she felt the heat of the fire on her backside.

Somehow his sweat suit had come off, too, though she couldn’t figure out how since he was always touching her.

“Make me go slow,” he whispered into her mouth as he lifted her over him. In a moment, her legs were straddling him, the lips of her sex open over that long, thick hot column. “Put me in yourself.”

“Okay,” she whispered back.

He was so aroused she found it hard to pull his penis away from his stomach and had to lift herself up on her knees to position herself against the head. She slid along it, testing herself, and felt him exhale heavily into her mouth.

He disengaged his mouth and gently bumped his forehead against hers. She held his penis and swirled herself around the head, feeling him swell against her fingers and against the swollen tissues of her sex.

“Oh, God,” he said, his voice shaky. “Do that again.”

He was sweating lightly. A bead of sweat trailed from his temple down over the high cheekbone to the jaw, where it trembled lightly and disappeared into the thick mat of hair covering his chest.

It wasn’t that hot. What had him trembling and sweating was the self-control he was using, letting her set the pace.

He was deliberately not touching her, his hands fisted on the couch, white-knuckled, as if he didn’t trust himself to use his hands.

Caroline circled her hips, dipping slightly so that he entered her maybe an inch, then lifting away. He made a low sound deep in his throat, but didn’t move. He was so hot she could almost see steam rise off him; he was breathing hard, so aroused the penis she was holding was like a bar of steel, but he was still letting her run the show.

Another dip into him, another whimper, and he let his head fall back over the couch, eyes closed.

The visible control he was exerting over himself was so exciting she could feel a rush of moisture well inside her. A drop ran down his penis, and he shuddered.

“Now. Please.” His voice was low and guttural.

Yes. Now.

Holding him by the thick base, Caroline lowered herself slowly onto him, feeling him slide inside her, first the thick head, then the long column. When she stopped, he was fully embedded in her, and she felt his thick, wiry pubic hair against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

While feeling him slide slowly into her, she’d closed her eyes, to savor the feeling. Now she opened them to find his eyes fixed on her, burning bright. Watching them, she leaned forward and lay her lips lightly on his. Everything about his face was hard—the brutal slashes of his cheekbones, the rigid, well-defined jawline, the finely flared nostrils. Everything except his mouth, which looked so hard and yet felt so soft under hers.

Turning her head, she opened his mouth with hers, exploring him with her tongue. At the first touch of her tongue to his, he made a noise deep in his chest, and his penis leaped inside her, swelling impossibly bigger.

Oh, God, this was just so enticing!

Jack Prescott was the strongest man she’d ever met, ever seen. He carried an aura of power with him, strong and durable. She was no match for him in any physical way and yet right now, she felt much more powerful than him.

She felt like the Queen of the World, with a warrior to command, that powerful body humming under hers, ready to do her bidding.