She didn’t know that, of course. But she didn’t refuse. Her lips parted and her eyes slid closed as his thumb brushed lightly over one tantalizing nipple.

When he began to shake, he tried to pull away so she wouldn’t notice. His reaction embarrassed him. But she covered his hands and held them in place. “It’s okay,” she promised. “No matter what happens, it’s okay.”

He hadn’t told her he’d been with only one girl, way back when he was a teenager, but he had told her he’d been eighteen when he went to prison and hadn’t had sex since then. He wondered if Peyton found it ironic that a man who’d seen and done so much was almost completely uninitiated in physical pleasure. Maybe. Regardless, she didn’t seem worried that he’d disappoint her.

Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, sweetly—and that was all it took. With a growl, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he bent over her so he could use his mouth as much as his hands.

Making love to Peyton made Virgil feel as if he’d spent all those years in prison waiting for this one moment. He didn’t want it to end, especially too soon, which was why he didn’t remove his pajama bottoms when he removed her panties. It was Peyton who eventually peeled them off. Then there was nothing to stop them, and the drive to consummate became both frenzied and desperate.

“I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered when he still held back.

He wanted the same thing. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But just in case all those tests they’d given him before releasing him from prison had somehow been wrong, and he’d picked up HIV or something else from all the fighting, he didn’t want to expose her. Neither did he want to run the risk of getting her pregnant. That couldn’t be good for her life or her career, for a lot of reasons, including the fact that it would provide proof, should Wallace care to make any accusations, that they’d been together.

Pulling ragged gulps of air into his lungs, he rested his forehead against hers. “Do you have a condom?”

“I thought you said you were clean.”

“I am, but…what about pregnancy?”

“There’s no need to worry about that. I’ve had endometriosis since I was thirteen. The doctor has me on the pill.”

What, exactly, did that mean? “Endometriosis doesn’t make this…painful for you, does it?” He knew that was probably a stupid question. She seemed eager enough. But one thing he hadn’t come across in prison was any information on the various conditions that affect the female reproductive system.

“For me it’s not usually painful. It just means I might have trouble getting pregnant if and when I want children. But there’s a lot doctors can do these days, so…I’m hopeful.”

“I’m sure they’ll be able to help.” He didn’t know the first thing about it, but he would’ve said whatever she needed to hear. He felt too protective of her to do anything else. “So…we’re good to go?”

“We’re good.” She whispered those words while tracing the rim of his ear with her tongue. He nearly melted into her right then and there, but he wanted one last look at her the way she was now, completely undone, her mouth swollen with his kisses, her hair tangled from his hands, her face slightly chafed from his beard growth. Pinning her hands lightly above her head, he stared at her, intent on memorizing every detail.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.” He traced the curve of one cheek, ran his finger along her lower lip and all the way down to her navel. Then he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensations that promised such sweet release: her satiny skin, her wet mouth, her musky smell on his fingers. He was trying to take it slow; he didn’t want it to end too soon. But what they felt turned into such frantic need he could’ve more easily stopped a speeding train. Gripping his buttocks, she arched into him to let him know what she wanted, and he responded by pushing inside her as far as he could.

The tight warmth of her around him was almost too much. He tried, once again, to slow down, but it was a futile effort. The compulsion was too great, for both of them. She moaned her pleasure as the rhythm increased, and he began to shake again. This wasn’t like those sloppy, careless sessions with Carrie. He’d lost enough since then to know that this was one of those moments he’d always treasure, regardless of what happened afterward.

“I think…maybe you’d better give me a minute,” he gasped, “or I won’t…be able to hang on until—”

“Don’t worry about that.” She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him even deeper. “Just let go.”

And then the last of his defenses slipped away, along with his control, and the most exquisite pleasure broke over him, rocking him with a series of shuddering waves.

The soothing, metronome quality of Virgil’s breathing suggested he was sleeping soundly. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head. Peyton wondered how long it’d been since he’d really relaxed like this. She was tired herself, but she didn’t want to drift into unconsciousness. She preferred to relish the time she had with him. His warmth seemed to hold the fog’s pervading dampness at bay and the size of his body offered a greater sense of security than she’d felt in ages. For the first time since she’d met him, except for when they were making love, he was unguarded. She liked that. More than liked it. And yet she had to ask herself: What have I done? She was the chief deputy warden of the facility where he’d be incarcerated on Tuesday. After this, how could they maintain any type of professionalism?

Playing their respective roles had been a battle from the start, hadn’t it? He’d always defied her on one level or another. Because he wasn’t really an inmate, she couldn’t seem to employ the same defenses that normally kept her safe. Until she’d met him, she’d never dreamed anything like this could happen to her.

But if she’d been wrong to allow him into her bed, it certainly didn’t feel that way right now. Sharing what they’d shared seemed to ease his pain. It’d also left him exhausted and able to sleep, and that brought her a measure of relief, too. But she felt free to do as she wanted here, in her own home, especially in the dark of night. Would that perspective change come morning?

Shifting carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him, she studied what she could see of his face, beautiful in its rawboned masculinity, illuminated by the moonlight slanting through her floor-to-ceiling windows. She had drapes, but almost always left them open. Living on towering ocean cliffs had certain benefits. Privacy was one. No one could see into her bedroom.

Lowering her eyes to his chest, she took particular note of the tattoos on his body and what they might represent. The grim reaper covered one shoulder as if daring death to take him. Or maybe it represented how often he’d stared death in the face? A medusa languished over his heart, the snakes of her hair detailed and real-looking as they slithered across his torso. She already knew he was familiar with Greek mythology. Had he chosen a medusa to represent his mother—someone once beautiful who’d become ugly because of her actions?

There were plenty of scars, too. He’d been shanked several times. How many fights had he been in? And what had the C.O.s done to him as a result? They’d probably vented their anger on a number of occasions, possibly with a few blows of their own. At the very least, they would’ve put him in isolation.

Peyton winced at what he must’ve gone through—a man falsely accused and erroneously imprisoned. It could’ve destroyed him. Maybe, in ways, it had. But it didn’t seem like that. He was a gentle lover. A generous one, too. Surely that revealed as much about him as anything else.

Unable to resist, she pressed her lips to the most prominent scar she could see, two inches of puckered flesh that looked like a slash on the medusa’s cheek.