She hesitated, looking a bit worried all of a sudden. He took the packet from her, tore it open with his teeth, and set it on the floor, then gathered her back in his arms and ravaged her mouth with a kiss. She melted against him, hugged him fiercely, and kissed him back, opening her sweet-tasting lips to let him inside.

He made love to her senses. His hands roamed over her body and toyed with the curls at the juncture of her thighs. He caressed her intimately, whispered words of anticipation into her cute little ear, and slowly rolled her onto her back, gently placing her beneath him. He slid on the protection while he continued to kiss her and lowered himself until he rested between her thighs.

“Libby,” he thickly entreated. “Open yar eyes and look at me, lass, so I can see that ya understand what is happening between us.”

She looked at him, and Michael saw the fire of passion burning brightly in her beautiful brown eyes.

“Say it, Libby. Tell me ya want me.”

Her hands tightened on his arms as she moved against him, searching for his intimate touch.

“Say it, lass,” he ground out, holding on to his control by the barest of threads. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” she moaned, lifting her hips and straining against him. “Yes, Michael. I want you.”

Satisfied, Michael slowly eased into her, mindful of how delicate she was, studying her face for signs of discomfort.

Her eyes widened. Her fingernails dug into his arms. And he wasn’t sure, but she looked as if she was holding her breath. So he reached down between them and gently stroked her passion back into flames.

She relaxed and opened, and he finally slid fully inside her. And Michael felt as if he’d just entered Heaven, he was so warmed and welcomed and deeply embedded. It was all he could do not to move.

Thank God she moved first, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist and lifting her hips. That was all the encouragement he needed. He cupped her face, kissed her lips, and slowly set a gentle rhythm that made her moan into his mouth.

Michael wanted this to last forever. He wanted Libby to feel the strength of their passion as keenly as he did. He wanted her hot and bothered and as wild as he was.

She was definitely bothered. Libby was so focused on feeling him buried so deep inside her, it was all she could do to remember to breathe. Making love to Michael was an unbelievably erotic experience.

But she wasn’t quite satisfied. He was moving too slowly, being too careful. She wasn’t a china doll—she wanted him to let go of his confounded control.

She raked her fingernails over his shoulders, dug her heels into his back, buried her face in his chest, and licked his nipple. He gave a hoarse shout, bucked against her, and sent skyrockets shooting through her body.

“Yes,” she breathed in a shout of her own, urging him on. She arched her back, causing him to withdraw slightly, and then lifted her hips.

He was a quick learner. He moved deeply inside her, then withdrew, then moved deeply again in a tempo that sent her hormones into a riot. Intense pleasure awakened every one of her senses at the feel of his breath against her ear, his body moving against hers, his taste lingering on her lips, and his hands—his large, strong, calloused hands—

guiding their bodies together.

She could feel the truck rocking with the force of his thrusts. And for some strange reason, that realization sent Libby over the edge of control. She clung to Michael, cried out, and climaxed so violently she thought she might burst into flames. And just when she thought it was over, he reared up, growled deep from his throat, and stilled. He pulsed inside her, the strength of his own climax a magical thing to witness. She pressed her palms to his chest, felt his heart slamming against his ribs, and her own heart lurched with the realization that more than a simple affair had been started tonight.

So very much more.

Michael was shaken to the very soles of his bare feet. He slowly lowered himself to his elbows, staying inside her, reluctant to let the moment end. He brushed back her damp hair and kissed her forehead, then finally rolled to his side and settled her comfortably against him.

Damn, but it was true—wonderful things did come in small packages sometimes.

Michael lifted his head and found Libby had her eyes closed, her head nestled against his chest, and one hand possessively clutching his neck.

Michael settled against the pillows and pulled the blanket over Libby’s back, tucking her firmly against him. He thought about the three other foil packets in his pants pocket, and his smile returned. He wondered if Libby had noticed them when she’d found the first one and if she might be thinking she’d better get some rest now, while she could.

Come to think of it, he was feeling a bit exhausted himself. He stared at the roof, and his smile disappeared. Her damned truck. He couldn’t believe he’d brought Libby into the garage, into this damned truck, to make love to her. He was about as romantic as a bull moose willing to rut in a beaver bog.

No wonder she had nothing to say.

Michael was gone. Libby knew this because she was cold. Her nose was running, her feet felt like blocks of ice, and she was wrapped up so tightly in the quilt trying to keep warm that her body ached.

He’d left. The unromantic, insensitive jerk had snuck off in the small hours of the night without even saying good-bye.

He hadn’t said thank you, either.

How could a man know so much about a woman’s body that he could take her on a fantastical journey to Heaven and back and not know that he was supposed to stick around long enough to tell her he’d enjoyed the trip as much as she had?

Weren’t affairs supposed to be flaming things because of the romance? Wasn’t that why women usually agreed to have them?

Libby pulled the quilt up over her face to cover her freezing nose and groaned when she discovered aches in places she’d forgotten existed.

Dammit. What had she expected from a self-acclaimed throwback? Flowers? Music and candlelight? A note left on her pillow? Libby pushed the quilt down and looked to her right, half hoping to see a note on the pillow beside her.

Nothing. Only the cold imprint of where his head had been.

She sat up and looked around the shadowed interior of her truck. As love nests went, it could have been worse, considering the options available. She could have been waking up in the barn, she thought with a sigh of self-pity.

Libby loosened the cocoon of her quilt and crawled to the door of the truck. She opened it and backed out, wincing when her bare feet hit the concrete floor of the garage. She pulled the quilt along with her, and something fell on her feet. She looked down, picked up the packet, and stared in disbelief. She looked at the carpeted floor of her truck, saw two more packets, and her disbelief turned to horror.

Four? Michael had brought four condoms with him last night?

Every inch of Libby’s body—even her toes—instantly heated with outrage. The man had sat at her dinner table with four condoms tucked in his pocket, fortifying himself for a night of marathon sex.

Well, no wonder he’d left. She’d flopped against him like a drunkard after they’d made love and had fallen asleep before she had even finished yawning. Truth told, it had never occurred to her that he might want to do it again. In her experience with men, they’

d have sex, cuddle a few minutes, and then get up and go home—but not while she’d been unconscious and only after a sweet kiss good-bye and a thank-you.

Libby turned on her heel and marched into the house. She stomped to the trash can, lifted the lid, and dropped the three packets inside.

“There. Take that, Mr. Macho Michael MacBain,” she muttered as she headed to the bathroom. He’d have to crawl on his knees if he wanted to see her again. And he damned well better have flowers in one hand and chocolates in the other.