When he broke their kiss to raise his head and survey the bounty he'd captured, she watched, eyes glinting goldly from under heavy lids. Watched as his head descended and he took her into his mouth. He suckled, and her eyes closed.

The next fractured gasp that filled the loft was the first note of a symphony, a symphony he orchestrated. She wanted more, and he gave it, pushing aside the soft blouse, drawing down her silk chemise, to bare her breasts fully to the soft grey light, the gentle coolness of the air, and his heated attentions.

Beneath them, she burned, as in his dreams he'd imagined her doing, until she was hot and aching-and frantic for more. Her small hands were everywhere, desperately searching, opening his shirt and greedily reaching, caressing, imploring.

That was when he finally realized that control was far beyond him. He didn't have a shred left-she'd stolen it from him and thrown it away. She certainly had none. That was abundantly clear as, panting, her lips gloriously swollen, she drew his face to hers and kissed him voraciously.

Half-beneath him, she lifted, her body caressing his in flagrant entreaty-the oldest method of beckoning known to woman. She wanted him-and heaven help him, he wanted her. Now.

His body was rigid with need, tense and heavy with it; he needed to claim her, to slide into her body and find release. The buttons fastening her velvet skirts were at her back; his fingers were already on them. He'd waited too long to speak, to formally offer for her hand. He couldn't focus enough to form a garbled sentence-but he had to try.

With a groan, Vane pulled back from their kiss. On his elbows above her, he waited for her to open her eyes. When her lashes flickered, he drew a huge breath-and lost it as her nipples brushed his expanding chest. He shuddered-she shivered, quivers rippling through her stomach to her thighs. His mind immediately focused-on the soft haven between her long limbs, experience supplying in gratifying detail just what her responses were achieving.

Vane shut his eyes-he tried to shut his mind and simply speak.

Instead, her voice reached him, clear, soft, sirenlike, a whisper of pure magic in the heavily laden air.

"Show me."

Entreaty silvered the words. In the same instant, Vane felt her fingers slide, glide, then gently close about him. Her tentative touch had him locking his jaw, locking every muscle against a raging impulse to ravish her. She seemed unaware of it; her gliding caress continued, cindering the last of his will.

"Teach me," she whispered, her breath feathering his cheek. And then she breathed against his lips, "All."

That last small word vanquished the last of his resistance, the last remnant of caution, of cool command. Gone was any gentleman, any vestige of his facade-only the conqueror remained.

He wanted her-with every ounce of his body, every ounce of his blood. And she wanted him. Words were superfluous.

The only thing that still mattered was the manner of their joining. With ultimate victory assured, his demons-those spirits that moved him, drove him-were more than ready to lend their talents to achieving glory in the most satisfying way. Not control, but focused frenzy.

Patience felt it. And gloried in it-in the hardness of the hands that possessed her breasts, in the hardness of his lips as they returned to hers. She clung tight, hands clutching, then kneading the broad muscles of his back, a moment later sliding around to hungrily explore his chest.

She wanted to know-know it all-now. She couldn't bear to wait, to drag out the frustration. A yearning-for that knowledge-the fundamental experience all women craved-had bloomed, spread, and now consumed her. Drove her as she arched lightly, responding to the demand in his hands, in his lips, in the steady plundering of his tongue.

He was all heat and shockingly hot hardness. She wanted to draw him into her, to take his heat in and quench it, to release the fevered tension driving him-the same tension slowly suffusing her. She wanted to give herself to him-she wanted to take him into her body.

She knew it, and was long past denial. She knew who she was-she knew what was possible. She'd satisfied herself that she understood how things would be.

So there was nothing to cloud her enjoyment-of the moment, of him. She gave herself up to it gladly-to the shiver of excitement as he drew her velvet skirts down, then rolled her to spread them, a soft blanket, beneath her. Her full petticoats went the same route, becoming a wide sheet beneath her shoulders. She knew no shame as, his lips on hers, he drew her chemise from her, tossing it aside before gathering her to him.

Sharp delight was what she knew as his hands, hard and knowing, possessed her, tracing every curve, every soft mound. One hand slid beneath her waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom. Strong fingers kneaded, caressed, and sweet fever spread, pooling in her belly, dewing her skin. The hand slid lower, tracing the long curve of the back of her thigh all the way to her knee, then slid to the front, reversing direction. To her hip, to that sensitive join where thigh met torso. One finger gently, insistently, stroked downward along the crease-she shuddered, suddenly desperate for breath.

And then he was parting her thighs, gently but firmly spreading them to lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips had gentled on hers, allowing her to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that had both of them in its grip.

Then his hand reached the end of his last caress and drifted higher, to stroke flesh that had never before been stroked, never before felt a man's touch.

The shudder that racked her was pure excitement-distilled sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, Patience gasped and spread her thighs wider-and felt the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.

The soft folds seemed slick; he parted them. Knowing fingers found a point, a nub of flesh, and bolts of delight lanced through her. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it struck deep inside her, caught hold and grew. Pressing her head back, she broke from their kiss. He let her go. He continued to play in the softness between her thighs; Patience hauled in a too-shallow breath and fought to lift her lids.

And saw him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroked and twirled. Then one probed.

The sound that escaped her was more gasp than moan, more scream than groan. He glanced at her face; his eyes locked on hers. She felt his hand press between her thighs-and felt the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.

She gasped again, and closed her eyes. He pressed farther, deeper.

Then he stroked her-inside-deep within, where she was all slick and hot and so full of desire. So full of molten passion. A passion he stirred, deliberately inciting, stoking that inner furnace.

On a shuddering moan, Patience felt herself melt, felt her senses soar.

Vane heard her, felt her surrender-and inwardly smiled, a touch grimly. She was trying his demons to the utmost; by now, most women new to the game would have gone over the edge, or, more likely, been so overcome by need that they would be begging him to take them. Not Patience. She'd let him bare her completely, without any maidenly confusion-she seemed to enjoy writhing naked beneath him as much as he enjoyed having her do so. And now, when even accomplished ladies might be expected to break, she was floating-taking all he lavished on her and waiting for more.

He gave her more, learning her intimately, filling his male senses with her feminine secrets. Slowly, he drove her upward, turning the wheel of the rack of sensual excitement with practiced ease.

Still, she didn't break. She gasped, moaned, and arched-and her eager body begged for yet more. Her needs were not those of the ladies he was accustomed to; as he took her further still, that was brought home beyond doubt. Patience was older, more mature, more sure of her own self. She was not, he realized, the innocent he had labeled her-strictly speaking, she didn't, in fact, have very much of that commodity. She knew enough to know what they were doing, and to have made her decision.

And it was that that was different. Her character and its consequences. She was straightforward, assured, used to taking what experiences life had to offer. To picking and choosing among the fruits of life's tree. And she'd chosen. Deliberately. This-and him.

That was what was different.

Vane looked at her-at her face lightly flushed with desire, at her eyes, glinting gold from beneath heavy lids. And couldn't breathe.

From sheer lust-from sheer need. The need to be inside her.

The need to claim her as his.

With a soft oath, he drew his hands from her and shrugged free of his jacket and shirt. His boots took an impatient minute, then he stood to strip off his breeches. He could feel her gaze on him, trailing down his back. He flung his breeches aside and glanced over his shoulder. She lay naked, asprawl in the hay, calmly waiting. Simmering.

Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; her skin was gently flushed.

Naked, fully aroused, he turned to her.

Not a single hint of shock showed in her face-the face of a Fragonard wanton. Her gaze slid down, over him, then slowly rose to his face.

She lifted her arms. To him.

Vane went to her-covered her-took her lips in a searing kiss and eased himself into her. She was hot and tight; she tensed as he tested her maidenhead. And cried out as, with one well-judged thrust, he breached it. He held still, for one long, achingly tense moment, then she eased about him. Instinct claimed him-he thrust powerfully, deep into her body-and claimed her.

His reins broke-his demons took charge. Driving him, driving her, in a frenzied mating.

Far beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond anything except feeling, Patience held tight and let their passion take her. Every sensation was new, battering in on her mind, her overloaded senses, yet she clung to each thrill, each new intimacy, determined to miss nothing, determined to feel all.

To know the sheer delight of his hard body heavy on hers, his chest hard, hair-roughened, rasping against her sensitive nipples and the soft swells of her breasts. To glory in the hardness that filled her, the steely velvet that pressed deep into her, stretching her, claiming her. To experience, with every gasp, with every desperate pant, the power with which he repeatedly drove into her, the flexing of his spine, the rhythmic fusing of their bodies. To sense her vulnerability, in her nakedness, in the weight that anchored her hips, in the blind wanting that drove her. To revel in the excitement, shamelessly hot, unquenchably erotic, that swelled, grew, built, then flooded them, a raging tide avidly seizing them.

And to feel, deep within her, the unfurling of an anchoring force, more powerful than desire, more deep, more enduring, than anything on earth. That force, all emotion, golden and silver, swelled and caught her. She gave herself up to it and bravely, eagerly, knowingly claimed it for her own.

Ecstasy filled her-eagerly, she shared it, through her lips and their hungry kisses, through the worship of her hands, her limbs, her body.

He did the same; she tasted it on his tongue, felt its heat in his body.