"What?" She wrested in his grip, her Daniels pride rising to replace her pained confusion. "What are you talking about? I've done nothing to your suffocating old house... or your precious family!"

"You've interfered with the servants' rightful duties, demanding whiskey to drink, bargaining for food and necessities, insisting on chopping wood like some charwoman, and carrying your own water- It's embarrassing to the servants and a disgrace to me!"

"Well, I didn't have anything to trade for their services," she answered hotly.

"They're already paid to perform such duties!"

"Not by me!" she flamed.

"No-by me!" he jerked a thumb at his heaving chest and released her abruptly. "I pay them in cold, hard cash. That's the way we do things in Boston... we acquire things with cash money, not by bartering and bargaining. You'd just as well get used to it, wench. If you want something in Boston, you pay for it with legitimate, federal issue dollars!"

"Well, I don't have any money-" her throat tightened humiliatingly.

"Well I do... plenty of it... all you'll ever need."

"I won't take your money," she choked, backing a step. "I don't like money. Money is the root of all evil-it says so in the first book of Timothy." Her eyes were very large and luminous now, washed with a tide of confused hurt. "I don't want your money... I don't want anything from you..." She ground to a halt, knowing she truly lied, for the first time in her memory. There was something she wanted from him, something she wanted with ail her heart.

He watched her struggling with her emotions exactly the way he was struggling with his. And it nearly undid him. Anger was the only way he could counter this relentless slide into the steamy caldron of his feelings for her.

"We're married," his voice thickened in spite of himself, "and as my wife you're expected to reside in a certain level of comfort and luxury, whether you want it or not. It's... required. You're the only wife I get, and that means you're going to live in this suffocating old house and put up with servants doing things for you, and you're going to act like a lady... and dress like one." He stiffened above her as if stung. "That's another thing-" he began to heat all over again. "You defied my order- refusing to go to a dressmaker, after I left explicit instructions you were to have new clothes-"

"I don't want any new clothes... I don't need them." Her throat tightened humiliatingly. "And I won't take them. I won't take anything I haven't earned by honest sweat or in a proper bargain."

"Don't be absurd, wench. You don't have to earn things; you're my wife."

Whitney felt a telltale scratching at the back of her eyes and had to swallow a lump in her throat to speak. Her voice was small and tight.

"But I'm not your wife. You don't talk to me, you won't look at me... you don't bed with me. I'm not your wife. I'm just somebody you made a mistake with once."

That quiet charge sank into the middle of him like a broadsword into butter. Every word expressed with brutal accuracy the dismal state of affairs between them, and yet it wasn't really the truth. For nothing in that bleak summary expressed the desire for her that pushed him to the brink of sanity every time she came near, or the heaving tumult of feeling she stirred in him every time he looked into those big, warm eyes of hers and realized how easy it would be to love her.

He inhaled sharply, as if gut-punched. Suddenly everything in his chest was squeezing, crowding his heart so that each beat sent a quiver of pain through his chest. That was it, he realized with a horrifying wave of understanding. He loved her.

It tore through him like a lightning bolt, laying open his nerves and sinews to expose the complex new feeling for the first time. He loved Whitney Daniels. A flood of bone-deep wanting engulfed him, and in its wake came a full roiling panic. Loving at its best was fraught with pain and uncertainty. But loving Whitney Daniels was being destined for disaster... earmarked for oblivion! There were no halfway measures with a woman like her. Loving her meant risking everything he wanted, everything he was. And she'd already betrayed him... twice.

Whitney watched as powerful forces clashed within him, understanding somehow that she was involved. He wanted her, she knew, even though he didn't want to want her. And he didn't trust her; his allegations tonight were proof. Yet he insisted she was his wife... and insisted she act like one.

"Blessit!" he snarled, exploding the volatile tension between them as he grabbed her by the shoulders. He dragged her closer, his bronzed features now fierce. But a muffled cough issued from across the room, near the hearth, and his dark head came up, eyes blazing.

Whitney startled and followed his angry gaze to the sight of Ezra Townsend's leering smirk. The old man was leaning around the back of his wheeled chair, which was parked before the fire.He'd obviously been there the whole time... watching... hearing every word.

Beyond mere humiliation now, Garner glowered furiously at his grandfather and pulled crimson-faced Whitney to the door. He trundled her through the hall under a hoard of curious eyes, and dragged her up the stairs to her room.

"You owe me," he declared, looming huge and deadly potent above her, deathly afraid of touching her. "You owe me a wife... a fitting wife. I'm sending for a dressmaker first thing tomorrow morning. You're getting new clothes, whether you like it or not."

He turned on his heel and strode out, locking the door behind him. Halfway down the upper hall, he was stopped by the sight of Ezra and his chair being trundled up the stairs separately by their brawniest servants. When Ezra was seated again, he waved the servants off and sat staring at Garner with a knowing little smirk. Garner lifted his Townsend chin and made a show of removing his gloves and shrugging his coat from his shoulders as he headed for the steps. Ezra's voice halted him. "What a horse's arse you are sometimes, boy." Garner turned, his back rail-straight and his face stiff and dusky with chagrin.

"You have what most men only dream of." Ezra laughed a rusty, ironic sort of laugh at his grandson's predicament. "A hot little piece for a wife... who doesn't know how to spend money!"

Half of that night, Whitney paced her room, torn between stubborn hope and nagging despair. Something momentous had happened between them that evening, she could feel it. But for the life of her, she couldn't say whether it was momentously good or momentously bad. She owed him a wife, he said. Could it be that he really wanted their marriage bargain, too? Or was it just his stubborn Townsend pride demanding a suitable wifely ornament for his Townsend ambitions?

There was a cost and a profit in everything, her pa always said. And it was painfully clear she'd cost him his "proper marriage," his family's approval, and now perhaps his gentlemanly reputation as well. "Poor Garner" echoed in her hollow middle. Maybe she did owe him a wife... who wore feminine clothes, and drank proper wine.

She sighed. All she knew for sure was that she was coming to want a lot more than just a bit of "manly service" from Garner Adams Townsend. She wanted all of him. Everything there was. And if that was lustful and greedy, so be it. She was a Delilah, after all, and probably entitled to a few desires of her own. In point of fact, she reasoned with a desperate bit of insight, that was probably what made the difference in women to begin with: Delilah's had desires and "decent" women didn't. And Delilah's not only had desires, they invariably did something about them. Like... going to the Iron Major's bed. Or like luring the "Iron Husband" into their own...

Her heartlike face began to glow with a dangerous blend of Daniels and Delilah. If she was ever going to have him, really have him, she was going to have to use his own wants against him, in the longstanding Delilah tradition. And just what did the Iron Husband want? Her beguiling smile and the gleam in her eyes both deepened as she thought of their latest confrontation. Her. He apparently still wanted her. And he wanted her dressed like a lady.

There was confusion, mid-morning, in the upstairs hallway of Townsend House. One of Boston's finest dressmakers had been wakened with a summons before dawn, and had hurried to Townsend House with the promise of a lavish fee burning in her ears. Now, however, the dignified little woman was huddled with her two wide-eyed seamstresses and Mercy outside Whitney's door, speaking in shocked whispers and watching the top of the stairs. They didn't have long to wait.

Garner came charging up the main stairs, his face set like flint, his eyes glowing hot. And in his wake trotted a superbly outraged Madeline. He strode right through the clutch of women, sending them skittering aside in exaggerated horror, and burst through Whitney's door. When it slammed behind him, it released a nervous volley of exclamations. Little Madeline caught the dressmaker's shocked gaze and held it.

"If so much as a breath of this gets out, you're finished in Boston."

Inside the well-warmed room, Garner advanced on Whitney, his eyes blazing at the sight of her, clad only in a gauzy, thin-strapped chemise and strategically backlit by the bright fire.

"What in hell is this all about?" He stopped a defensive distance away, spreading his long legs, settling hard fists on his hips. "I've told you-you'll have new clothes whether you want them or not!" His eyes locked on her glowing face to keep from straying toward more dangerous territory, and he began to tighten with unholy expectation in spite of himself. There wasn't any "safe" territory with Whitney Daniels!

"I won't wear a corset, that's all."

"Don't be absurd. All ladies wear them. Even you've worn one before." He realized her chin was set at a dangerous "trading" angle and it jolted all his defenses to full alarm.

"Well I won't put one on now. I've never liked them, and I refuse to put one on." She crossed her arms under her breasts, pulling the treacherous spider's web of a fabric tight over her taut nipples, and trapping his gaze in it. She could almost see the heat rising in him as his face and ears reddened another shade.

"The hell you won't!" he growled, striding forward, then stopping dead in his tracks. Dammit! Corsets! He felt the pull of her sultry green eyes and realized instantly what this was about. In a vulnerable moment he'd revealed his special weakness for corsets, and the little witch was blatantly using it against him! A Delilah-he recalled her own epithet-she would always use his impulses against him!

He whirled one way, then the other, searching the chaos of fabric bolts and wooden boxes and half-sewn garments draped everywhere. There they were... the corsets. Three of them, lace-trimmed and frilly, lay on the bench beside Whitney's bare, silky knees. Fingers of fire ran up the contracting muscles of his belly at the sight. This was no time to panic, he told himself desperately. This was a test of wills... of manly mettle... of husbandly authority. And by damn, he'd not be found wanting!

He stalked over to them, trying to look formidable, and snatched the closest one up, holding it out to her. "Put it on, Whitney. I swear-you won't leave this room until you have!" She raised her chin another notch and her eyes darkened another shade.

"If you want it on me, you'll have to put it on me yourself."

There it was. The ultimate defiance. It was do or die. And a Townsend always "did."

"Don't think I can't, wench," he warned, "or that I won't." Her only response was a defiant little smile that dared him to try. He growled and lunged at her, sweeping her off her feet and plopping her bottom down on the bench, atop the other corsets. He grabbed both her legs in a viselike grip and began to shove the half-laced garment over her trim feet and up her shapely legs.

It took a long moment for him to realize that she wasn't resisting... that her lovely legs were captive in his arms and her body wasn't even hinting at resistance. He eased and stiffened in the same moment. And when he glanced over his shoulder at her, his mouth dried with dread. She was leaning back on her arms, her eyes now emerald dark, her reddened lips parted, her skin glowing from the dual heat of the nearby fire and the fire within her. Her hip was pressed against the side of his ribs as he held her sleek legs... and suddenly he was hot... all over... and trembling.

He fastened his eyes on the corset and pulled it up to her thighs, realizing he was raising her chemise with it. He was groaning inside. In a desperate move, he stood and lifted her onto her feet. Now she would bolt or kick or shove it down, fight him. But she just stood quietly, her arms at her sides as he set lean, muscular hands to the corset and pulled it up her thighs and over her curvy bottom. He fought to keep her chemise down and to ignore the way the corset molded her soft, sleek buttocks as it glided over them. But the warmth of her body and the faint, rosy scent of her skin were radiating through him, charming his senses, constricting his thoughts.

And shortly it slid into place around her narrow waist and nudged her full, hard-tipped breasts. He jerked his hands away, panicking at the impulses battering his legendary Townsend restraint. But he felt the challenging heat of her look and took a hard breath, pulling the rim of the corset up and over those seductive mounds. His knuckles brushed that excruciating softness and something exploded in his loins-completing a massive arousal. He flinched and flamed. Ignore it, dammit!

He turned her gruffly by the shoulders to draw her laces from behind, and still she made no move to resist. With his hands shaking and his loins throbbing, he could scarcely coordinate the lacing and pulling. His eyes trailed the nape of her neck, her half-bare shoulders, and slid to her tightening waist and the sweet swell of her lush, inviting bottom. He was seized by an overpowering urge to pull that soft bottom against his hard front... to send his hands around that small waist... to set those succulent breasts free...

He froze, his body rigid, as the thought flashed through him: in this contest of wills, she was letting his impulses do her fighting for her. She'd roused him to pounding, agonized tumescence without so much as a touch, a kiss, or the slightest indication of desire on her part. She knew his weakness for her and she used it against him. She was unraveling his self-possession like an ill-knit sock! And when it unraveled completely, what then? Would he lie in pieces at her feet... again?

She felt him still, felt the stunning heat of his body invading her from behind, and her throat tightened. She turned slowly to face him, trying to read in his mood whether he would welcome her embrace, whether he was ready to give her what she wanted.

But as they came face to face, he stumbled back a stiff-legged step... then another... and another. With each step the turmoil visible in his face and powerful frame increased. He didn't stop until he reached the door.

"Now," his voice was choked, "let them dress you like a lady, dammit!"

When the door slammed behind him, Whitney stood for a minute, her chin trembling, her entire body flushing crimson with shamed heat. Lord-what did it take to make him set hands to her again? But a moment later, she lifted her chin and raging fires of determination billowed in her eyes. "Delilah" apparently wasn't enough. It would take a bit of "Daniels" as well.

As it happened, they did dress her, and undress her, and re-dress her... over and over. And after the initial contretemps over the corset, and Garner's husbandly edict, Whitney proved the very model of cooperation. Madeline's cooperation was rather more conditional; she only agreed to help choose suitable clothes because Garner pulled her aside and threatened to introduce Whitney to her society buff naked if she didn't. Whitney dutifully stood and posed and turned and tried half-stitched garments. And when they spread swatches of luxurious fabric and bolts of lace and ribbons and trims before her, she found herself strangely moved to stroke them and hold them up to the afternoon light.

Apparently there had been a few changes in fashion since Aunt Kate retired to the frontier. Corsets were briefer, infinitely more bearable; dress had higher and higher waistlines, and petticoats were less voluminous and restrictive. Fewer things were starched; softer, more drapable fabrics were the order of the day. Stockings were silken and translucently sheer... making Whitney pause, adjusting a garter, to recall Garner's confessed weakness for them too. She'd thought it strange at the time that he could be amorously roused by something as commonplace as stockings. But then, she'd never seen stockings like these.

With each garment planned, each style and cloth agreed, she found her interest in womanly wear growing. And since no exchange of coin was involved, she relaxed enough to indulge her new fascination a bit. There were clothes for riding and for home and for visiting, for morning and daytime and evening wear. And though Madeline insisted there was absolutely no need for ball gowns, the little dressmaker clucked and insisted that Master Townsend had specifically mentioned them... "something about the Hancock's Ball..." Madeline's groan could have been heard all the way to Westmoreland County.

When the dressmaker left late that evening, Whitney had three new dresses and the promise of twenty more. And she had a headache, a burning nose, and itchy eyes from the lint and the strong smell of the fabric dyes. She took a bite of food from a tray that was thoughtfully brought up by Mercy, and climbed into the middle of her big, soft bed, with a tired but pleased expression. She needed a sound night's rest. It was going to be the last uninterrupted sleep she had for a long while... if she had anything to do with it.

Chapter Eighteen.

Garner arrived home from the company offices the next evening with a tightening coil of premonition in his gut. For the past day and a half, he'd been walking around in a wretched half-roused state, unable to think, scarcely able to string a coherent sentence together. All creation seemed engaged in a conspiracy to fill his senses with her in her absence. A breath of spice outside a bakery became the scent of her lips. An aura of light around a candle flame became the tarnished halo of her hair, the swish of a clerk's broom became the sway of her hips, and a rounded breakfast bun became... Damn-the merest hint of her and his blood was racing through his veins, plunging toward his loins again. What utter misery, being trapped inside a body someone else seemed to control!

He shed his greatcoat into Edgewater's efficient hands, pulled his waistcoat down firmly, and tried to look more controlled than he felt. He joined Byron and Ezra in the west parlor before supper and Madeline soon arrived with a cryptic reference to the absence of his "free-spending" wife. He was relieved to hear that Whitney had finally cooperated with his plan to clothe her in sumptuous, ladylike fashion, but couldn't help wondering if it might be too little, too late. When Mercy appeared in the parlor doorway, looking rather ashen, Garner knew his day-long sense of dread had been well-founded. He bent to collect the message, then shot up straight, his face erupting red, his fingers clenching at his sides.

"Dammit!" he growled, heading for the stairs in the center hall. His long legs covered the tile quickly and mounted the steps by two's and three's.

Mercy was left to face the other Iron Townsends with a message from Whitney. "Mistress Townsend... she says yer not to wait supper on them."

Whitney stood by the blazing hearth in her room, clothed in an embroidered, green silk wrapper and staring at the door. There were bees buzzing in her stomach and a faint hum of expectation in her blood. When the door burst open, she startled and felt a shiver up her spine. He stalked inside, surveying both the room and her with a blatant ire. When the door slammed behind him it rattled the wall, and Whitney's nerves. His long, muscular legs, his wide, black-clad shoulders, his big supple hands set in gentlemanly ruffles; she'd never seen him look so big... so male... so determined.

"Get dressed," he growled, his deep tones vibrating her nerves like fine crystal.

"I won't," she said, steeling her trader's nerve, and lifting her head a few telling degrees. She could see the depth of resistance in his eyes.

"I don't know what your game is, wench, but I'm not having any of it. Dress yourself properly and come down to supper or-" he stopped, realizing he didn't have an ultimatum that made any sense at all. Or what? He'd dress her again himself? A slash of heat ran through him from head to foot. Not if his life depended on it!

"Get dressed or I swear I'll call the servants to do it for you," he finally snarled, though with a telling waver in his hostile tone.

"Then... I suppose..." she undid the ties of her wrapper and shrugged it from her naked shoulders, letting it glide down her bare body and drop into a shimmering pool around her feet, "you'll have to call them."

It took every bit of combined Delilah and Daniels audacity she possessed to stand there naked before him, daring him to call the servants to stuff her into her clothes. She saw him stiffen, watched as he fought to control his eyes... and lost. And there it was! Her jubilant trader's sense told her that light of yearning, that acquisitive glint in his eyes was the first key to securing her wifely bargain with him.

He swallowed hard, feeling his insides turning to liquid heat, feeling his blood draining from his brain to collect in his already primed male parts. The sinuous curve of her stance, the impudent thrust of her taut nipples, the enticing fullness of her hips, the sleek, tapered firmness of her long, shapely legs. How could his blood be roaring in his head this way when it was all surging into his swelling parts?

"Or," her voice grew noticeably huskier, "you can bargain me into them."

"Bargain?" he managed, his temperature rising precipitously. "Good Lord- bargain you?" He shook his head to reclaim his senses and dragged his gaze up her body to meet hers. Her green eyes were lit with passion fires that held him rapt, unable to tear himself away.

"I almost forgot. Everything has a price with you, doesn't it? What is it this time, wench? What do you want?" A wicked little smile stole over her generous lips as she read the second sigh: demanding the asking price of her cooperation.

"I want your shoes... and stockings. I'll put mine on. If you take yours off."

"W-what?!" he snorted his indignation. "Don't be absurd, wench. If you think for one minute... What makes you think..." He searched desperately for a bit of disdain in his churning being. "What in hell makes you think I'd take my clothes off to bargain you into yours?"

But even as he said it, the erotic ramifications of it slammed through him with the force of a stone hammer. The excruciatingly slow peel of his clothes... the tantalizingly slow donning of hers.

Her heart quivered at the third sign: belying interest in the desired object. She watched his eyes unfocus briefly, and it was all she could do to keep a calm trader's mien. They still had "offer and counteroffer" to go. And a deal was never done until it was done. But the only weakness in her plan was the possibility that he might just turn and leave again before she got him out of his clothes. But he didn't show the slightest inclination toward that.

In truth, the possibility of leaving never crossed his mind. From the minute he stepped into the room, he knew he was being brazenly seduced, and his entire body had begun to vibrate in response to her irresistible sensual challenge. Now those tremors of anticipation had climbed his spine and rattled his brain. He couldn't think properly, couldn't make out what she really wanted from him. Not money. Not clothes. Not status. Inside of him, the noise and confusion of his titanic struggle for control increased. Even if he managed to clench this bargain... what would he lose in the process?

"Your shoes and stockings, Garner. For mine," she prompted, lifting one sheer, silky stocking from the bench beside her that was draped with an entire set of ladies' intimate garments. She rounded the bench, swaying, and sat down, raising one knee, pointing her toes... poised to slip a sleek limb into that snug, silken sheath.

His eyes burned as they fixed on the seductive arch of her leg, the erotic rounding of her buttocks pressed down on the bench amidst velvets and laces. The fire in his loins crowned instantly, racing through his heated body like brushfire through dry grass. Anything... anything... just put it on, he groaned inside. Shoes-they were only shoes-he had other shoes! Dammit-part of him yelled-give her your shoes !

He nudged his gold-buckled shoes off with a growl, then held his breath as she slid her toes inside the stockings and began to pull it up. His desires rose with it, inch by tantalizing inch, filling his throat. When she paused and her eyes flickered down him to his stockings, he leaned down and flipped open the knee buttons of his breeches and tore his stockings loose. Some part of his sanity slid with them as he pushed them down his calves and over his feet.

He straightened, knowing now that he was stripping more than just his clothes, he was shedding his resistance to her... baring himself. And for the life of him, he couldn't stop it. The other mesmerizing stocking inched its way up her leg and was tucked beneath a tied, lacy garter. He held his breath as she reached for a pair of velvet shoes with dainty little spool heels and slid her feet into them. She rose to her feet, clad only in shimmery stockings and pink rosette garters and ladylike shoes.

"Now your coat. Take off your coat."

"What for?" he choked, his body aching, trembling, near the flash-point of total explosion.

"For my chemise." She picked it up and held it against her breasts, watching his eyes fasten on the garment, watching him swallow with difficulty. An instant later, he was removing his silk-lined coat with jerky, tortured movements. She smiled with covert sympathy and pulled the thin chemise over her head, letting it fall slowly over her hard-tipped breasts and down her hips into place.

He managed a rattled breath of relief that she was at least partly hidden-then he froze. The chemise left her legs visible below her knees and her rounded breasts and the curve of her waist were clearly outlined beneath the clingy fabric. Damn-how could she possibly seem more naked with clothes on?! The throbbing in his loins had only increased! He was in pure chaos inside.

"Your waistcoat and shirt, for my corset," she demanded huskily, losing her own gaze and determination momentarily in the snug fit of his garments around his lean waist. Her knees were going weak. It was more than any "bargain" now, however important. Desire was swirling through her core, preparing her body for his touch. And a surge of sensual joy pulsed through her at the way his hands shook as they reached for his buttons.

Her corset slid up her legs, over her curvy hips... briefly raising her chemise, exposing the moist gingery curls at the base of her belly. Her legs parted and braced in a pure sexual provoation of a stance as she settled the corset around her waist and tucked her breasts inside. She drew what laces she could and then walked toward him... a sensual prowl that immobilized him completely, stopping his breath, his blood, even his thoughts.

She presented him her back and lifted her fragrant fall of hair out of the way so he could tighten and tie her lacings. Operating outside his conscious will, his hands actually managed to do it, to tighten the cinch around her small waist, emphasizing its delicious contrast to her rounded buttocks... and deepening his torment. Corsets- God, how he loved corsets! And silk stockings, and skimpy little chemises... things ladies wore beneath the dresses he'd taught himself to loathe. And on Whitney's tantalizing little body, such refinements were doubly potent.

She turned where she was, facing his hot, bare chest, and gave his unbuttoned shirt a tug that sent it sliding down his shoulders into oblivion. He was braced, barelegged and bare-chested, mere inches away.

"Breeches," she whispered up his throat as she lifted her face. "I want your breeches, Garner Townsend."

Quaking, teetering on the very brink of eruption, he let himself be drawn into her eyes, into the passionate tidal pools that held the promise of things he didn't even know how to want. All he knew was he wanted her with every aching sinew, every embattled impulse, every tortured part of his being. And whatever price she asked,he was going to pay. Trembling hands tore at the buttons of his breeches.

"Your breeches for my petticoat," she breathed, "fair is fair." She backed to the bench, reached for her soft petticoat, and stepped into it. And she saw him come for her... his breeches sliding down his tight buttocks, down his powerful thighs, baring his swollen shaft. A sharp trill of exultant desire ran through her at the sight of his hardened passion, and she felt her woman's flesh tightening, opening. In the thrall of his focused male desire, she managed her final gambit.

"It seems you're one garment short. I-I still have my dress..."

"What is it you want from me?" he half growled, half groaned, seizing her bare arms. "What is your price, Whitney Daniels?"

In the heaving silence, eyes met and hearts stopped. Passion sizzled and crackled between them, scintillating, white-hot. The Iron Major was suddenly molten, caught in passion's roaring forge, waiting the shaping strokes of loving hands to give his being final form, to shape his destiny, to fashion his soul for a life of loving, or a lifetime of regrets.

"I want your loving, Garner Townsend," she poured all the passion of her bright being, all the warmth of her growing love for him into one breathless whisper. "Come to my bed... and love me. And I'll gladly wear your fancy clothes."

Garner stood, quaking at the very gates of paradise, unable to believe his ears. Love her? That was what she wanted?! Lord, yes-he'd love her-he already loved her-would always love her- "Yes..." His banded arms crushed her against his hardened body and his dark head swooped to possess her mouth. "Oh, yes..." He plunged into her spicy sweetness, demanding, devouring her eager response. She surged against him, engulfed by his desire and buoyed by her own. His long, lean body, his heated male scent, his velvety tongue, the hard press of his male desire against her belly started a free-spinning wheel of pleasure in the center of her.