there was no pain. Only delirium. He drew down her slacks, inch by

maddening inch, following the path with his lips.

She wanted. She had never wanted before. Only dreamed. Her body was

slick with sweat, writhing with need, but he continued to kiss and

caress, making her claw at the sheets as he nibbled on the back of her

knee.

The heat was unbearable, yet she wanted more. As his fingers skimmed up

her thighs, her body convulsed. She couldn't draw air. A roaring

filled her head, bolted through her system, terrifying her. With a wild

mixture of pleasure and fear, she reared up. The climax slammed into

her, a velvet fist, which had her falling back, gasping.

"My G.o.d, you're sweet." He could barely breathe himself as he brought

his mouth back to sear hers. Before her shudders had stopped, he was

driving her up again. She wanted to scream out his name, but could only

whisper it as her hands slid over his damp skin.

"Please." Her breath was sobbing out now. Sensation after sensation

poured into her body until it was a ma.s.s of fevered pleasure. Yet it

wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. "I want ..." She cried out

again, flinging out a hand and sending something crashing.

"Tell me." He was crazed to hear it. The pressure had built to a pitch

he'd never experienced. Yet he held back. "Look at me, and tell me."

She opened her eyes. His face was all she could see, and in his eyes,

she saw herself. "I want you." Reaching up, she dragged his mouth to

hers. She cried out again when he filled her.

SHE SLEPT FOR AN HOUR, exhausted, across his bed. He'd sat beside her

for a long time, stroking her hair and wondering how to keep her in his

life. Even being in love with her all that time hadn't prepared him for

what it would be like to be her lover. He'd imagined it. Countless

times. But whenever he had, he'd had only women as comparisons.

There was no one like Emma.

If he had to beg, he'd beg. If he had to fight, he'd fight. But he

wasn't going to lose her again.

When she woke, he was gone. She lay, stomach down, across the bed,

trying to adjust her mind to what had happened to her body. It seemed

impossible that she had felt all those things, done all those things,

without a moment of regret or hesitation. Even hours before, she had

been certain she would never want to be touched again. And yet, perhaps

today was the first time she truly had been touched. Smiling, she rolled

over and thought idly about getting dressed and finding him.

Then she saw his gun. It was still holstered, the strap slung across

the back of a chair a few feet from the bed. She had used a gun, Emma

remembered. Though much of that last horror with Drew came only in

vague patches, she could clearly see those final moments. She could

remember how it had felt to wrap her hands around the gun, to pull the

trigger. To kill.

To know she was capable of that made her stomach coil into knots. She

had loved and married and killed in a little less than two years. Now,

she had the rest of her life to wonder how she could have done any one

of the three.

When the bedroom door swung open, she groped automatically for the