Terms of Engagement. Ann Major

her down. She pushed against his chest and then took a step away from him. Watching her, he said, “You can finish undressing in the bathroom if you’d prefer privacy. Or we can stop. I’ll drive you to your car. Your choice.”

      She should have said, “I don’t belong here with you,” and accepted his gallant offer. Instead, without a word, she scampered toward the door he’d indicated. Alone in his beige marble bathroom with golden fixtures and a lovely, compelling etching by another one of her favorite artists, she barely recognized her own flushed face, tousled hair and sparkling eyes.

      The radiant girl in his tall mirror was as beautiful as an enchanted princess. She looked expectant, excited. Maybe she did belong here with him. Maybe he was the beginning of her new life, the first correct step toward the bright future that had so long eluded her.

      When she tiptoed back into the bedroom, wearing nothing but his white robe, he was in bed. She couldn’t help admiring the width of his bronzed shoulders as he leaned back against several plumped pillows. She had never dated anyone half so handsome; she’d never felt anything as powerful as the glorious heady heat that suffused her entire being as his blue eyes studied her hungrily. Still, she was nervy, shaking.

      “I’m no good at sex,” she said. “You’re probably very good … Of course you are. You’re good at everything.”

      “Come here,” he whispered.

      “But …”

      “Just come to me. You could not possibly delight me more. Surely you know that.”

      Did he really feel as much as she did?

      Removing his bathrobe, she flew to him before she lost her nerve, fell into his bed and into his arms, consumed by forces beyond her control. Nothing mattered but sliding against his long body, being held close in his strong arms. Beneath the covers, his heat was delicious and welcoming as she nestled against him.

      He gave her a moment to settle before he rolled on top of her. Bracing himself with his elbows against the mattress, so as not to crush her, he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her brows and then her eyelids with urgent yet featherlike strokes. Slowly, gently, each kiss was driving her mad.

      “Take me,” she whispered, in the grip of a fever such as she’d never experienced before. “I want you inside me. Now.”

      “I know,” he said, laughing. “I’m as ravenous as you are. But have patience, darlin’.”

      “You have a funny way of showing your hunger.”

      “If I do what you ask, it would be over in a heartbeat. This moment, our first time together, is too special to me.”

       Was she special?

      “We must savor it, draw it out, make it last,” he said.

      “Maybe I want it to be over swiftly,” she begged. “Maybe this obsessive need is unbearable.”

      “Exquisite expectation?”

      “I can’t stand it.”

      “And I want to heighten it. Which means we’re at cross-purposes.”

      He didn’t take her. With infinite care and maddening patience he adored her with his clever mouth and skilled hands. His fevered lips skimmed across her soft skin, raising goose bumps in secret places. As she lay beneath him, he licked each nipple until it grew hard, licked her navel until he had all her nerve endings on fire for him. Then he kissed her belly and dived even lower to explore those hidden, honey-sweet lips between her legs. When she felt his tongue dart inside, she gasped and drew back.

      “Relax,” he whispered.

      With slow, hot kisses, he made her gush. All too soon her embarrassment was gone, and she was melting, shivering, whimpering—all but begging him to give her release.

      Until tonight she had been an exile in the world of love. With all other men, not that there had been that many, she had been going through the motions, playing a part, searching always for something meaningful and never finding it.

      Until now, tonight, with him.

      He couldn’t matter this much! She couldn’t let this be more than fierce, wild sex. He, the man, couldn’t matter. But her building emotions told her that he did matter—in ways she’d never imagined possible before.

      He took her breast in his mouth and suckled again. Then his hand entered her heated wetness, making her gasp helplessly and plead. When he stroked her, his fingers sliding against that secret flesh, she arched against his expert touch, while her breath came in hard, tortured pants.

      Just when she didn’t think she could bear it any longer, he dragged her beneath him and slid inside her. He was huge, massive, wonderful. Crying out, she clung to him and pushed her pelvis against his, aching for him to fill her even more deeply. “Yes! Yes!”

      When he sank deeper, ever deeper, she moaned. For a long moment he held her and caressed her. Then he began to plunge in and out, slowly at first. Her rising pleasure carried her and shook her in sharp, hot waves, causing her to climax and scream his name.

      He went crazy when she dug her nails in his shoulder. Then she came again, and again, sobbing. She had no idea how many climaxes she had before she felt his hard loins bunch as he exploded.

      Afterward, sweat dripped off his brow. His whole body was flushed, burning up, and so was hers.

      “Darlin’ Kira,” he whispered in that husky baritone that could still make her shiver even when she was spent. “Darlin’ Kira.”

      For a long time, she lay in his arms, not speaking, feeling too weak to move any part of her body. Then he leaned over and nibbled at her bottom lip.

      The second time he made love to her, he did so with a reverent gentleness that made her weep and hold on to him for a long time afterward. He’d used a condom the second time, causing her to realize belatedly that he hadn’t the first time.

      How could they have been so careless? She had simply been swept away. Maybe he had, too. Well, it was useless to worry about that now. Besides, she was too happy, too relaxed to care about anything except being in his arms. There was no going back.

      For a long time they lay together, facing each other while they talked. He told her about his father’s financial crisis and how her father had turned on him and made things worse. He spoke of his mother’s extravagance and betrayal and his profound hurt that his world had fallen apart so quickly and brutally. She listened as he explained how grief, poverty and helplessness had twisted him and made him hard.

      “Love made me too vulnerable, as it did my father. It was a destructive force. My father loved my mother, and it ruined him. She was greedy and extravagant,” he said. “Love destroys the men in our family.”

      “If you don’t want to love, why did you date all those women I read about?”

      “I wasn’t looking for love, and neither were they.”

      “You were just using them, then?”

      “They were using me, too.”

      “That’s so cynical.”

      “That’s how my life has been. I loved my father so much, and I hurt so much when he died, I gave up on love. He loved my mother, and she broke his heart with her unrelenting demands. When he lost the business, she lost interest in him and began searching for a richer man.”

      “And did she find him?”

      “Several.”

      “Do you ever see her?”

      “No. I was an accident she regretted, I believe. She couldn’t relate to children, and after I was grown, I had no interest in her. Love, no matter what kind, always costs too much. I do write her a monthly check, however.”

      “So, my father was only part of your father’s problem.”

      “But