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back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the thick brown hair that she had so longed to touch. It felt like silk against her palms just as, somehow, she had always known it would.
    The feel of his hair under her hands, feeling so exactly right, made her suddenly hunger to touch him elsewhere. To run her fingers through the hair on his chest and to smooth her hands lovingly over the satin-hard muscles of his bare shoulders and back. But he was holding her too closely for that. Gently, passionately he ravaged her mouth with his teeth and tongue, while his hands burned through the barrier of her clothes, caressing her shoulders and back and, finally, cupped her small firm bottom to mold her as closely as possible to the hard arousal of his body.
    Desi's fingers clenched in his hair, and she strained against him, making a small sound of unmistakable need. Jake's hands tightened on her buttocks, lifting her from the floor, and her slim legs locked themselves obligingly around his waist. He took three steps and then turned and fell backward onto the bed, taking her weight on top of his.
    The short fall dislodged their lips and hands and Desi lay still for a few moments, panting lightly, her hot face hidden in the curve of his neck. She felt his hands in her hair, removing the pins, and then he smoothed it through his fingers, down her back, stroking its silken length as if she were a purring cat. Desi could feel his heart beating heavily beneath her breasts, and as she lay there with her face pressed so closely to his neck, she became aware, once more, of the faintly spicy scent of his cologne mixed, tantalizingly, with Jake's own male scent.
    Her tongue snaked out experimentally to taste him, and then her lips opened to feed greedily on that vulnerable place where his neck began to curve into his broad powerful shoulders.
    Jake groaned and his hand stilled on her hair. He made a movement as if to roll over, trapping her under him. But Desi sat up abruptly, her wild hair foaming over her shoulders like a coppery cloud, and he lay still, waiting to see what she would do, staring up at her with hungry passion-glazed eyes.
    "Desiree," he whispered almost pleadingly after a minute when she continued to sit there silently straddling his waist.
    He's so beautiful , she was thinking, for the second time that night. So beautiful and good and strong . She didn't pause to wonder how she knew those things about him. She just did. He was all those things and more. And, for tonight at least, he was hers.
    "What are you thinking?" he asked quietly, intrigued by the soft dreamy expression on her face.
    "About how beautiful you are," she said simply.
    "Good God, Desiree," he began. "Men aren't—"
    "You are," she insisted, her fingers reaching out to cover his lips, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen." She smiled, a siren's smile of pure provocation. "And for tonight—all night—you're mine." Her hand trailed over his mouth and chin and throat to the top button of his shirt, "And I want to see more." She had the first button undone. "Much more," she said teasingly.
    Slowly, then, and in a tense, tingling silence, she finished unbuttoning his shirt, running her fingers lightly over his broad furred chest as she went, and tugged it free from the waistband of his slacks. Her slim fingers hovered uncertainly over the buckle of his belt.
    She could see the smooth muscles of his stomach tense in anticipation, waiting for her next move and, perversely, instead of doing what he expected her to, her hands went to the buckle of her own belt. She unbuckled it, tossing it carelessly to the floor and, in one swift movement—quickly before her courage failed her—she grasped the hem of her tunic in both hands and pulled it off over her head.
    The peach-colored, lace-trimmed camisole she wore beneath her tunic, with tiny bows at the shoulders and between her breasts, was an intriguing contrast to the almost boyish appearance of her outer clothes.