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Her mind pleaded with him. Fatally pleaded with him.
    His kisses were hungry, but so too were hers. Claiming kisses, and claiming hands, touching and tugging. His coat was discarded, then his waistcoat. His neckcloth, her wrapper. Imogen kissed and was kissed and thought of nothing save the next kiss and the next touch and this driving need, beyond her control, to be possessed by him, to know him and to prove him wrong. He was her other half. If he was her other half he could not harm her, for to do so was to harm himself. So she reasoned as she kissed, her hands seeking out his skin at the neck of his shirt, tugging his shirt free from his breeches to touch his back, revelling in the way her touch turned cool into heat, revelling in the extremity of feeling that her stretched-sensitive fingertips roused.
    Vaelen pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a smoothly muscled torso, hollowed stomach, tapering waist. Like a statue, only she could warm him. Pygmalion, only in reverse, Imogen thought hazily as she drank in her fill of him, rubbing her cheek on his chest, stroking her fingers down his sinewy arms, reaching round to trace his spine. “Love me, Vaelen,” she whispered, pressing little kisses onto the line of his ribcage. “Love me.”
    He tugged the neckline of her nightgown over her shoulders to reveal her breasts, drew in his breath at their lush beauty, moulding them in his hands, his thumbs grazing the nipples so that they hardened and peaked, pleasure scattering out from his touch to heat her belly, to heat her sex. Her body was blooming. Vaelen’s mouth replaced his hands, his tongue caressing first one nipple then the next.
    He pulled down her nightgown so that she stood naked in the light of the fire. Flames licked inside her. Heat coated her. Where she touched him, she could almost see the trails of warmth she laid on his skin. Vaelen’s hands moulded her bottom now, kneading the flesh, his breath coming harsh and urgent, his mouth trailing from her breasts to her throat, her throat to her breasts, extracting such pleasure that she barely noticed the change from licking and sucking to nipping and softly grating.
    She was mindless with desire, urgent with the need to be filled, bent back in his arms like a bow as he tended to her, throat and neck and breasts, breasts and throat and neck. He pulled her closer. The hard length of him pressed into her through his pantaloons. She stroked the contours of his buttocks and moaned with pleasure.
    Vaelen was in danger of losing control. He had never been so desperate to possess. She was intoxicating. He discarded what was left of his clothing, closing his mind to all but the need to give her pleasure, and in doing so, to take his own. As he stood before her, naked, he watched with exultation her eyes widening, the little flicker of her pink tongue on her swollen bottom lip. He had grown so used to seeing his body as a tool, knew himself to be well-formed, his manhood to be well-endowed, but had cared not, save that it served his purposes. Now he was glad of it.
    Taking her hand, he laid it on his shaft. The stab of pleasure that her tentative touch gave him was almost his undoing. He circled her fingers around him, showing her how to touch him, at the same time slipping his fingers into her moist folds. This time pleasure was like a jolt, his muscles contracting in response to hers, in unison with hers. He slid his fingers deeper inside her, flicking his thumb over the swollen nub of her sex and felt the first tremors of her climax building. He kissed her. Her nipples grazed his chest. He slid his fingers, slick with the evidence of her arousal, up and over, around and over, revelling in the clenching, clutching of her muscles, until he knew she was ready.
    He kissed her again, and it was different. She felt it, in the way his lips ravaged, sensed his abrupt submission to hunger in the way his body stiffened, his erection swelled in her hand. His