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excitement and anticipation like nothing she had ever known began to rush through her body. And yet . . .
    She backed away as her visitor entered.
    She wanted to speak, even scream. Her throat was frozen. Even the piece of gauze she was wearing suddenly seemed to be too much.
    Soft, husky laughter sounded. The voice that spoke was deep and still, like air, with a raspy quality.
    â€œGema . . . how lovely. All this. For me.”
    She was vaguely aware that the door slammed, and they were shut in, together.
    None of that mattered.
    Darkness encompassed her. The silk drifted from her shoulders.
    The touch . . .
    Fingertips danced down upon her flesh, delicately breezed over her breasts.
    They were long . . . the knuckles felt like fire as they brushed her nipples.
    He was closer, and there was a whisper in her ear, and a burst of liquid heat. His mouth moved against her throat while his hands created a flow of lava, sliding down the length of her body, finding the center of her sex and the apex of the lava-like stream of arousal that didn’t just fill her, but seared into every pore of her flesh.
    The tongue.
    Moving against her ear, her throat . . . her lips. Then moving . . . too . . . so great a blaze she was certain that she would collapse, but she would not, could not; she was frozen, cast into a stillness of total acquiescence, as if he had to be, and power her to his will.
    Liquid fire.
    The teeth . . . nibbled, played, promising . . . against her flesh.
    Incredibly evocative . . .
    Going down.
    All the sensation she might have dreamed . . . fantasized.
    The things that were done . . .
    And done . . .
    And her own body moved at last, as he willed it, until she was laid upon the floor, and the delirious rush of need and hunger was suddenly fulfilled and she was soaring . . . feeling so very much that it was a little like dying . . .
    And then.
    She could feel no more.
    It was a lot like dying.

Chapter 2
    Maria Britto shivered slightly as she stepped outside the little house where she lived with her mother.
    It was morning, but early morning, and the sun had yet to so much as touch the horizon. And yet, if she was to make work by nine, she had to go now.
    She smiled, and shivered again, but with anticipation. She felt a touch of guilt; she shared so much with her mama. But this . . . well, her mama would not understand.
    Maria was usually a serious girl. She had made very good marks throughout her school years, but there wouldn’t be any money for her to go to university, and she knew it. Since her father had been sick and died, money had been a struggle. Her brothers had gotten jobs in the States, and her mother was grateful. Maybe when they made money, they would send for her and her mother. Or maybe the area would pick up, as so many hoped, and the Americans would begin to come en masse, and they would be like Venice, surviving on well-off foreign visitors. That time had not come yet. Her mama struggled daily to take in laundry, to clean houses, to make them the money they needed to survive. She was lucky, so lucky, to have the job at the shop.
    And she had Roberto.
    They were the same age, they had grown up together on the same cliff. He was a good boy. He worked hard for his father, doing construction and repair. He was saving money. He wanted to get married, and everyone understood that they would do so. He was pleasant and young, and she felt a faint stirring when they shared their few kisses.
    She would marry him. With more luck, she would continue working at the shop. She would cook and clean and have babies, go to church on Sundays, and maybe have a night out once a week because Mama, no matter how tired she was, would take a night to stay with the babies. That would be her life, and she was resigned, and happy, she thought, as one could be, because she did love her mama and if she didn’t feel a wild elation and passion for Roberto, he was still good, and most importantly, as her mama said, Roberto