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at you,” he breathed. “Fuck, look at you.”
    She was too busy looking at him, watching his face turn from pleasure-stoned to demanding. To animal. The pressure built from her clit and from deep inside where she was clenched so hard around him.
    He reached up to hold her shoulder, pushing her against him, adding force to the incendiary grind they’d worked up. And it worked; pleasure spiked and she fell back slightly, holding herself up against his leg.
    But then, predictably, she hit a wall—her pleasure built but went no higher. No matter what she did, it leveled off into a plateau.
    She jerked and circled her hips, trying to wring every bit of pleasure from their bodies. But it didn’t work. Between her legs she was growing numb.
    The frustration moaned out of her.
    “You need more?”
    Stunned that he seemed to know, her eyes flew open, but he did know. Of course he did.
    Words were about five minutes behind her and all she could really do was nod and twitch and want to come so bad she could taste it.
    She dropped herself onto him, prepared for him to heave up and over her and end this, but he kept her there, one hand on her hip and the other slipping between her legs. His fingers found her clit and he pressed his thumb hard against her and she felt sparks drift outward from her skin, as if she were a torch held up against the night sky.
    “Make yourself come,” he breathed. “I want to see it.”
    With his thumb against her she smashed through the plateau; pleasure was a force living inside of her, ready to break through her bones and muscles and skin, ready to take her over and she couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. She sobbed, sweat running down her back as she shook over him, no coordination left in her body. Nothing left in her body but this one stubborn strand keeping her on earth.
    He surged up, wrapping one arm around her waist, and she felt his palm against her back, imagined it against Ophelia’s body. Ducking his head, he caught her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard and the points of contact—the nipple, clit, tattoo—severed the strand and she was shattered. Simply shattered.
    He held her while she shook, stroking her back, murmuring nonsensical things, her hair sticking to both of them, trapping them in a web. A cocoon.
    I like it here , she thought, her face pressed to his chest. His deodorant smelled good.
    He was still hard inside of her and there was no urgencyon his part to finish, at least it didn’t feel that way, and she nearly laughed.
    Honest-to-God, who is this guy?
    What were the chances that the best lover she’d ever had would stumble into her bar on a Tuesday night?
    And be named Harry.
    She leaned back, untangling her hair from around them so she could see him.
    “Thank you,” she breathed.
    His smile was drawn tight; the poor guy was barely holding on.
    Such a gentleman , she thought, lifting herself off of him so she could lie down on her back across the king-size bed. His eyes burned their way across her body, leaving trails of cinder and ash from her breasts to her waist, down the long length of her legs.
    The boots.
    Whatever remained of the polite southern gentleman in this man left town at the sight of those boots, because he growled and pounced. His body, hard and heavy, over hers, his cock, hard and hot, sliding right back inside of her. Deep. And then deeper. So deep she had to shift her head back to breathe.
    His body slammed into hers, and she embraced the violence of it, the deeply erotic sound of flesh hitting flesh. The growling, grumbling roar in the back of his throat.
    Yes. Yes, it should always be like this , she thought just before mindlessness slipped over her. Just before she was reduced to animal in his animal arms.
    “Ryan,” he growled. “God. Come on. Fuck. Come—”
    He roared through four more hard, heavy strokes, so bruising, so punishing, she fell apart again under their lovely brutality.
    And he collapsed against her, boneless and