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between sanity and out-and-out nuts, she walked closer on legs that felt equal parts numb and deeply alive. Her feet sank into the spongy earth, allowing moisture and muck to seep up around her toes. The sensation reminded her of a cautiously penetrating penis. The analogy would have been stronger if she hadn’t suspected Laird didn’t know the meaning of the word cautious, not that she’d want him to be. What was the analogy she’d come up with yesterday? It had something to do with a stallion and a mare in heat. The way he’d made her feel, it just might take a stallion with a several-foot-long cock to satisfy her—a thought that both shocked and thrilled her.
    There he was. Not quite real, but with a hell of a lot more form than before. Making a lie of everything she’d ever believed about self-control.
    “What are you doing?” Her nails dug into her palms. She hadn’t realized she’d been so tense. “How can you do that, be not quite real?”
    Not me. Something—more than me.
    “Well, that makes no sense,” she muttered, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
    He was forcing her to come to him. He stood there magnificently, savagely naked, his limp cock challenging her to change its condition.
    “I don’t want to be here,” she told him. Her tone didn’t carry enough weight. The weight was in her, between her legs and deep in her belly. Gnawing at her and growing ever stronger. “I don’t want—damn it, I don’t want you doing this to me!” Her hand fluttered near her crotch. “And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
    She thought he might make fun of her. If he did, she’d punch out his lights and be done with it. Instead, she felt—kind of felt—a brush-stroke across the upper swell of her breasts. Startled, she looked down, spotted the reassuring presence of her nightgown, no hand. Yet she had no doubt that his fingers had fondled her boobs.
    “I mean it! Don’t.”
    “I don’t believe you. I don’t dare.”
    She gasped. “You’re—I can hear you talking.”
    “Yes.” He sounded as surprised as she did.
    He still hadn’t moved so much as a muscle. She wasn’t sure he was breathing. His arms hung at his side.
    Fingers—damn it, she knew what fingers felt like—slid under her garment without so much as a “by your leave”. The argument could be made that she should have slapped away the intrusion, yelled about privacy and rights, threatened to call the cops, but she’d done none of those things. In truth, she couldn’t think of a strong enough reason to put an end to what was happening. She’d have to be fourteen kinds of a fool not to want to play out this…this whatever it was. Only she and Laird were here, only they would ever know what took place between them. Just maybe there were no limits. If that was the case, it was possible they’d go at each other until neither of them could lift a finger. Well, she amended, maybe one well-directed finger.
    Shaking off the image of two utterly exhausted people twitching their fingers at each other, she checked to see if she was still wearing anything. Yes, but for how long?
    “How—” She swallowed and tried again. “How did you do that?”
    “You have a woman’s breasts.” Proving his point, he lifted her top and cupped his phantom hands around her breasts. She stared at his buck-naked and motionless body, then down at her own. Her nightgown was bunched under her armpits, and her boobs stuck out there for the world to see. No hands covered them and yet she felt—lordy, did she!
    As she stared disbelieving—but not what by any stretch of the imagination could be called unwilling—he increased his hold on her breasts until trying to pull free would hurt. They were swelling, growing ever more sensitive. Licking her dry lips, she rocked forward. He squeezed, controlled, captured. Needing to test the extent of that capture, she leaned away from the hands that surely existed only in her mind. A