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and small by comparison. He tried to go slowly, but after all these months it was hard to rein himself in, especially when she drew her knees up about his legs. The shifting movement positioned his groin squarely against her intimate place, and he ached to feel her damp and wet with desire, to stroke her there.
    She seemed to crave that very thing because she squeezed her thighs, lifting and urging him onward with a muffled, enthusiastic cry against his neck. In response, he began a subtle rocking motion, each thrust tightening his groin even more, every motion causing her to respond in kind, the two of them mimicking the act he so desperately longed to complete.
    “Oh, gods, Daphne.” He released a low, hot groan against her neck. He could smell the sweet aroma of arousal on her skin, taste the way her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. “Daphne mine, you’re blessed torture.”
    She smiled up at him, a gleam in her eyes. “I want to make you hot and bothered and unable to hold back. I want you begging me . . .”
    He released a groan of frustration and desire. “So . . . that’s your evil plan. I hope you will see it through to the very end.”
    She tangled her thin arms about his neck, pulling him closer. Pressing her lips against his temple, she whispered, “I intend to rule the universe, with you my only subject.”
    He pulled back, gazing down into her eyes. “Are you saying you would consent to be my queen?” he asked, searching her face. He’d spent the past year so intent on simply capturing her that he’d never even contemplated formalizing their relationship.
    She answered by holding him closer, drawing his mouth to hers for a kiss. He grew so aroused that he ached with it, his cock pushing painfully against the metal zipper of his pants, and his balls tightening like a bowstring.
    But she didn’t shy away; in fact, she only kissed him harder. She stroked her tongue against his in slow, tantalizing sweeps, each time seeming to taste him more deeply. Her hands roamed his back, his hair, his shoulders. In response, he cradled one palm beneath her buttocks, drawing her upward on a twin surging motion of their bodies.
    After a moment when he felt drunk with that kiss, she finally pulled away. Sinking back against the ground, her breathing came in ragged, uneven pants. “Leo, I want you . . . more than I’ve ever wanted you.”
    He stared down into her eyes, the clear blue of them like gazing into the Aegean . . . but with a tempest coming. He kept his body atop hers, suspended there, wanting her with more desperation than he’d ever felt before. And yet, an invisible force held him in check: the knowledge that she would likely leave him again after this. Every separation from her only became more unbearable—what would such parting be like once they became lovers? Unendurable, he was certain.
    “Daphne.” He leaned up on both elbows, staring at her solemnly. “Promise me you won’t vanish on me, not after this. Not if we become . . . if I take you, uh . . . make . . .” His face flushed, and finally he clamped his mouth closed, giving up on the effort. Why did his asinine shy streak always surface with Daphne, and when he most needed composure?
    “Go on, Leo,” she prompted, smiling up at him with gentle patience. She placed a cool palm against his heated face. “You know you can speak your mind with me.”
    He drew in a sharp breath and dove in again. “If we are lovers,” he managed to force out, “then you will stay.”
    She stroked his cheek, studying his face with an intensity he didn’t quite understand. As if memorizing his features, trying to ensure she knew every line, every scar. “I won’t go again, Leonidas, not this time,” she vowed, threading her fingers through his hair.
    Suddenly her eyes grew wider, panic filling her gaze. Her hand froze, still twined in one of his short, wiry curls.
    He frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”
    She shook her head mutely, her gaze flicking