Not For Sale by Sandra Marton

her stop fighting him, fighting herself, and, instead, move against his hand.
    “No,” she said, “no, don’t. Lucas. Don’t. I’m going to—I’m going to—”
    She gave a long, keening cry. The sound filled him with pleasure and he swung her toward him, swept her into his arms and brought her to his bed.
    Moonlight from the big skylight overhead bathed her in ivory.
    Her hair streamed over his pillow, burnished gold against cream. He had imagined her like this but the reality was more perfect than the mental image. She was lovely. All of her.
    And she was his.
    He made love to her slowly, as he’d promised, watchingher face as he did, loving the way her eyes widened, her lips parted as he caressed her. When his hand reached her breast, she caught it in hers.
    “Let me touch you,” he said in a husky whisper, and she released his hand, held her breath, cried out as he feathered his thumb over a dusky-pink nipple, then lowered his head and drew one tightly furled tip into the heat of his mouth.
    The taste of her was almost his undoing. Honey. Cream. Vanilla. He sucked her nipples, licked them until her moans told him she was crazy with wanting him.
    As he was crazy with wanting her.
    “Lucas.”
    Her whisper was a plea.
    He took her in his arms. Lifted her to him and kissed her with slow, thorough deliberation. He couldn’t get enough of her; as much as he wanted to sheathe himself within her silken heat, he wanted the kiss to go on and on. She trembled against him and he trembled, too, aching to possess her.
    It was sweet torture.
    She sighed his name again, this time with growing urgency. Her arms went around his neck. She lifted herself to him, pressed herself to him. He knew what she longed for; he longed for it, too, that hot, exciting release but he told himself he could wait, he could wait.
    “Lucas,” she whispered, “Lucas, please.”
    It was the “please” that almost finished him, something in the softness of how she said it, the innocence with which she said it, that nearly sent him over the edge.
    He stood, stripped off his clothes, saw her eyes widen when she saw his erection. He was big; he knew that. Big, and proud of it because he was male, but there was a flash of fear in her eyes.
    “It’s all right,” he said hoarsely. “We fit, remember? Just a little while ago.”
    He took her hand, brought it to him.
    Bad move.
    Her hand closed around him. He groaned. Her hand moved again and he caught it, held it in his as he opened a drawer in the table beside the bed and fumbled for a condom. Seconds later, he knelt between her thighs.
    Slowly, his gaze linked to hers, he entered her.
    “Is this good for you?” he whispered. “Tell me it is. Tell me—”
    She reached for him. Brought his face to hers. Kissed him, sighed his name, and he lost himself in the kiss, in the rhythm they set, in possession of her.
    The world went up in flame.
    After a long, long time, Lucas rolled onto his side with her curled like a satisfied kitten in his arms. He liked the feel of her, soft and warm against him.
    “Sweetheart? Are you okay?”
    She made a sound that was so close to a purr, it made him smile. It was as fine a recommendation as a man could want, he thought as he drew the duvet over them.
    “Close your eyes, then,” he said softly.
    “Mmmm.”
    Her lashes drifted to her cheeks. He kissed her temple, drew her closer, felt her breathing slow.
    Amazing.
    He’d ended the day wanting nothing to do with women, and ended the night with a woman in his arms. He couldn’t make sense of it—unless wanting her so badly, taking her so slowly was the sexual equivalent of downing a drink in the morning when you woke with a hangover. He hadn’t ever had a hangover—getting drunk was a weakness—and he hadn’t ever needed sex to forget an affair that had just ended, but anything was possible.
    Lucas yawned.
    And he was too tired to try to make sense of anything right now.
    The illuminated clock beside the