The Gift: A Novella by Sandra Marton

him. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, it would be fine, but he was losing control, losing himself, losing the fight to make this last.
    His fingers shook as he grabbed the condom, tore the packet open.
    He started to sheathe himself, but her hand closed around him, soft and cool and trembling.
    He looked down. Watched her holding him.
    A sound tore from his throat.
    He lifted his head. Looked into her eyes. Said her name.
    She let go of him, but she watched as he rolled the condom on. It was as if she were doing it with him, her hands on his hot, hard length, her imagined touch bringing him closer and closer to the edge.
    She reached for him again.
    He caught her wrists. Brought her hands to her sides.
    “Katie,” he said, and he entered her.
    She flung her head back. Hissed softly as he went deeper. Deeper. Deeper…
    God.
    It was true. He was her first. Her first! He went rigid, fought for control. She sobbed his name.
    “Don’t stop,” she said, “oh don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—”
    She lifted her hips. He drove forward. She cried out; he felt her muscles contract around him and he held still, trembling, the sweat beading on his forehead.
    She lifted up. Reached for him. Dragged his head down to hers and as she opened her mouth to his, he surged forward.
    “Yes,” she said, “yes yes yes…”
    Kaz slipped his hands under her. Together, they found the rhythm of the most ancient of dances.
    The room spun.
    And then Katie gave a high, keening cry.
    Kaz thrust deep one last time.
    And the world dropped away.
    * * * *
    Sometime during the night, he woke and drew the covers up.
    They lay facing each other, Katie in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. Her breathing was deep and even. She felt warm and absolutely right, just where she was.
    Kaz stroked his hand down her side. She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer. He smiled. Then, still holding her, he rolled onto his back, folded his arm under his head and stared up at the chandelier.
    Light from the street and the park glittered like fireflies in the delicate crystals.
    He’d violated every rule of surveillance. Of protection. Every rule of whatever in hell it was he’d agreed to do for Ekaterina Rostov. Operations like this were not personal. You didn’t get involved. You sure as hell didn’t let your emotions take over.
    He knew he should be pissed off. Not at her. At himself. Instead, what he felt was joy.
    He’d liked a lot of women, enjoyed their company; he’d sure as hell enjoyed taking them to bed, but this—
    This was different.
    Something was happening to him. He didn’t know what it was, but he liked the way it made him feel. Happy. Content. At peace, if that made sense.
    The other emotions inside him?
    Not so good. Definitely, not so good.
    Kaz’s mouth thinned.
    He was hot with anger.
    He knew of Gregor Rostov. The man was dangerous. He was a schemer. God only knew what kind of political alliances he had. A smart man would never turn his back on Rostov.
    And now, he’d sold his daughter. To the highest bidder. To the king. Kaz’s grandfather. It was a brilliant political maneuver, marrying the Sardovian heir to the throne to the daughter of a man who might otherwise one day flex his muscle as an enemy.
    Katie. Beautiful, spirited, bright, tenderhearted Katie, married to Prince Dmitri, Kaz’s dead father’s brother.
    Kaz wanted to punch his fist through the wall.
    But that wouldn’t help Katie.
    And there had to be a way, there had to be…
    “Mmm.”
    Kaz rolled to his side. “Katie?” She sighed and he brushed his lips over hers. “Sweetheart. Are you awake?”
    She wasn’t. Not really, and he knew that. But he wanted her. Needed her. He kissed her again, still lightly, held the kiss until he felt her lips cling to his.
    “Kaz?”
    Her voice was husky, rough with sleep. A good man would have done nothing more than draw her closer, stroke her until she drifted off—but