16

LISSA paced back and forth in the library. She had spent a lot of time in the library growing up. It had been her place to go when she was upset. Luigi rarely, if ever, came into the room and no one else did either, so over the years, it had become her sanctuary. She liked the connection of the old books with the new. She liked the peace. It was always quiet, allowing the chaos in her mind to calm.

Waiting for Casimir’s safe return was nerve-wracking. She was certain he was safe, he had only to take the vehicle back and return as Tomasso, but until he was back with her, she couldn’t quite get the feeling of impending disaster out of her stomach. She glanced at the clock. He shouldn’t be much longer. She resisted the urge to text him. Phones were a hazard. Still . . .

She sighed and went to the large window that looked out toward the gardens. The estate wasn’t huge, but it was beautifully kept. Luigi seemed fond of his flowers and trees. He had a large gardening crew. They were gone for the day, but she was certain old Alberto, the head gardener, would be making one last sweep of his domain before he left for the night. He always did a walk-through before he left.

The sun set with a fiery glow, the large ball seeming to drop from the sky into the sea, spreading orange and red across the surface of the water, turning the deep blue into a strange blanket of colors. She liked this time of day, between day and night, when the sun was setting and the moon was rising. Sky and sea seemed to come together, forming a beautiful, colorful illusion of fire pouring into the waves.

“Miss Piner?”

She turned toward the door. One of her uncle’s newer recruits had his head only inside the room. He looked a little shy and very uncomfortable. Luigi had hired him right after she left the last time and he didn’t know her at all.

“Yes? It’s Raimondo, isn’t it?” She smiled encouragingly. He was a little younger than the others and still had a bit of a baby face.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a situation and I can’t get Signor Abbracciabene to respond and I’m not certain what to do. Old man Alberto is in the back gardens and he’s very upset. I’m afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. He’s making me crazy. I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Arturo told us that if Signor Abbracciabene wasn’t here then we’re supposed to come to you.”

“Do you know what set him off?” Alberto was known for his hysterics. He crooned to his flowers, swore at his workers, and occasionally had complete meltdowns that required pulling him back from the edge. Luigi had told many stories of taking knives and other sharp objects away from Alberto when he was having one of his fits. He had been with Luigi for as long as she remembered, always working in the gardens and only caring about his precious plants.

“I have no idea, but he’s got long shears and he’s threatening to stab himself through the heart with them. I don’t want to get near him. He came at me once and I nearly took out a gun and shot him.”

Lissa laughed. That was Alberto. Some things never changed. “Don’t worry, Raimondo, I’ll handle it. Where is he?”

“All the way in the back, Miss Piner. In the plot where those really tall bushes with the pink flowers are. The ones that grow over the arches.”

She knew where it was. Alberto didn’t allow his young gardeners to ever work that particular piece of the property. He did it himself. The plants growing there were very rare and difficult to grow, but under Alberto’s care, they grew thick and wild and very tall. There was a small jungle of pure beauty, and the head gardener was extremely proud of it. She couldn’t imagine if one of the others had touched his precious plants just what he’d do.

“That’s not good,” she murmured aloud. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t need me, do you?” He sounded more nervous than ever.

She burst out laughing again. Seriously, he was one of Luigi’s soldiers and he was afraid of an older gardener. “I can handle it,” she assured him.

He waved and his head disappeared again. Lissa followed him out of the library, making certain the man had ascended the stairs. She couldn’t imagine if her uncle was going to send an assassin after her that it would be Raimondo. He was too green, but she wasn’t going to take chances. She heard the door to his quarters close and she found her vest and jacket, shrugging into them, fitting weapons into the specially concealed pockets.

Being cautious had kept her alive throughout her childhood, her teenage years and now into adulthood. She hadn’t informed Luigi of Aldo’s death, so she doubted if he’d put a hit out on her that soon. Still, Angeline was Aldo’s sister. It stood to reason if his wife was informed of his death, she would call his sister. They were good friends. Luigi might know. Again, he always liked to hear details, and it would be awfully fast for him to set someone after her, but there was no sense in not taking precautions.

She wrote a note to Casimir, explaining where she was and that Alberto often had these little meltdowns. She’d join him the minute she managed to get the gardener calm again. Having dealt with Alberto on more than one occasion, Lissa took her time walking through the labyrinth of plants, exotic grasses, bushes and trees, hoping he’d calm down a little on his own.

The grounds were beautiful, thanks mostly to the head gardener. He was a master when it came to getting things to grow. She wound her way through the many plants and flowers until she heard the old man muttering to himself in Italian, threatening to cut the heart out of someone named Tito. She rounded a particularly spectacular flowering bush that was taller than she was and found the head gardener with his head in his hands.

“Alberto? What is it?” She spoke softly. Gently. His plants were like his beloved children, and she could see the hack job someone, presumably the absent Tito, had done to a rather exotic-looking plant. Three others lay on the ground, drooping, roots exposed. There was a gaping hole in the ground where the plants had been. The dirt was wet and a hose still spouted water, so that the ground was nothing but mud.

Her breath caught in her throat, one hand went up to cover the sound of distress at the sight. Someone had made a terrible mess of things. Alberto gestured wildly, flinging his arms around and pointing to the bare roots, mud and hole. He lifted one of the plants on the ground and threw it, his Italian so fast it sounded like automatic gunfire. He told her Tito had tried to transplant some flowers overgrown in another area to this sacred patch of the garden and in doing so had destroyed a rare plant that Alberto had been coaxing along for years.

Lissa had to admit, the mess was terrible. She couldn’t imagine that Tito would be keeping his job after making such a horrible mistake. Not only did Alberto look like he was angry, he looked close to tears. She had no idea what she could say to make this better. She stepped closer to the dying plants in an effort to buy some time to figure out the best way of handling the matter. Crouching down to inspect the ones strewn around, roots showing, she caught sight of the hole. Standing, she’d only seen a small corner of it. The rest was covered by the tall bushes around it. The hole was very deep and wide, like a grave . . .

Lissa tried to turn and stand at the same time, one hand still covering her throat. She felt the thin wire as it cut into the back of her hand and the side of her neck. He yanked her backward, toward him, so that she lost balance and fell against his chest.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered. “Have no choice.” Alberto spoke in Italian to her, his head close to hers as he tightened the wire, twisting fast.

In that moment, when she was certain she was going to die, she still found time to note he sounded sad, remorseful even, but determined. She dug her heels into the ground and shoved backward, slamming her back against his chest, putting inches between them, allowing her to straighten.

“Damn it, quit fighting. He didn’t want you to suffer,” his voice hissed in her ear. “He said to tell you, ‘sorry.’”

She slammed her foot down on his instep, her hand slipping into the inside pocket of her vest. Her fingers closed around the prize even as blood trickled in a semicircle around her throat. She drew the knife and slammed it, first into his thigh and then yanking it out, and back into his ribs. She didn’t get a good angle on the ribs, but it went in.

He screamed, and for a moment his hands loosened their grip on the garrote. Before she could fling herself forward, he had control again, his hands tightening viciously, ignoring the knife in his ribs. Just as suddenly he was gone. She dropped to her knees, reaching to loosen the wire with one hand. Blood poured from the long slice on the back of her other hand and ran freely down her neck where the wire had sliced her skin.

She scrambled away from Alberto and turned to see Casimir, looking like Tomasso, his face a mask of pure fury. She could feel the heat coming off him in waves. His skin glowed, exposing the fire element burning inside his belly.

She tried to speak, to tell him she was okay, but no sound emerged. She flung the garrote onto the ground beside what would have been her grave and watched with a horrified fascination as Casimir nearly pulverized the head gardener with his glove-covered fists.

She made two attempts to get to her feet again, but failed both times. Casimir. Stop. You’re going to kill him.

That’s the fucking idea, he spat back, but after one last, very vicious punch to the face, he yanked the assassin to his feet. “Tell me who hired you? Who put the hit out on Lissa?”

His face contorted with pain, Alberto choked once and then shook his head. His gaze avoided Lissa’s.

“You’re going to die. How that happens is what we’re discussing right now and it’s entirely up to you, although I’m so fucking pissed at you I’d rather you choose the hard way. You want to go quick and painless, you tell me what I want to know. You don’t talk to me, it’s going to take you a long, long time and you’re going to know what the word agony means.” There was no mercy in Casimir’s voice.

Casimir. Honey. I know you’re upset but . . . Lissa trailed off. He didn’t turn his head or look at her. His jaw was set, his face an expressionless mask. His eyes were flat. Cold. Dead. She was looking at the monster, the one shaped in that school from so long ago.

“Take a walk, Lissa,” he ordered, snapping the command at her.

She tried again, her heart beating fast, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. “Honey.” She killed, yes, but she didn’t torture, she didn’t prolong a death. She tried her best to make it quick and painless, no matter what she felt about the target. Casimir didn’t have the same scruples, that was very evident.

“Walk away now,” he snapped.

Clamping a hand to her neck, she took a deep breath and moved away from the two men, but refused to leave. Casimir had saved her life. She knew that. She also knew there was no stopping what he was doing. He would extract the information he wanted in the way he chose, whether she approved or not. He was his own man, and he took her protection very seriously. She sank down to the ground, pulling her legs to her, keeping pressure on the wound at her neck. Alberto hadn’t managed to open her artery but it was close.

Alberto screamed in pain. There was a sickening crack. She closed her eyes, listening to the gardener’s breath come in horrible ragged gasps. “Luigi. He didn’t want to do it. He told me he had no choice. He wanted it done quick. Without pain if possible. If she hadn’t fought me . . .”

“And then what were you supposed to do?”

“Send him proof. Show her dead. Put her in the ground, cover her and replant.”

“One picture? Two? Text saying it’s done?” Casimir demanded.

Alberto hesitated and there was another mind-numbing scream. Casimir hadn’t given him a chance to think about it. Lissa’s stomach lurched. First Cosmos had sat at the table with her family and then he’d betrayed them. Arturo had held her when she was a little girl and wiped away tears. He’d betrayed her. Luigi, her own uncle, her father’s brother, had set the entire mess into play by the ultimate betrayal, and now Alberto, another man she’d known since she was a child, had been willing to kill her as well.

She didn’t want to sit there and watch this. She didn’t want to hear any more. She wanted to cry her eyes out, somewhere safe.

“He wanted three pictures. One showing she was dead. One in the grave. One with the grave covered and the plants back in place,” Alberto confessed.

Look away, Giacinta, Casimir said. I mean it, malyshka, look away now.

She obeyed him immediately. She knew the moment she did, Alberto was dead. Casimir broke his neck. He lowered the gardener to the ground, dug his cell phone out of the man’s back pocket and gestured for her to lie down next to the hole in the ground. He arranged the garrote around her neck, took a picture and then lowered her into the grave. It was muddy. Disgusting. Still, she lay down as if flung there. Casimir took another photograph and then helped her out of the grave.

Lissa staggered back to where she’d been sitting and watched as her husband rolled Alberto’s body into the deep hole. He found the shovel and pushed mounds of dirt over the body. It took a while to completely cover the evidence and replant, so it looked as if the gardener had recently transplanted more flowers to the area. It was dark by the time Casimir took the last photograph and sent them off to Luigi.

“You can’t stay here, golubushka,” he said. “It isn’t safe. He has to believe you’re dead. I doubt if he’ll come back tonight, but we can’t take that chance.”

“I can’t check into a hotel looking like this,” she pointed out. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but she was close to tears and she didn’t dare start crying. If she did, she would never be able to stop.

“Is there a shower in the gardener’s shed?”

It wasn’t exactly a shed, but a place for the crew working to use the bathroom and take breaks. Lissa had played in it as a child, but it had been years since she’d been there. She’d forgotten all about it. She nodded. “Yes, but I don’t have any clean clothes.”

“I’ll get the things you’ll need, Giacinta.”

His voice was so gentle her heart turned over and a lump formed in her throat, threatening to choke her. She didn’t answer him because she couldn’t. She just nodded and turned away from him, stumbling toward the building back in the trees. No one would be there this time of day and she could cry all she wanted in the shower where no one could see or hear her.

The door was secured, but she had no trouble picking the ridiculously easy lock. The building was old and needed care, but the water was hot. She stripped out of her muddy clothes, turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and stepped into the stall. It wasn’t in the least bit fancy, not like the showers in the main house, but the water felt good until it hit the lacerations on her hand and neck. That stung. And that started the tears. She put one hand on the tiled wall, stood under the cascading water and wept.

She had no idea how long she stood there, but then Casimir was there, naked, in the shower with her, turning her unresisting body into his arms and holding her tight against him. One hand went to the back of her head, palm against her wet hair, holding her face to his chest, while his other arm locked around her back. She stood stiffly for a moment, and then there was no resisting his comfort. His strength.

“I’m here, lyubov moya. I’m not going anywhere.”

He knew. He knew exactly how she felt. The terrible feeling of betrayal, as if everything and everyone she knew, almost from the time of her birth, had conspired against her. This man holding her knew betrayal. He knew treachery at its worst. He knew what it felt like to live a role, to get so mixed up you forgot yourself, who and what you were. He knew all of that intimately.

She let her arms drift up his chest, that solid, hard chest, warm now, comforting, heart beating beneath her ear, strong and steady. She couldn’t imagine him any other way but strong and steady. Of course he would be there. At her back. At her front, wherever she needed him.

Lissa let herself melt into his heat, holding him, weeping a storm of tears for both of them, for lost childhoods, for murdered parents and for his long-lost brothers, especially the oldest, who might be—and probably was—a total psycho thanks to a man in St. Petersburg who had murdered the parents of children, dragged them to schools and shaped them into killing machines, only to decide, after years of service, to have them all killed.

Casimir rocked her back and forth, his hands smoothing caresses down her back, fingers massaging her nape and scalp, whispering kisses and love at her temples and down the side of her face to the corner of her mouth. All the while, the water rained down on them, cocooning them in steam and love.

She felt his love surrounding her. Holding her up. Casimir Prakenskii. “All right. All right. I’m all right. I just have to let him go, don’t I?”

“Golubushka. My beautiful wife. I love you with all my heart. With everything I am. This man you love, he is an illusion. Luigi Abbracciabene is an illusion. You loved your uncle. There is nothing wrong with that . . .”

She thumped her fist against his chest. “There is. He’s a monster. He killed my parents. Wiped out so many people who were good to us. The gardener’s entire family. He had children. They didn’t even spare the children. He raised me to be a killer. He’s involved in human trafficking. You can’t tell me those women want to be doing what he forces them to do. I lived with him all those years, was loyal to him. Loved him. And he wanted me dead as well.”

She couldn’t keep the sorrow from her voice. Or the pain. She didn’t want to feel pain. She wanted anger.

Casimir wrapped her up tight in his arms, just holding her, not arguing. Giving. That was all. Just giving. After a while the hot water ran out, and then her tears. She could only cry so long before there was nothing left.

He dried her body gently, wrapped her hair in a towel and pointed her toward her clothes. He’d packed a small suitcase for her. “The house is mostly empty. Two soldiers left behind. I told them I was going to take the night off, but if Luigi called and needed me, he could reach me by cell.”

Lissa’s head was pounding, a clear reason why it was just plain dumb to spend half an hour sobbing. Wild weeping got you nothing but headaches. She sighed. “I’m not certain what to do.” She sank into a chair watching the play of muscles rippling in his back as he pulled on a tight tee.

“We’re going to drive twenty minutes to a little resort right on the sea and we’re spending the night there. Clearly Luigi’s aware Aldo is dead. The authorities or his widow called Angeline. Luigi will be very caught up with his wife’s grief over the next few days. He’ll probably even make the funeral arrangements, stepping into the breach for the two grieving women.”

“Three,” Lissa corrected. “Lydia is grieving as well. I hope Luigi isn’t planning on taking her into his prostitution ring.”

Casimir completed dressing and caught her hand. “He won’t have the time. He’s lost Arturo, and his other bodyguards are not that intelligent or trusted. They spent way too much time beefing up. Taking steroids. I don’t know if that’s true of all of them, but they’re definitely lacking in the brain department. I suspect that was a prerequisite to work for Luigi in this home. Word couldn’t get back to Angeline. But now, without Arturo he’s stuck with a crew that’s fairly useless to him.”

He opened the car door for her—he’d brought Tomasso’s vehicle around to the front of the building so she could leave the gardener’s shed, take five steps and slide into the passenger side of the car. “Stay low as I pull out,” Casimir cautioned. “I don’t think anyone’s paying attention, but if so, I don’t want them remembering seeing you.”

Lissa kept her head and body down as Casimir drove out of the estate and onto the road. She settled into the seat beside him.

“Golubushka, put on your seat belt.”

His voice was gentle. Low. Loving. So tender she felt a fresh flood of tears burning behind her eyes. “He thinks I’m dead.”

“And he’s going to continue to think it. He’ll call Tomasso. He’ll want to cultivate another man into Arturo’s position. My resume’s very impressive.”

“He was going to kill you as well,” Lissa pointed out. “You know he was. You were new. No family. No one you had sworn loyalty to. You were the perfect man to get the jobs done for him that he didn’t want anyone knowing about, and then he could make you disappear, just like he does everyone in his way.”

“Circumstances changed when Arturo died,” Casimir pointed out. “He needs me now. He’ll call me. We’ve got to work out the details and get set immediately.”

She let her breath out and leaned toward him. She needed him. She’d never considered that she needed anyone. That was all she had to do, that little involuntary lean, as if he drew her like a magnet. He reached out instantly and took her hand, bringing the tips of her fingers to his mouth briefly before pressing her hand to his thigh in the way he often did.

Need, in a relationship, wasn’t good. Need meant weakness to her, but she had to acknowledge, right then, she needed this man in her life. She wanted him there. She chose him and would choose him every day for the rest of her life. “I didn’t want you,” she blurted out. “When all my sisters were falling in love with Prakenskiis, I ran from the idea. I didn’t want a man I knew would be dominant—at least I thought that was the reason.”

“You didn’t want to love someone that much because you were afraid,” he said gently. “You’d already lost so much.”

She nodded. “But I’m really glad you’re in my life.”

“We’ll get through this, Giacinta.”

“Are you always going to call me Giacinta? Because if you are, I’m going to have to confess who I am to everyone at home.”

“That’s who you are, malyshka. When we go home to our family, we’re going home as us. As Casimir Prakenskii and Giacinta Abbracciabene-Prakenskii, so the people we love know who we are. So they see you and they see me.”

She liked that. She had always detested that she couldn’t tell the five women who had formed a family with her who her parents were. What her real name was. What her life was before she met them. She pressed her hand deeper into the hard muscle of his thigh. Just being with him comforted her. He didn’t have to talk a lot. What he did say mattered.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her. “I was shaped in a hard school, Giacinta. I’m a man. I can’t be anything else.”

“I don’t want you to be.” She didn’t either. She loved him just the way he was. Even overprotective—or what she thought might be overprotective. She found she loved that he cared enough to worry about her safety. She hadn’t had that, not even from Luigi or Arturo. When she went on a job, no matter how dangerous, they didn’t take her back—but Casimir had.

“We’re going to butt heads occasionally,” he said softly. “That’s all right. We’re both fire elements. We’ll both flash hot and burn up in flames. The makeup sex will be phenomenal.”

“I’m not sure it’s safe to get any more phenomenal than it already has been,” she admitted. “You get any better, Casimir, and I might not survive.” For the first time, there was a small smile in her voice. In her mind. In her heart. Because of him. Because of man a named Casimir Prakenskii.

He brought her hand to his mouth again, teeth teasing the pads of her fingers. “I have all kinds of better to show you. You’ll survive. I’ll always make sure of that.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She knew what he meant, and he wasn’t talking about sex. He was going to make certain nothing happened to her. She took a deep breath and let go of the hard knot of betrayal that had formed in her stomach.

“I’ll always make certain the same of you, Casimir. Nothing’s going to take you away from me.”

They drove the rest of the way to the small resort in silence. He got the key to their cabin while she stayed in the car where no one could see her. The resort had several private little cabins, each with a view of the sea. It was small and exclusive, a tiny little jewel run by a single family consisting of parents, a grown son and teenage daughter. They rented boats and bicycles to their cliental, but few other services were offered.

The cabins were clean and snug, with small porches that held two chairs and a two-person hot tub. The cabins were situated so each had a view of the sea, but complete privacy from one another. There were no phones and no television. It was a place for two people to enjoy each other rather than what was playing on TV.

The moment Casimir had the door closed and locked he turned to her, his face a mask, his eyes dark with hunger. “Strip. Right now. Clothes off.”

Instantly her body reacted, melting. Going hot. Going damp. Nipples peaking. She hadn’t thought it would be possible to go from a storm of weeping to one of need. Of hunger and lust. He could do that to her with his voice. With that look in his eyes. He stood just inside the door, making no move to undress, his eyes on her, his jaw hard.

Excitement pounded through her. Casimir was making a point. That chapter in her life was gone. Over. He was her life. She was in his world now. He was in hers. Both hands went to the hem of her tee and she pulled it over her head. She stood in front of him in her lacy bra and jeans, looking around for somewhere to put the shirt.

He jerked his head toward a chair as he removed his hair and the thin, realistic mask that covered his face. “Your bra next.”

She loved the quiet in his voice. The command. It unleashed something wild in her. Stoked the embers that always seemed to be burning inside her into actual flames. She reached behind her and obediently unhooked the bra, never taking her eyes off of him. While she tossed it to the chair, he expertly removed his contacts and put them in a case. He tossed that aside and leaned lazily against the door.

“Jeans, malyshka. Get rid of them and your panties.” Very casually he shrugged out of his jacket and then removed his own shirt. He didn’t move fast or slow. Just did it with ease, with his muscles rippling, suggestive of hidden power beneath his skin.

He was making the fire burn so hot she thought she might just have a mini-orgasm from the way his eyes had gone liquid silver. Her hands dropped to the zipper in her jeans and she managed to shimmy them off her hips and down her legs. She stepped out of her sandals and tossed the jeans to the chair. Not once did she take her eyes from him. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her. He had barely blinked.

Her heart went a little crazy, pounding like mad in anticipation. Her breath had already gone ragged and he hadn’t touched her yet. She was damp between her legs. Her breasts ached. She wanted him with every breath she drew into her lungs. He hadn’t even touched her yet. Her mind was filled with him. Only him. There was no room for anything or anyone else.

He moved then. Straightening off the wall. That was all, but her sex clenched and she felt more liquid fire rushing through her in welcome. He held out his hand to her and she immediately crossed the distance to take his. Wordlessly he tugged her to the thick rug in front of the window overlooking the sea.

“On all fours, facing the window,” he ordered. His voice was soft. Mesmerizing.

She didn’t hesitate. Giving him what he wanted. Going down to her hands and knees. He didn’t make a sound. She knelt there, heart pounding. Waiting. When nothing happened, she started to turn her head to see what he was doing.

“Don’t.”

It was a clear order. She sucked in her breath and kept her eyes on the glass. On the sea. Waiting. Wondering. The pressure inside her coiling tighter and tighter. The burn growing hotter. Her entire focus was on him. Only him. Every sense she possessed straining for movement. For sound. For anything.

Her nerves were at a screaming point, every one on fire, so sensitive that just the air had her close to a climax. She wasn’t certain she could keep staring out the window when she wanted to know where he was. What he was doing.

“Put your head on the rug, Giacinta.”

His voice came from her left. Her body jerked at the soft command, but she obeyed instantly, grateful for the opportunity to move. To do something when her body threatened to go up in flames. She pressed her forehead to the soft thick wool.

“Turn your head to your left, cheek to the floor.”

She did and she saw him. Sitting in a chair, his silver eyes on her. His legs sprawled out in front of him. His cock was hard and thick, enclosed in his fist. His hand moved lazily, pumping while he watched her. While his gaze burned his brand into her.

“Push that sweet ass of yours higher,” he instructed.

The sight of his fist sliding up and down the length of his hard shaft was one of the hottest things she’d ever seen. She was certain the sight would be burned in her mind for all time. More liquid spilled.

“Widen your knees for me, malyshka. When I finally get over the sight of you kneeling there, waiting for me, I want to see how wet you are for me. How excited. How much honey you’re going to give me before I fuck you so hard you won’t be able to get up off the floor.”

A low moan slipped out. She couldn’t help it. She obeyed him again, widening her knees, but keeping her bottom up in the air. His thumb moved over the flared head of his cock, smearing drops of liquid all over it. She licked her lips, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t beg for him in her mouth. His face was etched with lines of pure lust. His hooded eyes had grown more liquid, purely sensual. His fist mesmerized her with that slow, languid slide.

He kept her there for what seemed forever. All the while, her body grew tighter. Felt emptier. Needed more. Waited. She was aware of everything about him. The muscles in his chest and arms. In his thighs. His breath moving in and out of his body. The stillness in the room. The tick of a clock somewhere. Eventually even all that was gone and there were only his eyes and his cock and fist. She couldn’t get anything else in her mind. There was no room because he’d driven out everything else and filled her mind with him.

When she was certain she was going to have to plead with him, when she was close to sobbing his name, he stood up with that same casual laziness and walked around her, out of her sight. She desperately wanted to turn her head to see what he was doing, but she didn’t dare. She knew, absolutely knew, that he would start all over again.

His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh and her entire sex clenched greedily. Her thighs jumped, fingers of desire dancing up them. She was drenched with liquid heat, with lust. Panting. Desperate for him. His fingers moved away and she wanted to sob. She knew he could keep up this torment for hours. She also knew what he was doing—keeping her mind fully occupied with him so nothing else could get in.

Something velvet soft slid up her thigh. Oh God. Her body wanted to melt into a small puddle of need. His tongue. Touching the insides of her thighs. Barely there, but leaving a long trail of fire burning up her leg straight to the scorching-hot channel that clutched emptily. So in need. She felt the rasp of his jaw, a sharp contrast to the whisper of his fingers and the velvet fire of his tongue.

His fingers dug into her hips and dragged her back almost savagely against his mouth. His tongue stabbed deep at the same time. That was all it took to have her tumbling over the edge, chanting his name, her body going wild. Over and over the waves came, swamping her, a strong quake there was no stopping or controlling. It went on and on. At the very height, the strongest of the contractions, he slammed into her, his body slightly above hers, giving him the best possible angle to go deep. He drove through tight folds, forcing his invasion, while her body clamped down on him like a vise.

He gasped. She screamed. Then he was pounding into her while flames seemed to consume her. There was no getting away from that rhythmic piston. She was helpless to do anything but take it as he gave it to her. There was no way to think, only feel. Only let the scorching fire take her, burn her clean, make her wholly his. She had no idea how many times her body convulsed around his before he finally emptied himself into her.

She would have collapsed, but his arms held her up, held her safe. It was Casimir who somehow found the strength to carry her into the bedroom, sheltering her against his body, holding her so tenderly she could barely believe he was the same man who had taken her body so savagely only a few minutes earlier.

He placed her in bed and came down nearly over top of her, his body to the side, but leaning over her as if he could protect her from everything. As if he would always keep his body between hers and any harm. Her body still rocked with aftershocks, and the more his mouth whispered gently over her face, took her mouth in tender kisses, the more of herself she simply surrendered to him. Giving him everything she was.

Her body sated, completely exhausted, her mind filled only with him, she drifted off, surrounded by his warmth, hearing the soft declaration of love whispered in her ear as she succumbed to sleep.