CHAPTER FOUR

      HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN nervous, for many reasons. Any time he’d thought about this moment in his life—and he’d thought of it plenty over the past ten or so years—Ryan had envisioned shaky hands. Some fumbling. Uncertainty born solely of ignorance.

      Hesitation, at the very least, as he risked the isolation he’d so carefully concocted and guarded vigilantly.

      Audrey’s hands on his shoulders, her moans consuming the air around them, the light flowery scent of her perfume enveloping him, allowed no room for hesitation. Her soft, feminine skin, waiting there for him to find, to expose, to caress, created fire within him, not quivering.

      He kissed her, opening her mouth wider with his, exploring her with his tongue in ways that happened naturally, as if of their own accord. With no learned or practiced moves to draw on, he lifted her body gently against him, breaking contact with her lips only briefly, as he carried her to his bed.

      He’d be Detective Ryan Mercedes tomorrow. And all of the tomorrows after that.

      Tonight he was a man.

      He’d made the trek upstairs many times—exhausted and coming off thirty-five hours without sleep, wide awake, early, late, angry, frustrated, enervated, flying up the steps two or three at a time. He’d made it hurt, content, and even drunk once. He’d traversed them alone with a hand truck and solid pine chest of drawers, a bed, his second large-screen television. Tonight he climbed them with no thought of the journey, only of the woman with her arms wrapped around his neck, of getting her to the soft mattress that awaited them so that he could love her properly.

      Reverently.

      Laying her gently crossways in the middle of the bed, Ryan slid down next to her, covering one of her legs with one of his as he half lay on top of her. He was on fire, needing everything, everywhere, and was compelled to stare at her, instead, to connect, first, through the eyes of her soul, the eyes of her heart and mind, those chocolate-brown windows that gazed back at him with an intensity that matched his own.

      “I’ve wanted this since the first moment I saw you.” He confessed what he’d sworn to himself he’d never admit to anyone.

      She was his match on a level much deeper than anyone ever had been. But she was independent, too. Surely there was safety in that.

      “Have you?” she asked, her voice huskier than usual. The little grin turning up the edges of her mouth made him hard.

      Harder.

      The bulge in his pants wasn’t a new thing. Its control of him was.

      “I have,” he told her, bending to kiss her again, opening his mouth over hers, needing to get as far inside her as he could, to join as much of him to her as was humanly possible.

      And beyond.

      Audrey’s moan lit another flame in his groin and Ryan rubbed his aching penis against her denim-clad thigh. He felt like a damned animal, rutting against her.

      She didn’t seem to mind. Lifting up, Audrey moved back and forth against his chest, pressing her upper body against him until he could clearly distinguish two hard nipples caressing him.

      “I like that.” He’d had no idea.

      “Me, too.”

      “I’d like to see them.” He could only give her honesty.

      “Okay.”

      Her gaze was open, and shadowed with desire, as she studied him. The rest of her didn’t move.

      Which left him one choice. Glancing down at the rounded mounds of her breasts, he lifted her shirt as though he’d had a lot of experience with such things. With one hand and a smooth glide, the white cotton was bunched up beneath her armpits and the lacy, low-cut bra he’d seen only in outline was fully exposed. The soft skin of her breasts spilled over the edges of the flimsy material.

      Heart racing, Ryan took his time, savoring the view. His hands itched to cover those breasts, but he couldn’t deny himself the beautiful sight.

      “I’ve never seen anything so perfectly gorgeous.” His voice was mostly a whisper. It was all the breath he had to spare.

      “You’re pretty gorgeous yourself,” she said. She’d lifted his T-shirt, as well, was staring at his chest.

      She touched him, running slim fingers over the muscles in his chest, stroking her thumbs against his nipples. Flickers of sensation moved through him, straight down to his erection.

      His nipples had that kind of power? He’d taken one hell of a lot of showers, rubbed them with hundreds of bars of soap, to have missed that one.

      Mary Ellen Rowe had spent the six weeks they’d dated rubbing his chest. He’d been pleasantly comforted by the touch.

      Nothing more.

      “That feels good,” he told the awesome woman lying in his bed. “Really good.”

      Her smile was a sweet mixture of knowing and modesty. A woman who was, perhaps, just becoming aware of the depths of her own sexual power, as well?

      What the hell was the matter with him? Analyzing, even now. He had breasts waiting before him.

      Loving