We were quiet for a minute, my bare feet tucked between his, his palm warm on my bottom. I felt the urgency beneath his stillness, like the false lull of the bull pen before the animal exploded out of the chute.

My hand stole to the open waist of his jeans. "Take these off," I whispered.

Still breathing heavily, Hardy shook his head. "That's enough for tonight. Let's quit while we're ahead."

"Quit?" I repeated in groggy surprise. "No, there's no quitting now." I kissed his chest, relishing the masculine texture of him, the warm fur against my lips. "If you don't make love to me, Hardy Cates, I'll never forgive you."

"I did make love to you."

"All the way," I insisted.

"You're not ready for all the way."

I gripped him and ran my fingers up and down the silky, hard-sprung length. "You can't tell me no," I told him. "It would be bad for my self-esteem."

I rubbed my thumb over the broad tip, slow circles that drew out a slick of moisture. A quiet groan escaped him, and he buried his mouth in my hair. Reaching down, he pried my fingers away. I thought he was going to tell me to stop. Instead he said in a muffled voice, "My wallet is in the kitchen. I'll go get it."

I understood instantly. "We don't need a condom. I'm on the pill."

His head lifted, and he looked at me.

I gave an awkward shrug. "Since Nick never wanted me to have them, they became sort of an issue with me. I feel more in control . . . safer . . . when I take them. And the doctor said it wouldn't hurt me. So I never miss a day. Believe me, we're covered. Even without any other protection."

Hardy rose and braced his weight on one elbow, looking down at me. "I've never done it without a condom."

"Ever?" I asked, bemused.

He shook his head. "I never wanted to take a chance on getting someone pregnant. I didn't want the responsibility. I always swore if I did have kids, I wouldn't leave them the way my dad did."

"You've never had a girlfriend who went on birth control?"

"Even then, I always used a condom. I've never been a fan of the trust-the-woman method."

Perhaps some women would have taken offense at that, but I understood all too well about trust issues. "That's fine," I said, leaning up to kiss his chin. "Let's do it your way."

Hardy didn't move, however. He kept staring at me with those vivid eyes, and I felt something intimate and visceral flourish between us, a sense of connection I found more than a little alarming.

It felt as if all the rhythms of my body and his had been set to one invisible metronome.

"You gave me your trust," he said. "Damned if I can't do the same."

I eased to my back, and my breath quickened, and so did his.

He undressed and pressed against me. He was gentle . . . so gentle . . . but I could feel the power and weight of him, and I tensed. He nudged more strongly until we both felt the snug, supple yielding, softness giving way to hardness. Me, taking him inside. Opening to him. The blue eyes turned drowsy, pleasure-clouded, his lashes throwing spiked shadows on his cheeks. He entered me by slow inches, giving me time to adjust, to span the heavy invasion. I turned my face against his arm, my cheek tucked against taut muscle.

When I'd taken all of him I could, Hardy coaxed me to lift my knees, spread them wider, and he gave me even more. So tight, wet, my body offering lubricious welcome. I saw the concern on his face being replaced by lust. I loved the way he stared at me, as if he wanted to eat me alive.

I wriggled, uncomfortable with all that fullness inside me, and Hardy shivered and gasped out a few words that sounded like, Oh God please don't move Haven baby please . . .

"Feel good?" I whispered.

Hardy shook his head, struggling to breathe. His face was flushed as if with a high fever. "No?" I asked.

"Felt good a half hour ago," he managed to say, his accent slurry-like he'd just done about ten tequila shots. "Fifteen minutes after that it was the greatest sex I've ever had, and right about now . . . I'm pretty sure I'm in the middle of a heart attack."

Smiling, I pulled his head down to mine and whispered, "What happens after the heart attack?"

"Not sure." His breath whistled through his teeth, and he dropped his head to the pillow beside mine. "Hell," he said desperately, "I don't know if I can hold on to this."

I drew my hands over his sides, his back, the muscles coiled and strong beneath my fingertips. "Don't hold back."

He began a careful rhythm, rooting out pleasure from the intimate channel where we were joined. One of his thrusts stroked a sensitive place, deep and low, and at the same time his body pressed the front of mine at just the right angle. A zing of delight went through me. I jerked in surprise and dug my fingers into Hardy's hips.

He lifted his head and smiled into my wide eyes. "Did I find a sweet spot?" he whispered, and did it again, and again, and to my everlasting embarrassment I couldn't keep quiet, groans climbing in my throat until my h*ps shuddered against his.

This time the spasms weren't as intense, but they were long and slow, pulling at the length of him until he came. He buried the pleasure sounds in my mouth, and kissed me, and kissed me, stopping only when we were both oxygen deprived and completely spent.

I was filled with an overpowering drowsiness after that. I dozed for a while, with his body still tucked inside mine, and I discovered that the sleep after good sex was almost better than the sex itself. I woke later with him hard inside me, not thrusting, just wedged deep, and his hands were wandering everywhere, stroking and massaging. I lay on my side, one leg hitched over his hip. I wanted, needed him to move, but he kept me impaled and still. I gripped his bicep, his shoulder, trying to pull him over me. He resisted, letting me wriggle like a worm on a hook.