He held her tight as she came, never letting her weaken or fall, and all the while he kept up the slow, gentle swipes of his tongue, bringing her wave after wave of bliss.

Later, she scarcely remembered how they made it to the bed. He must have carried her, seeing as how her limbs had ceased to function. She recalled snuggling into a plush towel as she hit the mattress, and the way the heat of his body cocooned her shortly thereafter. They must have slept that way for a while. It was sheer joy just to lie next to him at last, nestled into his broad chest and pinned by the weight of one brawny forearm.

So much pleasure, and still they’d hardly begun.

It wasn’t clear whether he woke her, or she woke him, but Meredith came to consciousness through a thick, cottony fog. Her limbs were so entwined with Rhys’s, she had a tricky time of it, sorting out which strands of the knot belonged to her and which to him. She supposed it didn’t really matter.

As her eyes fluttered open, his lips covered hers. Oh, how lovely, to be kissed awake. She closed her eyes again, wanting to prolong the drowsy haze. He began slowly, brushing light kisses over her mouth, cheeks, temple, and brow. The softness of his kiss was in delicious contrast to the hardness of his male organ, which pressed insistently against her thigh.

Wriggling in his embrace, Meredith reclaimed the use of her arms. She kissed him back—first lightly, then deep—and as they kissed, she ran her fingers over every inch of him she could reach. Through his short hair, over the nape of his neck, down the sculpted planes of his shoulders and back. A low moan rumbled through his chest when she flicked a thumbnail over his nipple. Encouraged, she did it again.

How could a man live to the age of one-and-thirty without knowing he was ticklish? To think that no nursemaid, no friend, no lover—for God’s sake, no parent—had ever touched him in a playful manner. To know that he’d lived with constant physical violence and not the slightest scrap of physical affection … Her heart broke for him all over again, just as it had when she was a girl.

But she was a woman now, and determined to make up for lost time. Before they left this bed, she would touch him everywhere. Tenderly, desirously. With not only fingers, but lips and tongue, too. He was uncharted ground—practically virgin territory, she thought dryly to herself. But not after tonight. She meant to explore every inch of his body, noting every spot that elicited a laugh, a sigh, or a moan.

And somehow, by the grace of God, she would make him understand that he deserved this. He deserved to be kissed, stroked, pleasured, held.

He deserved to be loved.

Fully awake now, they lay side by side, facing one another. Meredith propped her head on one elbow and reached her other hand between them. It didn’t take long to find what she was seeking. It was a big enough target, after all. Not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. She’d been delighted to learn that her memories of his body hadn’t been some combination of time’s distortion and her youthful inexperience. Over the years, she’d compared every man in her life to her memories of Rhys. Here was just one more way those other men had come up lacking.

She stroked him slowly, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure beneath closed lids.

“God, that feels good,” he said.

“You sound so surprised,” she teased. Gentling her tone, she asked, “Was it really so bad before?”

“The first time? Hell, yes.” He opened his eyes. Brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, he said, “Worse for her than for me. Poor girl screamed like she was being murdered. We didn’t even finish. Everything about it was just … wrong.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t enjoying herself?” Meredith smiled. “Maybe she was just the screaming sort. Some women are.”

His brow creased. “Are you the screaming sort?”

“No,” she said quickly, inwardly resolving not to make so much as a peep. “No.”

“Then how would you know some women are?”

“I own an inn, Rhys. The walls aren’t very thick.”

She slid her hand further down, reaching to cradle his heavy sac in her hand and delighting in his low groan of pleasure. He clasped her hip and pulled her against him, grinding his thick shaft against her belly. She threw a leg over his narrow hips, opening herself to him. A clear invitation.

Still he hesitated.

“I’m ready,” she assured him. “And I’m not a virgin or a screamer. Everything will be fine.”

“It has to be better than fine.” His hand ranged over her hip, and he reached down to stroke her cleft, probing with his fingers to test her readiness and groaning with satisfaction when he found her quite ready indeed. He slid his thumb to her pearl and gently massaged. “This has to be so damn unbelievably good that you want to do it again, and again, every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Every day?” she teased. “Such stamina.”

“We’ll be making up for a lot of lost time.” Pausing, he gave the appearance of serious consideration. “Every day for the next decade, at least. After that, it will depend on the state of my joints.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

When he began to kiss the hollow of her neck, Meredith decided this was the time. She grasped his erection firmly and guided it to the damp, needy ache between her legs.

She stretched; he nudged.

And then he was inside her, just an inch. They drew a shaky breath together.

Now an inch more.

She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Truth be told, he was big, and she was very out of practice, had never given birth. She was probably as tight as a widow could be. It hurt, but deliciously so.

They stared into one another’s eyes as he fed her another inch of his length, then two.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, breathless. “Give me just a moment? Just like this.”

“I’ll try.” He gritted his teeth through a few beats of her pulse. “God, I can’t wait, I … I need more.”

“I—”

A gasp took the rest of her willing reply, as he clutched her hip and thrust.

Meredith buried her face in his shoulder. I will not scream. I will not scream.

“Are you well?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes,” she squeaked through clenched teeth.

After a moment’s rest, she dragged in a deep breath, then released it slowly. He rocked against her, in the gentlest of thrusts. Their natural moisture spread, easing the way. When he thrust again, she could tell he slid deeper than he’d intended. A groan rumbled from his chest, loosening her tense muscles.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t painful anymore. It was very, very good.

She worked against him, struggling to take him deeper, desperate for more. More heat, more friction. The firm slide of him against her taut, sensitive flesh.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes so she could watch his expression as they established a rhythm. Slow. Steady. Devastating. With each thrust, he sank a bit deeper, stretched her body a bit wider, prodded her one step closer to the brink of ecstasy.

His face was a mask of concentration—eyes intent, brow furrowed, lower lip folded under his teeth. He seemed to be gauging her reactions just as carefully as she was watching for his.

“Is it good?” she asked, breathless.

“Hell, yes. You feel so …” He grit his teeth as her intimate muscles squeezed in response. “… so much better than my hand.”

“Your hands feel good to me.”

Laying a hand over his, she dragged his touch from her hip to her breast. He cupped the small globe easily in his palm, kneading gently. Pleasure spread through her body as he chafed his thumb over her hardened nipple. A lusty sigh eased from her throat.

“You like that.” He thumbed her nipple again.

“Oh, yes.” She tightened her leg over his hips and flexed her thigh, drawing him deeper into her.

Relaxing her neck, she rested her head on her arm and simply stared into his beautiful eyes as together they worked their hips back and forth. In and out. “This is wonderful, Rhys. I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

“So am I. Believe me. Another week of holding back, and I think I would have imploded.” One eyebrow arched. “Is it strange that we’re talking so much?”

“Strange? Perhaps it’s not usual, but it doesn’t feel strange in the least, not to me. It feels …”

“Right.” His breath hitched as he rocked his hips and sank deeper than ever. “It just feels right.” Another thrust. “Doesn’t it?”

Oh, Lord. It did. Of course it did.

His eyes drilled into hers, demanding and intense. Even with his arousal wedged against her womb, she felt more deeply penetrated by his gaze. There was desire there, and need … and just the faintest glimmer of fear. He gave another powerful buck of his hips. “Admit it. This is right, you and me. Meant to be.”

A voice within her shouted for caution, urged her to put up a wall of defense. Don’t, the voice said. You’ll reveal too much, risk heartbreak and worse.

Go to the devil, she told it back.

Rhys was inside her, and next to her, and surrounding her with his embrace, and he needed so damn much. The man had suffered a lifetime deprived of affection, and he clung to all this destiny nonsense because—uncertain, wounded soul that he was—he couldn’t bring himself to ask for hers. This was why he’d never offered her a choice. He was too afraid she’d say no.

She would not force him to ask. Not when she longed to give him everything. Affection, pleasure, a gentle lover’s touch.

“Yes,” she breathed, curling her arm around his shoulders. Stretching her neck, she brushed a kiss against his lips. “Yes, Rhys. It feels right.” She kissed those strong, sensuous lips again, then again, running her fingers through his feathery hair as she did. “Utterly … perfectly … absolutely right. We belong like this.”

He kissed her thoroughly, taking her mouth with feverish, driven passion. With a low groan, he rolled her onto her back and sank in deep.

Very deep. So deep, she gripped his shoulders in shock. In their side-by-side position, he obviously hadn’t penetrated her fully. No, there was definitely more of Rhys to be had. And now he gave it all to her, thrusting hard, working deeper, until his hips met against hers and the breath left her lungs.

“Are you well?” he asked, bracing himself on his elbows.

She managed a nod.

“Good.” Thrust. “Because I can’t stop.” Thrust. “God help me, I can’t stop.”

He thrust again, and his pelvis ground against hers. And she came, just like that. The feel of his strong body, the ragged need in his voice, all the emotion in her heart—she was overwhelmed, in every sense. The pleasure swept her in a hot, unrelenting rush, and she clung to him, riding it for all it was worth.

“God.” The tight growl of his voice told her he was close, too. “God.” He fell on her, lowering his weight to hers. “Hold on,” he whispered in her ear. “Hold me tight.”

She did as he asked, as she wanted to do. Locked her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs over the tree trunks that were his thighs. She cinched her intimate muscles, holding him tight there, too.

And then, when she’d gripped him in every way imaginable—he let go. The force and tempo of his thrusts increased. His mouth fell on hers, and he probed wildly with his tongue as he took her faster, harder, deeper. As though there were something he desperately needed, something that resided at the very center of her being—and to get at it, he would break her apart.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he reared up a bit. Just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were unfocused, and his lips contorted with pleasure. And as the inevitable approached, an incoherent rush of words tore from his chest.