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  Then, with an excruciating slowness that only served to jack up her anticipation, he began lowering his mouth to hers once again. His intent clear, he was giving her every opportunity to stop him. It was in that instant she decided not to, that she realized she’d only now stepped into the real insanity.

  A breath before his lips brushed hers, she shivered in acute awareness. Of what she was about to do. Of what she was about to let him do. But when he slid those big hands of his from her elbows, up along the backs of her arms, he didn’t have to tug her closer, urge her to move in. It was as if they flowed together.

  Sweet, she thought, when his lips finally—thank you, God—took hers. Warm and sweet. Soft. None of the things she’d have expected from a man with such hard hands, such a hard body.

  She let him into her mouth with an ease that should have shocked her, moved into his arms as if she’d looked for safe haven there often. Safe. Haven. She should have laughed. He was certainly neither. A man she’d only just met, one who thought nothing of taking indecent liberties with a stranger.

  A stranger who had no desire to stop him from doing just that.

  Two strangers on train, heading nowhere.

  The phrase echoed in her mind, the fantasy resonating within her. Was this merely a knee jerk response to that twinge of loneliness she’d felt earlier? A quick fix? A way to treat the symptom so she didn’t have to face whatever the larger concern might be?

  And, so what if it was? she rationalized.

  She kissed him back, as a test of sorts. Not in the hands-fisted-in-his-hair kind of way that she wanted to, the way those primal forces he’d somehow unleashed in her prodded her to. No, she had to retain some semblance of sanity here.

  Didn’t she?

  Those long fingers of his slid up along the column of her neck, cupped her face, her chin, angling her mouth so he could plunder deeper. She moaned. Or maybe it was him. It didn’t really matter. Damn, but he tasted sweet, and hot.

  Her fingers twitched to touch him, to run her hands all over him. But the overload of sensations created by his mouth on hers, his tongue sliding along hers, was the center of her universe at the moment, all she could focus on. His kiss was deep, yet slow, almost lazy. As if they had all the time in the world, just to explore each other’s mouths. Which was directly at odds with the almost ravenous hunger now clawing at her, to have him, all of him, immediately. But she welcomed the steadier, saner pace he was establishing, thinking it would give her time to gain some control, over herself, over him.

  Instead, the exquisite torture of muscles clenching, nipples tightening, as he slowly continued to claim her mouth, drove her to a fever pitch. How was it he knew how to play her, so beautifully, so perfectly, right from the start? No awkward motions, no aborted moves. How was it he knew her mouth so well?

  His body was rigid, taut against hers, the mere feel of it rocked her. And yet his fingers, his lips, his tongue, were gentle, smooth, deliberate. He slid free of her mouth, then took her bottom lip and suckled it, a groan building deep in his throat as his fingertips flexed, ever so slightly, against the side of her neck, then slid into her hair. Again she shuddered. Her breasts ached painfully now for those fingertips to brush across their tightly budded tips, for that mouth of his to suckle them, make love to them in the same exquisite way he’d made love to her mouth.

  It occurred to her, in some deep recess of what was left of her mind, that she had to stop this, him, before they went much further. Regroup, pause, think things through. She’d thought herself a fairly cosmopolitan woman when it came to sex, but even she wasn’t the type to go for something quite this daring, fantasy or no.

  But then he was shuffling her backward, moving them until her spine came up against the narrow, smooth strip that ran between the two windows. The wall was ice-cold. His hands as they moved down over her collarbone were blistering hot. She didn’t know which sensation made her shudder the hardest.

  He trailed his tongue along her jaw as his hands shaped the outward swell of her breasts. And the need for him to do something to assuage the reckless need he’d aroused in her obliterated whatever lingering idea she might have had to call a halt to this.

  When he began to slide his hands down her body, moving his body down along hers at the same time, she gasped and arched against him. Her knees wobbled dangerously and she flung her hands out, grappling at the edges of the sleeper bunks that jutted out, shoulder height, on either side of her. She shoved her camera still gripped in one hand onto the padded surface, then curled all ten fingers deep into the cushions as he moved lower, and lower still.

  What in the hell was she doing? What in the hell was she letting him do to her? He was a goddamn stranger she’d only just met and—Dear sweet God, she thought, moaning as his hands cupped the slight weight of her breasts, but stopped shy of brushing over their now agonizingly sensitized tips. Just touch me. Don’t stop touching me.

  She heard the ragged edge to his breathing as he lowered himself to his knees. She wanted to beg him, might have, but he was nudging the hem of her shirt up with his nose, tracing his tongue around her naval. And just as he dipped his tongue into the soft recess, he flicked his fingertips over her tightly budded nipples, wrenching a guttural growl from her, a noise she’d never made once in her entire life.

  He made her want to tear the clothes from her body, bare herself to him and his clever tongue, magic fingers, perfect mouth. Made her want to rip at his shirt, his jeans, until he was as naked in fact as he’d already made her feel in spirit.

  He slid his hands down, gripped her pumping hips, hips she hadn’t been aware she’d been moving until he pinned them back against the wall. He pulled the buttoned tab of her khakis open with his teeth, his thumbs pressing against her hipbones as he tugged the zipper down. He peeled the sides back. She tensed, paused, waiting, waiting . . .

  “Don’t move,” he said, the words a hoarse command.

  It was all she could do to breathe and remain upright at the same time. When his hands left her, her eyes opened of their own volition. No, don’t stop now, dammit.

  She froze. Bastard, he had his camera aimed right at her. “What kind of shit do you think you’re pulling—”

  “Don’t,” he repeated, still on his knees before her. He ripped off a shot before she could do more than glare at him.

  “Talk about a mood killer,” she ground out, heart still pounding, only now in growing fury.

  Which only mounted further when he dared to grin—grin!—at her as he tossed the camera back on the bench seat before moving toward her once again.

  “Oh, you don’t seriously think I’m going to allow you to—”

  “I’m not thinking, I’m reacting,” he said, his tone one of utter sincerity. “And I would apologize for that gross invasion of your privacy,” he said, negligently flicking another button loose on her khakis, “except I plan on doing a whole lot worse than that.”

  She would have smacked his hands away, surely she would have, if she’d only managed to pry hers loose from their death grip on the berth cushions before he’d gotten those hands of his on her again.

  “You have no idea the absolute primitive way in which you’re affecting me,” he said against the tender sliver of exposed skin just below her naval. “I had to try to capture it, define it. Make sense of it,” he said, as if that made it all better. “But it’s only for me,” he vowed as he pressed those sweet, deliciously hot lips of his against her tender, still-sensitized skin. “I swear it.”

  And, God help her, she didn’t rip his head away, or knee him back on his ass. Both of which he deserved, manipulating bastard.

  Manipulating bastard with a mouth that was this close to showing her nirvana, her little voice so helpfully added. And damn, damn, damn if she was going to stop him before she got hers.

  “Next time, though,” he murmured, as he pushed his questing fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, began to smooth them upward as he continued pressing soft kisses aga
inst her belly, “no glaring.”

  “Next time,” she gasped, stunned at his arrogance. But the are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind? tone lost any punch it had when he finally discovered her breasts, unfettered by a bra, and brushed the pads of his fingertips across her bare nipples.

  Damn if his timing was as exquisite as his touch.

  But dammit, she wasn’t going to let it be that easy. “Do you,” she began, then stopped to squirm as he fingered her nipples, while tugging the fly of her pants open wider with his teeth. He dipped his tongue along the edge of her panties and she shuddered as the pleasure of it rippled over her. “Do you,” she tried again, determined to have at least a shred of say in this, “always . . .” That was as far as she could get before the groan that started somewhere deep in her belly, crawled up and out, long, and low. She might have whimpered, too, when his hands left her breasts, and moved to begin to tug her pants down.

  Stop him, she told herself. Make it clear you have some control here. Don’t let him just have you like this, dictating what will happen and how.

  But his mouth was already brushing against her soft, springy curls, and her inner muscles clenched so tightly in anticipation of what he was about to do it caused her physical pain. Pain he could—and would, by damn—assuage with one dipping thrust of that clever tongue of his. Just one dip, and she’d fly apart. Just one little dip. Then she’d stop him cold. After all, it was the least he owed her for that damn picture.

  “Do I always what?” he murmured, just the feel of his breath caressing her there enough to make her jerk and twitch. His fingers digging into her hips was the only indication of what this little pause was costing him.

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant, her thought scattered by the edge she was tottering on. “Take pictures,” she ground out, knowing he wasn’t going to do anything else until she answered him, and wishing like hell she’d never asked the damn question. So close. So. Close. She fought the urge to keep from grabbing his head, shoving him where she needed him most. “During sex.”

  “Never.”

  He said it instantly, sincerely. She barked out a laugh, because it was ridiculous how much she wanted to believe him. And, honestly, what did it matter? For all she knew he could have his entire bedroom papier mâché’d with pictures of his conquests. Who the hell cared? All that mattered was that he finish conquering her. And if it was as good as she suspected it was going to be . . . well, then he could keep the damn picture. Frame it.

  Her lips curved in supreme satisfaction as his fingers curled around the elastic edges of her panties . . . tugged them down.

  But first he was going to have to earn it.

  Chapter Four

  She was not what he’d expected. With those long, nail bitten fingers and the almost hard line to her jaw and cheekbones, he’d expected to find more of the same beneath her baggy clothes. Jutting hip bones and taut skin, hard muscle wrapped about slender bone. So it was with deep and abiding pleasure that he reveled in the discovery of the plump swell of her small breasts, the plumper swell of her belly. And it was to his everlasting gratitude that, as he slid her pants down her legs, that he uncovered hips, and thighs that were lush, soft. Despite her small stature, she was made to cushion the weight of a man.

  And damn if that man wasn’t going to be him.

  He’d stared through lenses at rail thin women for so many years, he’d all but forgotten what it was to unwrap such abundant treasure, to sink himself into it. Fingers, tongue, body. She was steam heat and sweet musk and soft moans and how in the hell had he denied himself this for so long? So long, apparently, he’d lost track of the existence of it altogether.

  Tag’s words floated through the last shred of his brain that wasn’t fogged with lust. When your work is your play, you’ve found nirvana, haven’t you?

  He’d always thought his older brother had it exactly right. Had smugly, in fact, basked in his own luck and good fortune. Grown men would weep to experience, even once, the opportunities he was offered monthly, weekly. And got paid handsomely for.

  Yet, when he slid his hands around the back of her legs, and softly kissed the insides of her thighs, he wondered if maybe he’d missed something vital somewhere along the line.

  His heart was pounding, his fingers trembling, and he couldn’t clearly say when was the last time they had done so. And despite the absolute certainty of what he was about to do, and precisely how he planned to go about doing it, there was some level of . . . what? Not fear. Not even concern, really. He wanted her, and that he would get what he wanted was fairly assured.

  So why, when he nuzzled her thighs apart, gripped her hips harder when her legs threatened to go loose on him, urged her to hold on tighter to the berths while he dipped his tongue right where it so badly wanted to go, did he feel a thrill in the pit of his belly that he couldn’t quite explain?

  Dangerous lust? Sex with a total stranger? Neither had ever called to him. Until now.

  He lapped at her, groaned himself when she proved to be sweeter than expected. His cock surged to rock-hard proportions as her hips began to move, as she let herself go, alternately moaning and swearing. It was the swearing that made him almost come in his pants.

  He pressed her back hard against the wall, drove his tongue inside her, exulted in the way she intentionally rapped her head against the wall several times and cursed like a sailor as she came. She shocked him, delighted him, jacked him up, and . . . and . . . he had no words for the rest. He slid his hands beneath her shirt, took her nipples between his fingers and prodded them, tugged at them, slid his tongue over her again, even when she was squirming to get away from it.

  “Can’t,” she panted.

  “Can,” he assured her, continued to stroke her, even as she gasped, twitched hard, told him she couldn’t possibly—that he couldn’t possibly think she could ever—then grinned like a fool against her slick wetness, taunting her with his tongue as she came again, this time quivering and laughing like a damn loon.

  He spread wet kisses over her thighs, held her as she shuddered, trembled, her gasps somewhere between laughter and stunned disbelief.

  “I’ve changed my mind about Santa Claus,” she finally managed.

  He laughed, and at the time, was so hard he was in physical pain. But he didn’t rip his pants down, yank those lovely lush legs of hers around his hips and bury himself in all that incredible hot wetness he knew only too well was waiting for him.

  He wanted to, but he’d looked up. Her almond eyes were a bit glazed, making them look more exotic than ever. Her bowed courtesan lips were slack, inviting him to do lascivious things to them, between them. If she only knew the things he could envision the two of them doing. He spent a moment wondering how many of them they could do in the narrow confines of this cabin.

  “And here I thought I was the lucky one,” he told her. “Best present I’ve opened in a very long time.”

  Her fingers were still fisted in the thin cushions that lined the beds. His fingers twitched with the need to pick up his camera. Just to shoot her hands. Her mouth. Her eyes.

  He must have given himself away, because her gaze briefly shifted to the bench seat, where he’d tossed the digital earlier. Her gaze flicked back to him, and he expected to see accusation, heated anger. Not uncertainty . . . tainted with just a bit of... curiosity? Arousal?

  He was picking it up before she could make up her mind.

  “Just don’t—not—”

  He shook his head. “I won’t.” He worked the buttons without looking at them. As if he could take his eyes off her. She seemed to understand she wasn’t to move. He lifted the viewfinder, aimed it at her, and she trembled. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and he twitched hard as he zoomed in on her mouth, caught the white of her teeth sinking into that plump bottom lip, twitched again when he snapped the shot.

  He immediately lifted the lens, caught the stunned look in her eyes, the glaze of shocked excitement. He moved to his
right, her gaze stayed forward. He snapped. Jerked.

  He shifted, zoomed in on the white-knuckled grip she had on the cushion, moved so the gray light from the windows caught the tension perfectly. Snap.

  Jesus. He’d always found his work stimulating . . . but not quite like this. In fact, despite the focus of his work, never like this. He’d always thought it was his ability to let his mind go there, but keep his body separate, letting his mind float free of that restriction, that made him the photographer he was. Totally in tune . . . and yet completely out of touch.

  He questioned that now.

  Still kneeling, he shoved her trousers and panties down to her ankles, pulled them off, over her boots. He glanced up, caught her frown. She tugged the hem of her shirt down, holding it between her thighs, covering herself. Just barely.

  “There. Don’t move.” He rolled to his heels, moved back, still crouching. Her hair stuck up in wayward spikes. Twin spots of color had bloomed on her cheeks. Her bottom lip was puffier still from the pressure of her teeth. And yet the ferocity in those eyes of hers, still aroused, still damn hungry . . . she was woodland nymph and Amazon goddess all in one. Vulnerable, dominant. Defiant, needy. He framed the shot, took his time. Her hands twisting the hem of her shirt topped the frame, thighs rubbing one in front of the other, booted feet turned in at the toes. Snap. It was his. A part of her was his. Forever.

  He moved back farther. “One more.” He needed this one. The other shots were the artistic side of his brain, the elements of passion. Broken down, zoomed in on. But this . . . the need for this shot came from some other part of him. Made it harder to frame, made him want to be analytical, categorize it neatly that way, only to find he was incapable of it.

  He framed her face as she stared steadily at him. Now his hands trembled. And it had nothing to do with art. She would haunt him. He understood that, even as he rejected it. Hundreds of faces filled his portfolio. None of them were imprinted on the back of his brain when he closed his eyes at night.