"You should never have let me in," he said in a whisper. "Send me away."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. It would be so easy, she thought, to pull her hands free, to step back. He would leave her then, and she would never have anything more to fear. He would leave her, and she would be alone.

"Why?" Her response was barely a breath.

"Because if you don't send me away, I'll take you. And there will be no turning back."

She heard the words, the threat, the promise, with her heart and her soul. The blatant sexuality of it, and something more, besides.

He wouldn't take her untutored body. He wouldn't take her innocence, her love, and her passion. He would take far more than that.

He would take her soul.

Run. The word echoed in her head. Run away, fast. And she knew the words came from him, as well as her.

"I can't," she said, answering the unspoken plea. "I've waited too long for you. I love you." And she pulled her hands out of his restraining grasp, slid them up his arms and began to pull off his ice-coated shirt.

He didn't stop her this time. He stood perfectly still beneath her hands, and the flicker of the fire reflected on the mirrored lenses of his dark glasses. She pulled the shirt free from his pants, and her arms went around him. She found herself pressed up tight against him, the hard sinew and muscle and bone, the icy heat of him. For a moment her heart clenched in longing; then it began pounding, fast, hard, as she stared up at him.

"Who are you?" she asked, one last time.

"A bad dream," he whispered. "A nightmare." And his mouth covered hers.

The ice had melted from his face, his lips, his hair. He kissed her with a ferocity that should have terrified her, but she was past terror, past second thoughts. She wanted to kiss him back, but she wasn't sure how. Then his thumbs cupped her jaw and gently opened her mouth for him.

He used his tongue as he had that morning. He taught her how to use her tongue, to give, as well as to receive, and when he thrust his tongue into her mouth, her knees buckled.

He caught her effortlessly in his strong arms, holding her as she swayed against him. His mouth left hers to move down the side of her neck, small, biting kisses, and then she felt herself swung dizzily in the air.

He took her through the night and the darkness, through the storm and the ice. He carried her back to his room, to the wide bed, and set her down. She lay back, staring up at him, and he was leaning over her, silhouetted in the darkness with only the flicker of the firelight piercing the gloom. Like the flames of hell, she thought as his hands slid up the front of her sweater, reaching for the buttons.

She watched him as he stripped off her clothes, deftly, efficiently, and she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that there was a grim purpose to his actions. That this was something he needed to do. Even though he regretted it.

She was so caught up in that odd sensation that she barely noticed when she was completely naked. He leaned back and stared at her, and even through the mirrored lenses she could feel the heat of his gaze.

Suddenly she was self-conscious. She was too thin, too pale, too unfeminine, to please him, too—

As if he could read her thoughts, he stopped them, with the simple expedient of covering her naked body with his. His pants were cool and damp against her legs, his chest was strong and smooth, and she could feel him against her stomach, hard, wanting her.

"I should tell you..." she began breathlessly, but he put his hand on her breast, his long, cool fingers cupping it, and the sensation was so powerful that her voice trailed off in a strangled cry.

"I should explain..." she began again, but his fingertips encircled her nipple, tugging at her, and she felt the fiery reaction in a straight line down to the burning place between her legs.

"I should tell you…" she said—one final attempt—when his mouth closed over the tight bud of her breast, and she let out a soft, strangled wail.

She struggled to keep some portion of her mind intact. He was icy-cold, fiery-hot, and he lay between her legs as if he belonged there. She reached down to the waistband of his pants, pushing at them in mindless frustration, and from somewhere she felt his amusement.

He rose up, kneeling between her legs, and even in the flickering firelight she could see his hands reach down to the row of tiny buttons that strained over the front of his fly.

"Tell me what, Laura?" he said in a low, patient voice, flicking the buttons open one by one.

She swallowed, suddenly panicked. "That I'm... that is, they were afraid…"

He released himself into the night, and if she hadn't been frightened before, she would have panicked then.

As it was, she was beyond panic. She lay beneath him, staring up in mute fear and trust.

"You're a virgin," he said, "and they were afraid that if you made love you would die. Is that it?"

She nodded.

He leaned forward, sliding his hands up her torso to cover her breasts, and the sensation was the sweetest torment. "Are you afraid of death, Laura?" he whispered against her mouth.

She found she'd been clutching the sheet beneath her. It was a simple enough question, with an obvious response. But she didn't want the obvious, she wanted the truth. And for some odd reason, she knew that her answer mattered terribly.

"No," she said, with no doubt whatsoever. "I'm not afraid of death."

"Then let me show you life," he said. And, moving down, he put his mouth between her legs.

Her reaction was so powerful and immediate that she tried to jerk away, but his hands cradled her hips, holding her there, as he used his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, driving her down a dark, narrow path that she'd never taken before.

The trembling began deep inside. She clutched his shoulders, her heels digging into the mattress as a rush of sensations swept over her. She was gasping for breath, her entire body in an ever-tightening knot, and she needed something more, but she wasn't sure exactly what.

The first wave hit her, a spasm of reaction that sent starbursts dancing behind her eyes. The second wave came, harder and stronger, and from a distance she could hear a gasping sob that had to be her own.

Before the tremors had died away he moved up, over her, between her legs, thrusting deep, breaking past the fear and the fragile barrier of her innocence, deep and hard and sure, and his hand covered her mouth, muffling her cry.

There were footsteps outside her locked door. A slow, measured pace. They lay in still, absolute silence, his body deep within hers, as the sound of those footsteps slowly died away.

He started to pull away from her, and she clutched at him, aware of a sudden, desperate panic. But he thrust again, deeper still, his pace slow, deliberate, and she tilted her hips up, to draw him in deeper. The rhythm was simply, easily caught with his hands on her hips, guiding her, and she drifted with pleasure, her hands sliding up his strong arm as he braced himself over her. It changed so slowly lulling her into a dreamy pleasure, and then she realized that everything had speeded up, and he was driving her farther, deeper, faster, until she felt a new trembling begin to take over, and she knew that nothing mattered but this.

He thrust deep, so deep, and she felt a shudder ripple through his body. It hit her then, with the force of a mindless eternity, a pulsing, throbbing explosion so deep and powerful she thought she might shake apart. She tried to scream, but he shoved his hand against her mouth to quiet her, and she bit down, hard, as her body went rigid, taking him with her.