"Lucky bubbles." He grinned.

Feeling silly as a schoolgirl, she giggled.

No, lucky me, she mused, being here with Rafe.

Utterly relaxed, he set his wine aside to feed her small bites of succulent chicken and tender pieces of biscuit smeared with the tangy cheese that melted like heaven in her mouth. Without much urging, he coaxed her to do the same for him, careful to lick her fingers clean in between bites, nibbling playfully at her palms before nuzzling the delicate skin along the inside of her wrists.

She laughed and pulled his head down, his lips brushing hers with the finesse of a gentle summer breeze. Opening her mouth, she circled her tongue around his to sample his unique flavor, adding and comparing it to all the other flavors lingering sumptuously on her palate.

Time passed in a leisurely haze, her wineglass emptied and filled and emptied again. Her head buzzed, her senses reeling. Yet she knew she could not truly blame the alcohol for her level of intoxication. She had Rafe to reproach for that-the man like an addictive drug that had seeped into her bloodstream, leaving her needy and never entirely satisfied. The more of him she had, she discovered, the more of him she wanted.

When she had agreed to their bargain, the parameters had appeared simple. An exchange of flesh for money and nothing more. But from the first moment he'd touched her, their union had been incendiary, like lamp oil tossed onto a roaring fire.

Never in a thousand years would she have thought she'd be taking a lover when she had granted him access to her body. But that is precisely what Rafe Pendragon had become.

And it wasn't only the sex. How much easier everything would be if her reaction to him were purely physical, if her emotions were not entwined the way dye bonded to cloth-once combined, the color impossible to leach free.

She did her best not to dwell upon her feelings, shying away from truly exploring such dangerous and forbidden territory. Perhaps it was wrong of her to desire a man who held such power over her. Yet the price he asked of her seemed small now in proportion to the myriad pleasures he lavished upon her in return.

Who, she wondered, is really using whom?

Her nerve endings hummed as she saw him open the jar of honey and dip in his index finger. Her breath caught on a ragged gasp when he reached out and began stroking it over and around her lips. They throbbed, sticky and warm from his touch.

Then he kissed her.

And licked her, literally eating from her mouth.

With a boldness she hadn't known she possessed, she repeated his gesture, dipping her finger into the honey pot to paint his mouth and cheeks with a pair of long, sticky stripes. On a moan, he closed his eyes as she bathed him with her tongue, savoring the sweet taste of the honey and the even sweeter taste of his skin.

Harsh yearning beat in her blood, in her body, urging her closer as she enfolded him in her arms. Suddenly he was touching her everywhere, slanting his mouth over hers in a series of a raw, penetrating kisses.

Breathless, he broke away. "I nearly forgot."

"Hmm?" she murmured, half-lost in a sensual daze.

"Dessert."

"You want dessert? Now?"

"Yes," he told her, dropping another kiss on her swollen lips. "And you will, too, once you see what it is."

Curious despite her desire, she released him and let him scoot over to lift a small cloth-covered dish from the hamper. Setting down the china container, he pulled away the material to reveal a mass of plump, red, newly picked berries.

"Raspberries," she sighed in amazement. "Where on earth did you get raspberries at this time of the year? It's impossible."

He gave a careless shrug. "Not impossible. One just has to know the right people. You did say they are your favorite fruit."

Another item in the long list of favorites she had shared during their many trysts.

She nodded. "But I never dreamed. Oh, my, and don't they look delectable."

Her fingers itched to take one.

"Go on," he encouraged. "That's what I brought them for. To eat and enjoy."

She grinned, giddy as a child at Christmas. Reaching for a berry, she popped one into her mouth and savored the exquisite combination of tart and sweet. In heaven, she plucked up two more berries, stuffed them into her mouth and chewed. Next, she took a small handful, laughing guiltily as she filled her mouth, a drop of juice sliding from one corner to trickle down her chin.

"Allow me," he offered. Eyes deep and green as a dense forest, he leaned over and caught the drop on the end of his tongue.

She shuddered with pleasure.

"Tasty," he murmured.

She swallowed. "What a wonderful treat! Thank you, Rafe."

"You're welcome." He stroked a finger along the curve of her cheek. "I like hearing you say my name. It's not often you call me Rafe."

She sobered. "Do I not? I certainly think of you that way."

He lifted a strand of her hair and toyed with it. "And do you think of me, Julianna? When we're not here-together, that is?"

She knew she ought to say no. Ought to lie and tell him he left her thoughts the instant she left him. That when she returned home to her life, he vanished like a figment, distant and forgotten.

But she could not.

"Yes," she whispered. "I think of you. I think of you often."

An intense yet enigmatic look came into his eyes before he glanced away.

"Good," he said, shifting upward to sit on his knees. "Roll over onto your back."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Never mind why, just do it." He smiled, slow and full of wicked promise. "You know you won't be sorry."

No, she thought on a belly-clenching quiver, I am certain I shall feel many things, but none of them will have anything to do with regret.

Letting her hesitation float away, she stretched out exactly as he wished. While she waited and watched him, anticipation ran through her with the speed of a live current.

Picking up the honey jar again, he dipped his fingers inside, using two this time.

"More honey?" she questioned, relaxing.

"Yes. More honey."

But it wasn't her lips upon which he lavished the sweet, his hand moving in a direction she had not expected him to go.

Her breath caught on a sharp inhale as he spread honey over her nipples, taking his time to massage the sticky substance into her flesh. Only when he was satisfied did he stop, careful to leave a large, glistening bead shivering on each hardened tip, her flesh peaked and aching from his touch.

From there he moved lower, choosing an unused spoon as an aid. Dipping the handle into the pot, he extended the utensil and began drawing a thin, sticky circle around her belly button. Ladling out more of the honey, he dribbled the nectar into her navel, her stomach muscles contracting involuntarily as he filled the small indentation to the rim.

Her body in torment, she restlessly shifted her legs.

"Shh, don't move," he cautioned. "Lie utterly still and wait until I'm done."

Swallowing, she nodded and did her best to obey, her heart threatening to hammer out of her chest as she waited to see where he would next put the golden sweet.

Her answer came quickly, and astonishingly, as he painted another circle even lower, at the base of her belly, and then again on the last bit of skin that lay just above her triangle of dark, tight curls. She quaked as he spread the honey, biting the corner of her lip against the hot, wet need burning inside her. She felt her eyes widen when he reached for the dish of fruit, speechless as he positioned a single ripe, red raspberry on top of each sticky circle.

When he was finished, he gazed at her in obvious satisfaction, like a chef admiring a culinary masterpiece.

"And now, my dear," he said on a dark rumble, "it's my turn to enjoy dessert."

Cupping one of her trembling breasts in his hand, he opened his mouth and began to feast, using teeth and lips and tongue to utmost effect. Helpless, she let him suckle, every pull and lap and nip driving her mad. Palming her other breast, he held her and feasted again, his fingers and mouth sensitizing her flesh to a virtual flashpoint.

She whimpered when he finally abandoned her breasts and started kissing his way toward her belly. Moments later, she cried out in delight, moaning as he dipped his tongue into her belly button. Working the spot with gentle concentration, he teased and licked, drinking from her the way a hummingbird might sip nectar from a flower.

Her mind spun, faint red pinpricks of light dancing beneath her closed lids as he bathed her in a kind of erotic magic. Twisting beneath him, she reached out blindly, needing to touch him as he dappled her flesh with kisses and caresses, tiny bites and soothing, loving strokes.

Sliding lower, he trailed his hand across her quivering thighs, pausing to pluck away the final raspberry with his tongue. Grinning, he raised his head and swallowed the fruit with an appreciative growl. Then he dove back, leisurely bathing away the last of the honey.

Wet heat pooled between her legs, her pulse thumping at a frantic pace. She expected him to conclude his delicious torture, rise, and take her lips in a fiery kiss before taking her body as she yearned for him to do.

Instead, he knelt between her legs, spread her open, and buried his face where she'd never imagined she would ever be kissed.

Dizzy with shock and mortification, she reached down to push him away. But even as she touched his head to make him stop, her will weakened, her shaking fingers threading into his hair to instinctively pull him closer. She moaned, the pleasure all but overwhelming.

Licking her the way he would some delectably irresistible confection, he pressed on, ardent and relentless. A wail rose into her throat, singing uncontrollably from her lips.

More, she thought, her eyes rolling back in her head. Oh yes, please, more.

Divine. Exquisite.

Those were the only words to describe what he was doing to her, her body held in the grip of a rapture so intense its power melted away every inhibition she'd ever had. Writhing beneath his embrace, she gave herself free rein.

Her peak hit in a great, dark wave that slammed through her with stunning violence. Drifting, she rode the storm to shore. But she had no time to recover as Rafe began to drive her upward again, firing her passion to a ragged, feverish, frenzied pitch. Helpless, she could do nothing but give herself to him, letting him take her wherever he willed.

Slipping his hands beneath her bottom, he spread her legs wider and continued his sensual onslaught. She came twice more, the last time with a scream as he gave her a small bite that hurtled her brutally over the edge.

Panting, she fought to recover her breath, and her faculties, bliss still riding her hard.

With her inner muscles still pinging and twitching, Rafe sat up on his haunches, draped her legs over his thighs, and thrust himself into her as far as he would go.

His facial muscles tightened as he pumped inside her, his jaw drawn, teeth clenched, his hunger for her naked and exposed. And though she wouldn't have thought herself capable of climaxing again, his movements soon had her craving another. She matched him stroke for stroke, claiming her release only moments before he shuddered out his own.

Visibly exhausted, he crawled up next to her and collapsed, pulling her close inside his arms to share a kiss. Entwined and satiated, they drifted together into sleep.

A long while later, Rafe leaned up on an elbow and reached for the pocket watch he'd left on the nightstand. Opening the gold cover, he checked the time.

Behind him in the bed, Julianna roused, stretching catlike against the sheets. "Do I need to get up?"

He snapped the watch closed and set it aside. "No, we have time yet. Go back to sleep if you're tired."

He knew he'd worn her out with their vigorous lovemaking. He'd worn himself out as well, as wild to have her this afternoon as he'd been their very first time. Yet with Julianna he could never seem to get enough-of her or their coupling, every encounter with her better than the last.

Frankly, by now he'd expected that first intense, all-consuming flash of lust that comes with any new affair to have passed, or at least waned a little. But the more often he took Julianna, the more he wanted her, coming to depend upon these assignations in a way that might have made a more prudent man reconsider the arrangement altogether. After all, it wouldn't do for him to develop feelings for her.

Not that I am in any real danger of doing so, he assured himself.

He liked Julianna; that was all. She was a kind, passionate woman with a warm sense of humor and a keen mind. In her company, he never felt bored, enjoying the conversations they shared to an extent that surprised him. With his previous mistresses, he'd never found much intellectual common ground, their out-of-bed talk generally centering around her jewelry preferences, her most recent shopping excursion, and which play she most wanted to see next.

When he and Julianna were not making love, they liked to talk of art and music, literature, sailing-a sport both of them loved but in which they rarely had the opportunity to engage-and the occasional smattering of philosophy. When she wanted, the woman could argue with the conviction of Sophocles and the wisdom of Aristotle. He felt certain she would have impressed both ancients had they somehow defied the laws of time and physics and been able to meet her.

In all ways, Julianna was a lady, without a single avaricious bone in her body. She would no more think to ask him for a trinket than she would stand on a street corner with a tambourine and sing, her palm outstretched. Such cupidity was simply not in her nature.

Nor did she indiscriminately take lovers, as many women of her class did. As only the second man ever to share her bed, he was proof of that. Although now that he had taught her the pleasures of the flesh, perhaps she would seek out a new lover once the two of them parted ways.

With their bargain concluded, would she long for intimacy? Would she seek out a lord, perhaps, a good man of good lineage who could openly share her company instead of sneaking around in furtive secrecy the way he and Julianna were forced to do?

His hand curled into a fist next to his hip, a knot forming in his stomach at the thought of Julianna making love with another man.

"Where did you get this scar?" she asked, her lilting voice speaking from very near his ear.

Shaking off his thoughts, he relaxed and turned, his skin tingling beneath her fingertips as she trailed them over a spot high on the back of his neck.

With his hair trimmed only two days prior, the mark was more visible than usual. Most of the time, he scarcely remembered the crisscrossed patch, having long since ceased to give it more than an occasional passing consideration.

Faces close, he met her gaze, reading the lazy curiosity in her melting chocolate eyes. "Oh, that. That is the result of a rather nasty collision between my head and an iron crowbar."

Her eyes rounded. "Mercy sakes, do you mean to say someone hit you?"

He nodded. "It hurt like a fury of harpies set to dance on my skull." Even now, he could still recall the blast of pain and the way blood had dribbled down his neck to seep into his frayed cambric collar.

"That's awful. Were you very badly injured?" She stroked a hand over his bare shoulder in an obvious need to comfort.

One corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Not as badly as the fellow who did it. When I failed to pass out from the cosh to my head, he soon found himself on the punishing end of my fists. Believe me, it was the last time that scoundrel ever tried to steal from a fellow dockman."

Her brows rose. "Fellow dockman? What do you mean?"

His jaw tightened, wondering what she would think if he told her the truth. That once, years ago, he'd fallen on hard times, very hard times, and been compelled to take any job he could find, no matter how rough or low. That there'd been months of his life when he'd gone hungry, so broke he'd been grateful to earn enough to buy a single potato or a day-old loaf of bread.

Yet no matter how desperate he'd been, he'd never stooped to begging. Nor had he ever once felt ashamed of having to work with his hands, his labor simple but honest.

"I mean," he said, "that I once worked on the London docks."

"You owned a shipping company."

"I do now. I hold investment majorities in several firms, including a couple of shipping concerns. However, during the time period we are discussing, I was a dockman, and not even a permanent employee at that, working day to day for nearly a year."