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Her hands stilled, then shifted back and flattened on the table to support her upper weight. “Is this all right?”

“Don’t. Move.”

Phury took his time as he drew her, the chalk becoming his hands going over her body, lingering on her neck and the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hip and the long, smooth expanse of her legs. He made love to her as he transferred her image onto the blackboard, the sound of the chalk a rasping noise.

Or maybe that was his breath.

“You’re very good,” she said at one point.

He was too busy and greedy with his eyes to answer her, too preoccupied with what he imagined himself doing to her when he was finished.

After an eternity that lasted only a moment, he stepped back and measured his work. Perfection. It was her, but more—although there was a sexual undertone to the composition that even she had to see. He didn’t want to shock her, but he couldn’t have changed that aspect of the work. It was in every line of her body and her pose and her face. She was the feminine sexual ideal. At least for him.

“It’s done,” he said roughly.

“Is that . . . who I am?”

“It’s how I see you.”

There was a long silence. Then she said with a kind of astonishment, “You think I’m beautiful.”

He traced the lines he’d drawn. “Yes. I do.” Silence expanded the distance between them, making him feel awkward. “Well, now . . .” he said. “We can’t leave it up like this—”

“Please! No!” she said, putting her hand out. “Let me look at me a little longer. Please.”

Okay. Fine. Whatever she wanted. Hell, at this point, she could have told his heart not to beat, and the thing would have complied with the order quite cheerfully. She had become his control tower, his body’s master, and anything she told him to do or say or get for her, he would. No questions asked. No care of the means.

In the back of his mind, he knew that all of this was characteristic of a bonded male: Your female commanded you and that was that. Except he couldn’t have bonded with her. Right?

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, her green eyes on the board.

He turned to face her. “That is you, Cormia. You’re like that.”

Her eyes flared, and then, as if she felt uncomfortable, her hands went to the slit in her robe and closed it.

“Please, no,” he whispered, repeating her words. “Let me look a little longer. Please.”

Tension boomed between them, positively pounded.

“I’m sorry,” he said, annoyed with himself. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

Her hands released, and that luscious white fabric fell open with such complete obedience, he wanted to pat it on the head and give it a bone.

“Your scent is so strong,” she said in a deep voice.

“Yes.” He put the chalk down and inhaled, smelling jasmine. “So is yours.”

“You want to kiss me, don’t you.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“You untucked your shirt. Why?”

“I’m hard. I got hard the moment you came into the office.”

She hissed at that, her eyes traveling down his chest to his hips. As her lips parted, he knew exactly what she was thinking about: him coming into her hand.

“It’s amazing,” she said softly. “When I’m around you like this, nothing seems to matter. Nothing but . . .”

He walked toward her. “I know.”

As he stopped in front of her, she looked up. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“We shouldn’t,” she said, her hands going up to his chest. She didn’t push him away, though. She gripped his shirt as if it were a lifeline. “We should not.”

“True.” He brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.

His desperation to get in her in some way, any way, shorted out his frontal lobe. What he felt as he stood before her was all about the base core of him, the base needs of a male. “But this can be private, Cormia. This can be just you and me.”

“Private . . . I like private.” She tilted her chin up, offering him what he wanted.

“Me, too,” he growled as he sank down onto his knees.

She seemed confused. “I thought you wanted to kiss me. . . .”

“I do.” He slipped