The Desert Virgin. Sandra Marton

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      She moved against him, a little roll of her hips that made him groan. This—making love to her, feeling her swift response and knowing that the restraints still tied around her wrists and ankles left her exquisitely open and completely vulnerable to him—was incredibly exciting.

      But he wanted more.

      He wanted her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips as he poured himself into her.

      Cam ran his hand higher, heard her swift intake of breath when he reached her thigh. Her skin was hot. Burning, as he was burning. He kissed her throat, heard her make that little sound women make when they stand balanced on the brink of forever in a man’s embrace.

      “Tell me now,” he said. “What you like. What you want. I’ll make it happen, I promise.”