‘You will.” His fingers slid seductively across her back and turned her against his chest. His mouth descended on hers, capturing her lips. He stilled her fighting hands and plundered the soft fullness of .

She felt shattered. Was this what she had imagined when she’d visualized fighting with him? Back in the deepest recess of her mind, she knew it was. Not a fight that men engage in where a victor emerged, no, nothing like that. This was the age-old struggle of man and woman, entwining for a different, more primal, elemental struggle.

He dragged her head back farther, one hand the soft bared contours of , the other clenched in the heavy mass of her hair. Sora moaned as clung to him, surrendering to the of his hot, wet tongue inside her, pulsing and insidious prelude to the coming conquest. Her s hardened, pebbling in the firm compression of his palm and fingers passing over them.

Leeteuk raised his head, looking deeply into her dark eyes. “Tell me that this is not what you want and I will stop.”

Part of her wanted to cry off and escape. But the stronger facet of her willed her to match him kiss for kiss, touch for touch, and equal in sensual passion. In answer to his questions, Sora tightened her fingers at the back of his head and pulled his mouth down to hers.

Then something else took over. Urges over which Sora had no mastery whatsoever. She wanted him in al the ways she’d never allowed herself to want a man.

She had never met one capable of bringing out the sensual, emotional side of her nature. Leeteuk had broken past every barrier she kept firmly in place. She never had tantrums. She was known to be standoffish, aloof, even arrogant, but always clear-thinking and logical.

All at once her confusing thoughts made a connection she had never considered.

His touched wasn’t a threat. Her own sleeping needs were the real threat. He was something she had to have, couldn’t possibly live another moment without. The anger that flared so brightly between them was the result of an inferno of churning desire. She wanted him. He scratched the surface of her desire and she exploded.

It was no mild, ordinary passion brewing within her. The woman breaking out of the shell of unexplored sensuality was full-grown and her uncanny skill.

With him, only her sense of touch told her unerringly which direction she should go. Sora’s fingers dug into his fine razor-cut hair and drew his mouth down to her own. Her own kiss seemed desperate, full of need. She had not enough of him to touch, to really touch and feel the heat and resilience of his skin. A neck, a face, wrist and hand was not enough to appease her. She wanted more of him.

One of her hands scrabbled beneath the folds of his rode, passing tailored suiting to rest against the thin barrier of shirt that encased his chest. She was barely conscious of the fact that she might tear his clothes with the same disregard for further usefulness that he had for her own.

His hand descended and caught her wrist. “Slowly.” The caution was delivered softly. “We have all the time in the world.”

He lifted his head, and she leaned against the crock of his arm, her eyes bright and hungry.