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It was a special kind of torture. The sad thing was, she could well imagine it becoming addictive.

‘So, basically, you want to test drive me before you buy,’ she managed to croak.

Leandro’s hand fell away despite the desperate hunger coiled in his belly. He threw back his head and laughed, a puzzled furrow appearing above his blade of a masterful nose as he mused, ‘I have never associated laughter and sex before.’

In the grip of some strange reckless excitement, she countered huskily, ‘We are not having sex. I might have noticed.’

‘Oh, you would have noticed because I am pretty sure we are going to be pretty sensational in bed.’

She swallowed. He might well be…she, on the other hand?

He cupped her chin and studied her face compulsively. ‘Do you know that I can’t look at you without seeing you naked?’ His conversational tone was in stark contrast to the molten heat in his stare. ‘You are becoming my fantasy, Elsie Oliver.’

There was a level of something approaching confusion in his face as he hooked his free hand into her hair, tangling his fingers in the silky skein before he lowered his head, not to kiss her but to rest his chin on her forehead.

Her slim arms crept around his waist and Leandro felt something painful shake loose inside him. He buried the feeling that felt perilously close to tenderness before pulling his head back to allow his gaze to roam over the soft contours and crystal-cut features.

Her eyes were closed; he could see the delicate tracery of blue veins in her eyelids. His hunger for her was like a blunt force blow and equally hard for his dazed senses to think beyond.

What was so great about thinking?

He was making something basic complicated?

The questions became irrelevant the moment she opened her passion-glazed eyes, only a thin rim of blue escaping her dramatically dilated pupils. As their glances connected his features moulded into a set driven expression, the skin drawn tight across his perfectly carved bone structure, all out of questions and conversation as he swung her up into his arms.

Elsie, frequently referred to as tall and athletic, knew she was not a featherweight and found it a thrill to be carried with no effort. Her pleasure faded when she realised he was not carrying her to the pretty four-poster bed—he was going in the wrong direction!

She opened her mouth to protest just at the moment Leandro chose to kiss her, one hard, demanding, bruising kiss blending into the next and requiring her focus and co-operation, which she gave enthusiastically.

She didn’t open her eyes until the rain of deep draining kisses halted. In a daze, she took in her surroundings. They were in another room, a distinctively masculine room, sparsely furnished, the only ornament provided by the books on the ceiling-height bookshelves and stacks of more books on the floor. The doors opened to a balcony, which was larger than the one in her own room, dominated by a huge carved mahogany bed, no piles of cushions, just sparkling white smooth bedlinen.

She stopped taking in further details when she was dumped on the bed unceremoniously, all her attention on Leandro. Her spurt of indignation faded as he landed next to her on his knees while peeling off his sweater.

Multitasking, said the voice in her head. Bodes well… Like you’d know, mocked her insecurities.

Then she was staring at his torso, transfixed by the earthy image. She swallowed, watching his muscles tense and bunch, gliding fluidly under the golden surface of his satiny skin, her insecurities drowned out by pure…actually, quite impure lust.

He was perfect and she was seized by an overpowering need to touch him, to breathe him in, and even that was not going to be enough to satisfy her craving.

In a tangle of long limbs, her pants for breath audible, Elsie dragged herself to her knees, impatiently hitching up her skirt to thigh level as she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. Her supple spine flexed as she targeted his chest, pressing her lips to his collarbone, her questing tongue tasting salt as she worked her way downwards, her hand leaving his shoulders to flatten a palm down his chest.

The dizzying sense of empowerment she experienced each time he sucked in his breath or gasped as she tasted him was intoxicating.

Her elbows had reached the bed to prop herself up when she traced the waistband of his designer jeans. At that point she found their roles abruptly reversed, less empowered and more overpowered, on her back, her hair spread in a tangle around her passion-flushed face, with Leandro curved over her, balanced on his hands… Who knew that feeling helpless could feel so good?

She registered at some subconscious level the rain shower sound of buttons scattering around the room as he exposed the lace covering of her bra… As he snapped the front clasp she experienced a moment of doubt, which vanished as he gave a deep, appreciative feral groan and cupped one quivering pale mound before drawing the engorged peak into his mouth.

Her body convulsed, back arched, jaw clenched, every muscle reacting to the blissful contact; she grabbed his head, her fingers spearing into the dark lush pelt of his hair.

He raised himself up and his body curved over hers until they were face to face. His smouldering stare held hers as he sealed their bodies. His smile was ferocious as he watched her eyes widen and her mouth open on a gasp as he ground the rigid iron of his erection into her soft belly.

‘That,’ he whispered in her ear in between tormenting bites of her lobe, ‘is…how…much…I…want…you.’

She murmured a protest as the pressure decreased, barely registering the sound of breaking glass as his sweater hit a pitcher of water and sent it crashing, splashing its contents over the floor.

She watched through half-closed eyes as he swung his legs aside, but only to unzip his jeans and slide them down his narrow hips, his boxers following.

It was not the elegant-to-his-fingertips, groomed-to-within-an-inch-of-his-life, sophisticated, urbane, pin-up perfect man who rolled back to her. This Leandro, with his skin slick with sweat, his eyes pitch-black, skin drawn tight with primitive need across his driven features, was the epitome of raw power and masculinity.