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teeth at her shoulder. One instant she burned, the next, she shivered.
    Someone laughed. She didn’t recognize the low, sultry sound, and then his mouth closed over her breast. Fire, furious flames of it, sped along her nerve endings. There was another rip of cloth as she tore her arms free from her blouse. Then she threaded her fingers through his hair and tried to drag his mouth back to hers.
    “More,” she repeated.
    Her whispered plea became a drumbeat in his mind as hunger and need tangled inside of him. He’d been right that it wasn’t a night for thinking. He couldn’t seem to grab on to one coherent thought. Nor could he resist returning for one more sample of her mouth.
    Would he ever get enough of the sweet, drugging flavor of her surrender, that throaty gasp of pleasure that ended in his name? And her scent—something wild and exotic that made him think of taking her quickly on a deserted, moonlit beach while waves thundered furiously over the sand.
    Another second and he would simply drown in her. Drawing back, Chance fought to breathe, to clear his mind.
    “Hurry. Please.”
    Her words started his blood pounding in his head. Helpless to resist, he covered her lips again with his and plundered. This time it wasn’t sweetness he tasted, but a hunger as sharp and desperate as his own. The hands running over him were as eager and determined to possess as his. The change in her from surrender to fevered urgency swamped his senses, and need sliced through him.
    His fingers fumbled as he tore her belt free and sent her slacks pooling to the floor. He ran his hand down her, pushing aside the remaining barrier of silk. Hanging on to a thin thread of control, he lifted his head—because he had to see her, needed to see her, as he slipped two fingers into her heat. She locked around him, and he watched her eyes darken and cloud as she absorbed the pleasure he was giving her. He knew the moment her climax began, and when she reached the peak, it was his name she breathed. The sound sliced through him and sharpened an ache deep inside him, sharper than any he’d ever known.

    Even as the last ripples of her climax moved through her, Natalie knew she had to have more of him. Of this man. Of Chance. She pulled his shirt free and tugged at his belt.
    Together, they struggled to free him of slacks, T-shirt, shoes until the only barrier between them was the thin black fabric of his briefs. Unable to take the time to pull them down, she closed her hand over him.
    “The bedroom.” His voice was ragged.
    “Here,” she replied.
    They dragged each other to the floor. Once they were there, she lost no time. Rolling herself on top of him, she began to explore him with her mouth, using her tongue and teeth on his shoulder, his throat, his chest. She couldn’t get enough. Her heart had never beaten this hard. Her body had never ached this sharply.
    Rising to her knees, she straddled his thighs, dragged down his briefs. Hands clamped at her waist. He lifted her clear of the floor, and then she was sinking onto him. The moment he filled her, they began to move. Through a haze, she saw his smoky eyes, locked on hers as he filled her, withdrew, then filled her again. Pleasure, waves of it, engulfed her as they both increased the pace. As her vision grayed, she leaned down to cover his mouth with hers.
    “Now,” she murmured against his lips. “Come with me, now.”
    In one lightning move, he rolled her beneath him. Then he drove her, drove them both, until together they reached that peak and shattered.
    2
    Three months later…
    WITH ONE HAND, Chance Mitchell reached into the cooler at his side and pulled out a beer. He was being watched. It was nothing that he could see in his brief scan of the shoreline—not yet. Still, the moment the boat he was on had rounded that last curve of the coast, all of Chance’s senses had gone on alert.
    “The hair on the back of my neck tells me that I’m posing for pictures,” Tracker