Page 56 of Conail

He killed the engine and waited for her to make some sort of objection about him bringing her here.

When she remained silent, he exited the vehicle and came around to open her door. Taking her hand, he linked their fingers as he guided her to the towering glass doors. Without letting go of her hand, he punched in a series of codes before ushering her inside. Warmth enveloped her immediately, the wide foyer one of elegance. His mother's apartment was impressive, but this was a work of art. Wide sweeping stairs with polished wood gleaming in the lights from the chandelier cascading from a high arched ceiling was the first impression.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked politely as he let go of her hand.

"No, I'm fine." She wandered over to an open doorway that was obviously the living room. It was papered in pale gold silk with expensive artworks dotting the walls. A grand piano was in a place of prominence beneath a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a view of dense trees and brushes. "Do you play?"

"A little." He stood there watching as she wandered around the room, touching crystals and treasures he had picked up on his travels.

"Oh, how wonderful!" Her delighted comment had him crossing to her as she stood in front of a painting with an explosion of bold colors.

"You're a Colby fan."

"I most definitely am." She started to lift a hand to touch the canvas but dropped it before making contact.

"I won't charge you for touching."

"It's like watching a kaleidoscope of colors pulsing together for supremacy. I really like his style of painting."

"Have you ever met him?"

She shook her head as she continued to study the painting.

"Would you like to?" he heard himself asking.

She turned around and felt a shimmer of heat as she stared at him.

"Very much."

"That can be arranged." He had to touch her. He could not go one second without giving into the urge to do so. Indulging himself, he toyed with the large gold hoop at her left ear.

"Conail--"

"I don't know what's happening to me, but I need you." His eyes met hers, a smoky gray that held secrets.

Yasmine felt herself trembling.

"Have me."

The two simple words set off an explosion that rocked his world. Moving in, he cupped the back of her head and ravished her mouth.

His body shuddered as she opened her mouth and gave him access. Yasmine's hands crept up around his neck, her body molding against his as the kiss spun her out of control. She felt as if she was drowning. Liquid fire ate at her insides and melted her very bones. She did not care about anything else except his arms around her, his long lean body against hers and his mouth driving her to utter madness.

Conail felt the shudders wracking him as he delved into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. His hands wandered restlessly down her back and up again. He could not stop touching her. Her sweetness was so addictive, he felt as if he was being slowly drawn inside her and making his home there.

He did not want to stop, could not stop. His fingers kneaded the back of her neck before tangling in her short curls. Her nipples were branding his chest, and he was amazed he could feel it even through the thick sweater he was wearing. His body was so hot, he was surprised it did not melt the clothing away.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he trailed desperate kisses along her cheek and the sides of her lips, before heading to her neck and then her throat. Her scent was intoxicating, filling every crevice and corner of his senses. The need to have her was so great that he was on the verge of dragging her to the floor when he realized what he had been about to do. Fighting the madness that had started to invade him, he stepped back, his eyes swirling, his chest heaving.

"Upstairs," he whispered harshly, fingers biting into her arms. "Now."

Taking her hand, he guided her out of the room and up the long, spiral staircase, cursing the time it took for them to reach the top.

By the time they reached the double oak doors, Yasmine was shaking with emotions.

Her first impression was a sitting room with comfortable tan sofas and an area Indian rug, before he whisked her into a bedroom that was easily four times her entire suite at the farmhouse. The ceiling was high and arched, coming to a point in the middle. The bed was on a dais and could easily sleep a dozen people comfortably. Instead of carpet, the wooden floor shone dully from the lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Turning her to face him, he cupped her face between hands that were not quite steady.

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