Gavin's boots crunch on gravel and his c**k throbs in his breeches, pulled toward her with an invisible force. She left him begging on cold stone, and the ghost of Lena's taste, her thighs, the sheer power she wielded — still too potent.

A castle parapet, a desert jailhouse of sun-baked adobe and rusted iron bars, a chieftain's hall that stinks of unwashed bodies and blood, and a classroom where he grips eighteen inches of polished mahogany and fights the urge to bend her over the desk. He grips her throat — not to choke, but to hold — and his thumb brushes her beating heart. He thrusts his shaft deep and a mutual groan echoes off the stone walls. The chamber settles, and her smirk returns. She nudges his chest with her knuckles, and he lets out a low chuckle she's never heard before.