Flint's throat dried. Three minutes¡Xshe'd be moaning in ecstasy.
Three minutes. It was tight, but he could do this. He hadn't walked in the opposite direction from the door not to do so, especially after the words he'd been about to say about not bothering to send the money to Frau Berthe had sunk into his teeth.
He edged his hand down her slender body. The sensation of the soft linen against his palm sent a bolt of heat through him. For all he didn't touch her skin, he could imagine the lissome, living silk of it. Soft, like she'd just bathed in warm, scented water. Supple, like it existed solely for his touch.
Imagine easing the linen off. Imagine pressing his mouth to her skin. Her body. Imagine burying his face in that sweet-scented hair tumbled all over the pillow in smoky colored
