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Constantine said nothing as he hurled Vica’s cloak away and then pressed down on her once more, forcing her to bear his weight until her back lay flat on the grass. His breath came in short pants as if he had been running, and Vica found her own chest heaving as she felt his hands roaming under her tunic. His fingers dug into her waist, but there was a desperate, barely bridled strength in his grip as if he were hanging onto her rather than attempting to keep her still.
“Constantine,” she breathed, half of her mind still rebelling against the hot press of his lips on the side of her neck. But what could she say? What should she say? Her every nerve tingled, still feeling the effects of the colossal amount of magic that her body had channeled and flung about earlier, and
