"Twenty years, Rose," he murmured, his lips split into a huge, smug smile after her words. She loved him and wanted him. "It's been twenty years and I still can't get over you. Not then and not now."

He let a hand slide down her throat, between her breasts, just touching her as she ground against him. He hissed at the sensation. He wanted her badly. More badly than he'd wanted anyone in years.

"But if you want me to to all those wonderfully wicked things I'd like to do," he looked up at her with dark eyes. "And believe me when I say I do. Then take. Off. Your. Fucking. Clothes."