Looking back at him, Victory, like so many times, the sight of him struck her breathless. God, he was sexy. A heady combination of easy charm and rough edges, or the occasional glint in his eye that said he could be dangerous when he chose. And right now everything about the heated look on his face, as he strode towards her, said danger.

He took her mouth in a flash of heat that was more threat than promise, pressing her back against the row of drawers. His hands slid down, skillfully over her until wicked and delicious thrills shot under her skin, eliciting currents of pleasure and need.

"I want my hands on you, Ms. Clarke." His voice, rough as his hunger, Gage skimmed his teeth along her jaw. "Say you want me to touch you."

"Can't," she managed with breathless pants as he devoured her neck, his hands, tugging free the waist of her shirt to find the flesh of her belly, the smooth curve of her lower back. How was she supposed to form a rational response when he was turning her body inside out?

"Work. Restaurant." But her arms defied her resistance, wrapping around him until the heavy beat of his heart seemed to pulse within her.

"No. Not tonight." As one hand stayed against the smooth and delicate skin of her waist, the other traversed up her thigh, gliding in and turned the rigid muscles of her legs weak as water. "I'm not letting you go."

Gage scooped her up in his arms. Draped across the bed, Victory moaned, a rumble of desperate, delirious pleasure that sounded in her throat exactly where his teeth nipped, then scraped, then dug greedily into flesh. Trapped between man and mattress, needing contact, heat and friction, her fingers bit into his hip and urged him closer.

While he wrestled, ripped and removed the barriers of clothing, beyond the roar in his head, something cried out for him to slow down, to ease the pace, but the answer was simple: he couldn't. As his hands took, his mouth sipped and tasted until he was drunk on the intoxicating blend of her tight body and soft, hot skin.

His hands glided over her curves, then linked with hers, bracing them over her head. Her scent as seductive as summer, as heady as wine. She pressed against him, murmuring against his lips, begging him to do what he wanted, to take what he needed. His mouth ravaged and roamed starting at her neck and moving down her body, feasting. And the more he took, the more his hunger grew. No other woman had excited him like this, until he could all but feel the blood pulsing and pounding under his skin. Desire and passion were too simple, too quiet for what the taste of her stirred in him. Need and lust, too weak.

He explored the sweet curve of her breasts, the delicate points of her nipples, the smooth plane of her belly and finally the richness of her firm thighs. Teasing and tormenting with lips and tongue, Gage glided over the veed triangle of panties between her legs. Sliding a finger underneath, he stroked over the wet, dewy folds, he heard her strangled breath catch as he ripped the fabric away, leaving nothing to shield his demanding mouth from her wet heat.

Victory couldn't breathe, couldn't find balance in the sultry chasm of dark desire she'd tumbled into. Each stoke of his tongue stripped away all logic and reason. There was only the ability to feel, to experience every liquid pulse in the mad barrage of sensation, shocking her blind.

Victory came violently, and he drank in each tremulous shudder and cry, every muscle from her belly straight down her legs, taught as steel.

"Now." He panted, the hunger in his voice raced over her skin. Braced over her, Gage succumbed to his own greed and slid into her, all impatience and steel, joining them as her gasping cry sharpened the fangs of his arousal.

Desperate, she dug her nails into his muscled hips, her body rising to meet him, taking him deeper, offering more. Pleasure surged, sensation soared, and he spurred them both towards the precipice of madness, to that terrifying and glorious crest.

Burying his face at her throat, Gage held on to the edge by raw and bloody fingertips, watching, waiting for her to reach that peak while the relentless need for release clawed his guts to ribbons. Her body arched, her nails bit into his back as her system exploded.

Swallowing her scream, he tumbled with her, headlong into the blast.

#

As Victory stroked a hand, her touch soft, skimming over his back and down along his hip, Gage didn't speak, didn't dare. Not while his heart beat so open and exposed. The words were there, sitting in the back of his throat, ready to burst from him with almost as much brutal violence as his climax.

He was in love with her, the fall beyond his scope of control as a plummet from a cliff. If this was love, why did it feel so terrifying? Wonderful, yes, but in this moment Gage was scared beyond reason. Not because he had doubts, but because he had questions.

Did she love him, too? Could she? He'd cared before, had come close to love once or twice, but never with anything that held this level of vulnerability. Laying there together, Gage couldn't bring himself to let her go. Everything about this moment, being here in bed with her, loose and warm beneath him, felt so good—right.

While his thoughts swirled and spun, Gage held there, weak and satiated, his heart trembling and hers...

Unaware of his emotional battle, rising from the bed, Victory slid into a short black satin robe, belted it at the waist then turned to dig through her bottom drawer for a pair of men's sweat pants she tossed on to the bed.

Lifting them, Gage arched a questioning brow.

"Before you get any ideas," she laughed, "those are not ex-boyfriend hand-me-downs. I like wearing men's sweats when lounging around. Those should be big enough to fit you. And I have a shirt in there, if you want one."

She headed out to the kitchen, humming as she poured a glass of wine and found a skillet for the pasta. If they were going to keep up at this pace, then they needed sustenance. He'd given her two mind-blowing orgasms, the least she could do was make him dinner.

And how wonderful it was, she thought, to feel so deliciously ravaged, her body all loose and senses liberated.

Free, like a depressing fog once clouding her lungs was gone and suddenly Victory could breathe again. The secrets were out in the open and the world was still bright. Gage had opened her up, somehow touching every hidden crevice and corner, and brought her painfully back to life.

Whatever it was that was happening between them was forged of more than just straight sexual heat, she thought.

Desire was one thing, to be wanted and craved with brutal intensity by a man with skillful hands and a wicked mouth, but to deepen the tones by adding mutual like and respect made it...nice.

Digging in her fridge, she pulled out a container of sweet potato gnocchi she'd made the other day, a homemade jar of marinara and a parcel of goat cheese. Turning on the heat to medium low, she plopped down a skillet, poured out a dollop of olive oil before tipping in the gnocchi.

She turned just as Gage strode out of the bedroom, sweat pants slung low; showing off a chiseled waist that tapered to narrow hips and strong legs. The tickling hum of arousal skimmed the back of her throat. The man had a body designed to torment a woman to no end. And it was all hers.

For now, she thought, mildly saddened. For however long that might be...

At the other side of the island, Gage slipped onto a bar stool, elbows propped on the smooth quartz, as she went to work, warming the gnocchi until they'd gone just a little crisp on the exterior before dumping in the marinara. Once at a simmer, she ladled out equal portions into two shallow bowls.

Fascinated, he watched as she layered texture and colours on the plate with all the talent of an artist and focus of a surgeon, sprinkling creamy chunks of goat cheese and chiffonade strips of sweet basil from her tray of fresh herbs.

"Dinner is served." She set the bowl in front of him, handed over a fork as she scooted next to him and dug in. When the first pillowed bite of gnocchi crossed his lips, dredged in sauce and creamy cheese, the flavours exploded on his tongue, and he rolled his eyes. Moaned.

"Fucking hell, woman, you can cook."

"I'm glad you think so." She laughed. "Oh, you need some wine, no, keep eating. I'll get it." Licking some sauce from her thumb, Victory scurried around the island over to her pantry and popped inside for a bottle of Shiraz. Fishing out a fresh glass, she set it, the bottle and an opener in front of Gage before opening the fridge to dig out a round ceramic dish.

"What's that?" Gage asked while cutting through the foil then piercing the cork with the spiraled comb as Victory turned on the oven and popped the dish onto the middle-rack.

"Dessert." She turned, dusting her hands then accepting her glass that he topped up. She took a long, deep swallow, smacked her lips. "It's apple and rhubarb crisp. Grandma Pearl's recipe, and one of my childhood comfort foods."

When they were finished the gnocchi, Gage took his empty bowl, and hers, around to the sink, set them in the wide and empty basin, turned on the faucet and rinsed them down. Once they were clean, he accepted his glass of wine after drying his hands on the white towel draped over the dishwasher handle.

"What else comforts you?" he asked, sipping casually.

Victory rolled her eyes up in thought, shrugged. "Food will always be my greatest source of comfort, eating or cooking. Things like rice pudding, Sheppard's pie, homemade mac and cheese."

"Oh yeah," Gage agreed, tipping his glass. "Can't go wrong with a good Mac. And it's got to be the real deal with a thick, gooey, creamy sauce. None of the boxed crap. It's amazing though, how emotions can be interlaced with food, and so easily evoked."

"Yes, exactly," she agreed. "They take me right back to my childhood, pull up warm and cozy memories of cuddling on the couch in winter with my mom, under the blankets and watching movies, or when I had a bad day and needed something to cheer me up or make me smile."

"You missed her."

"I missed both of my parents." Victory admitted. Finishing her wine, she set down her glass and leaned against the side of the sink where they stood, hip to hip. "We talk almost every week, even when times were rough I'd always managed to scrape together what I could to afford a quick call. And I see them at least twice a year when they come up for Christmas and my birthday."

But it's not enough, he thought. And not the same as having family close—there, instead of halfway around the world. "Did they know?" He wondered. "About...everything that happened?" But Gage knew the answer before he caught the shake of her head.

"I couldn't. Not when they were so far away. My mom would've fretted and fussed, likely talked my dad into selling so they could race home to save me. They worked so hard to have that little slice of paradise, I could never take that away from them. So, I dug deep, and found another way to survive."

And when she glanced over her shoulder to smile at him, his heart did a long, slow roll. Was it any surprise, Gage wondered, that she would be the one to bring him to his knees? A woman that was all selfless strength and vibrant tenacity? Who'd fought, scrapped and clawed her way out from a horrible situation and still had the balls to push for passion and purpose? Despite her trips and stumbles and mistakes, Victory hadn't lost sight of who she was, and what she wanted.

She learned, she grew, and she conquered.

His arms circled her waist, and Victory found herself turned around and pressed against him. His mouth descended, took—hot and urgent. A surprise contrast to the calm and casual of but a moment ago, she thought. His urgent need rekindled the fire of her own. Damn, the man could kiss.

"What," Victory managed, head reeling, "was that all about?"

The gleam in his eyes was all mischief and devious intent.

"What about dessert?"

He halted with a thought, brows merging and lanced the stove with an accusatory glare. "How long till it's ready?"

Lips twitching with mirth, Victory shrugged. "Thirty minutes should do."

"Perfect." Scooping her off her feet, Gage swung towards the bedroom. "I'll make due with twenty-nine."

He let her go after twenty-eight, and though she could barely walk straight, Victory somehow managed to snatch the crisp, bubbling and golden brown, from the oven. And while it cooled from screaming hot, over the stove she whisked together milk, heavy cream, sugar, egg yolks, Tahitian vanilla bean and cornstarch for a decadent custard she drizzled over top.

On her couch, cuddled up under a blanket, she and Gage enjoyed the crisp, what was left of the wine before helping themselves to seconds of the crisp.

And thirds of each other.