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When Lachlan was free, no one would touch him unless he wanted them to.

And, heaven help me, I wanted to be the woman he wanted.

There.

Another humiliating truth.

I rolled onto my side and faced the wall.

Somewhere beneath me, Lachlan sat in darkness with his wrists and ankles locked down again.

Was he thinking about me?

About the way I’d touched his thigh?

About what might have happened if those footsteps hadn’t come?

I smiled into the pillow.

And now that I was safely in bed with no Lachlan nearby to catch me staring, my imagination became considerably less respectable.

I wondered what his beard would feel like against my breasts.

Against my stomach.

Between my thighs.

I buried my face in the pillow, laughing quietly at myself.

After twenty-five years imprisoned by the most dangerous man in El Salvador, I was lying awake fantasizing about a mafia man with a filthy mouth and hands I desperately wanted everywhere.

Sleep still refused to come.

Fine.

I readjusted, slipped one hand into my shorts, and let the fantasy from earlier have its way.

The wardrobe doors opened.

Lachlan stepped out of the darkness, but this time there was no blindfold, no bruises, no cuffs. He was healed and free, all that intimidating strength finally his to use, and those impossible green eyes locked straight onto me.

He held out one hand.

“Come here.”

This time, there was no reason for either of us to stop.

I went to him.

With one hand fisted in my hair, his other arm hauled me against all that hard muscle, and his mouth finally came down on mine.

In my fantasy, he did everything I’d spent half the night imagining. His hands moved over me, his mouth followed, and soon there wasn’t an inch of my body he hadn’t claimed.

My fingers moved faster beneath my shorts.

When I came, I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound, his face filling my mind.

Afterward, I curled onto my side, still imagining being in his arms.