When Hunt's hand reappeared, his touch wasn't soft or tentative. It was a burning brand, and Daisy almost gasped at the heat.

His body came around hers, warm and firm. He clawed her shirt, bunching it into his fist, then flattened his hand over her lower stomach. The pressure alone sparked wicked heat that licked her thighs.

"One last chance, tiger." His voice was a lush growl muffled by her hair. It vibrated against her, her own personal motor. "Tell me to stop," he said. "Tell me I'm a prick. Tell me to leave."

She wouldn't. Couldn't. She'd been numb for too long. Tonight, she'd feel.

Daisy backed into him instead.

Air hissed between Hunt's teeth as thunder echoed through the rainforest, a throbbing, punishing overture hinting at the storm to come. He dragged his hand up her stomach, his thumb skimming her chest through the thin fabric.

"Is this what you want?" He scraped a knuckle along her breast. The first strike of a bow over a violin.

But Daisy wouldn't sing. Not yet. She grit her teeth to keep her shaky admission tucked inside.

"Or was it more like this?" Hunt's left hand crept beneath her, and she arched up to give him access, letting it take over from his first while the other slid lower. It got dangerously close to the tightness blossoming between her thighs. "Where do you want me, Daisy? Tell me, and that's where I'll go."

Everywhere. There wasn't one part of her body that didn't want him. She needed to feel anything except pain, even if the aftermath of this hurt more tomorrow.

His hands began moving in slow, idle circles. Small ones, then big ones. It was only on her chest. Her stomach. Only on top of her shirt. But it was already too much at the same time it wasn't enough. Pleasure coiled low. Her senses crackled to life, all honing in on him, on that infuriatingly slow and lazy rhythm—

His fingers grazed the waistband of her underwear. She arched forward.

There.

Hunt chuckled to himself. "Since when is that mouth of yours so quiet?"

The roughness scratching at his voice was like kindling to her nerves, caressing that mounting heat in all the right ways. Daisy bit her lip, arching into him again. She didn't dare open her mouth to answer. She had no idea what sounds would come out.

"That's okay." He smirked. She felt it. "I don't mind reading between the lines."

Hunt's fingers dipped beneath her shirt, pushing it up so the fabric gathered above her hips. He dragged his hand down the front of her lingerie, cursing when he felt the thin strips of lace. He grinned wickedly into her hair, his fresh, woodsy scent making her dizzy.

"Did you dress up for me, tiger?" he asked, gliding a finger up and down her inner thigh. "Is this what you wanted all along?"

Every one of Daisy's nerve endings shuddered, tunnelling down to the slow whisper of his fingers so close to that second pulse.

"You know," he murmured, "all you had to do was ask. Isn't that my job?" he asked. "To make you feel good?"

The hand beneath her shirt roamed around her chest, and Daisy couldn't pretend not to notice how Hunt hardened behind her, or how his breath caught when he found her nipples peaked. She couldn't pretend anything—not when he had her like this, quite literally in the palm of each hand. It was why she bit her lip. Willed her mouth to stay closed.

Not yet. She couldn't let go yet.

She wondered which part of her traitorous body gave her away when Hunt read her mind.

"When I imagined this ..." He traced a line down the inside of her thigh with his thumb. "I thought you'd be much louder."

Her head emptied out. "You've imagined it?"

"Don't be coy, Daisy." His hand strolled up again. "Not now."

No, not now.

But she couldn't admit it—that she'd imagined the same. Imagined more. In bed. In the shower. In every single place she wanted him to take her. She backtracked instead. "Well," she uttered, a bit breathless, "sorry to disappoint."

Hunt's laugh was a low rumble in the back of his throat. He patted his hand against that place between her thighs, almost in acclamation. "There she is."

Her body went taut, then loose, and she couldn't shackle herself before she was moving against him, seeking friction. Hunt burrowed his nose into her throat, inhaling greedily. She bit her lip harder as he palmed her chest at the same time he circled a finger around her centre. He moved his hand to her other breast, doubling the attention he'd given the first. He seemed to know exactly where she needed him, exactly where she was throbbing for him—because the way he so cruelly avoided that area was strategic, purposeful. Building her up, then leaving her to squirm. So typical. So them.

She was going to kill him for it.

Her hand fell on top of his, guiding it down, but he tsked roughly, pushing her away.

"Not nice, is it?" There was a smirk in his voice that made her go limp. "Not nice to be toyed with. Teased."

Daisy didn't know what he was talking about. Couldn't think past the friction of his calloused fingers and the long, thick hardness pressing into her from behind. He toyed with the lace on her thong, dragging it through her. She almost whimpered at the sensation it caused.

"Admit it," he uttered, doing it again. "You were teasing me the other night."

The stitching rubbed against her, nuzzling that curling ache until it sang. She barely mustered the energy to ground out, "What?"

"The strawberry, Daisy."

Oh.

Hunt's lips drifted over the shell of her ear while he edged her over and over, making her insides hum. "Admit it."

She wouldn't.

He dragged his teeth over her earlobe, clamping down enough that she felt the bite. A thrill went through her, setting off dozens more. Daisy almost moaned his name.

Not yet. He wasn't even inside yet.

"And then you asked me to feel you," Hunt growled. "Touch you. You knew what you were doing." His fingers nuzzled her entrance. "Say it."

But she couldn't speak, because Hunt finally pressed his thumb on top of that swelling tangle of nerves. Everything Daisy was narrowed to his touch, to the delicious words spoken with a voice that was rough and hard but silky and warm. The friction, his teeth, her stitching, that hand ...

She bucked, grinding into it, into him, and a breathy moan spilled from her lips.

She was rewarded three-fold; a solid palm of her breasts, a generous sweep over her entrance, and then Hunt took her earlobe in his warm mouth, kissing the area he'd punished so pleasantly. He sucked it lazily, hungrily.

Daisy cried out again.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that."

She swore her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Tremors pulsed through her body.

"Not yet," he told her, sensing the tension building beneath his hand, poised to snap. "You're going to hold on a bit longer, okay? I'm not done touching you yet."

"I can't—"

"You can. And you will."

She squirmed against him.

He groaned. "Don't do that."

Why shouldn't she? Daisy sought out his arousal, grinding against it slowly, intently. She'd show him what teasing really was—

Hunt clicked his tongue, hauling her closer. His other hand came around her throat. He restrained her against his chest until she couldn't reach for him, couldn't move. He was all hard muscle and sharp angles behind her, an impenetrable fortress that wouldn't bow, wouldn't break.

"Stay still," he murmured.

"But—"

"You're the boss out there, sweetheart. Not in here. You wanted me to touch you." He pushed down gently on her lower stomach for emphasis, and the pressure ... She had to squeeze her eyes shut, had to clamp down on her tongue. "Lie still. Be good. Let me touch you."

Daisy sucked in a breath as thunder roared. Hunt stroked his thumb along her jaw before he began playing again.

Outside, the rain was falling with haste. A surge of lightning bathed the forest in fleeting white light, as bright as the sparks going off inside her. Waves of pleasure eddied out from her core, like she'd swallowed those fireflies and their flames were catching, building, gathering. Hunt's hand roamed down her shivering body, touching her, teasing her. A luscious sweep up her inner thigh, a perfect circle on her lower stomach, a whisper across where she needed him most—but never more than that. All the while, that order echoed through her.

Not yet. Not yet.

Hunt groaned as he lifted Daisy's shirt, watching her body buck when he dragged a finger through her. He was enjoying this. Enjoying the way her body bowed to him, desperate for his touch. Everything was sensitive. Everything was too much at exactly the same time it wasn't enough, and Daisy couldn't remember a time she'd been so desperate to erupt.

Not yet not yet not—

Hunt swore suddenly, and Daisy glanced up through lowered lashes to his reflection. Darkness had claimed them again, but he was peering down at her, squinting through the shadows. His pace slowed, almost like he was gathering himself.

"Are you ..." Gone was all that decadent control. He sounded shocked. Sounded beyond words. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

He was stroking her inner thigh again, and Daisy couldn't think straight. Was she? And had he only just noticed? "Sorry."

Hunt moved his hand to cup her firmly, almost possessively. "Why would you apologise for that?"

"I didn't ask first."

"You don't have to ask. You can have it." His strokes became desperate, frenzied. "You can have anything you want."

Locked in his arms, Daisy found an inch of space. "Prove it."

She dragged her ass over him.

Hunt swore.

He arched into her with a groan, the hand on her chest tightening it's hold until her breast filled his palm. His other hand pushed her drenched underwear to the side, then finally fell right on top of her.

And stayed there.

Daisy's body went tight and then rippled as she grappled for sanity, for breath. Feverish heat blinded her, almost painful in its intensity. Hunt burrowed into her from behind, running a finger over her sensitive skin, and she found herself inexplicably jealous of every instrument he'd ever treated to a tuning. He wasn't teasing her at all; not on purpose. He was watching. Learning. Her body was a map, and Hunt was exploring.

It was a dance, she realised, trembling in his arms as pleasure ratcheted up. His curious fingers worked her in merciless, drugging sweeps. Hard and fast and then soothing and slow. He was studying the way her breathing would stagger. He was cataloguing her tells, like how her lip would slip out from her teeth when the barreling tightness became too much and she struggled to hold on. He watched her hands coast along her own body, marked the places she wanted to be touched, then nudged her hand to the side so he could do it himself. Do it better. All the while, that hand between her thighs danced, stoking her fire until the flames roared.

But once she'd started moving, she couldn't stop. His pulse thundered against her back, a metronome she heeded. His hand teased her front, a baton she bowed to.

So she writhed against him, with him. Found their rhythm and gave it movement and life. Her breathing was heavy and shallow as she reached behind her to grasp him roughly by the hair, the muscles of his arm flexing around her. The more she moved, the more desperate his strokes became.

And she needed this, at least, to be real.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, voice thick and broken. "What you said at dinner? About the first time we kissed. About—" He rocked his hips forward at the same time as he curled his fingers, lace and friction and him making her mindless, senseless.

Hunt said, voice guttural, "I wanted to paint you in that lip gloss, Daisy." The hand on her breast swept up, aiming for her mouth. It landed on her bottom lip and dragged it down, experiencing their kiss anew. "I wanted to lather you in it. To taste it on every part of you. But especially right here," he said, gliding a finger through her slick entrance. "I would have spent all night licking it off here."

Thunder punctuated their crescendo, and with her mouth wide open, she cried out loud enough to rival the crashing sound.

Another rough laugh rumbled against her back. "Easy, tiger. Not yet."

She couldn't help it. She whimpered, slamming her hips up to greet the next stroke of his hand.

"Shh, sweetheart." She felt him smile against her shoulder. "They'll hear us. Unless ..." She sensed Hunt rising as he dragged two fingers right through her, sensed his eyes roaming over her face with smouldering intrigue when she cried out again. "Is that what you want? Do you want them to hear the way I make you moan? Do you want them to know what a good girl you are for me?"

Kill him. She'd kill—

He teased that shivering pulse with his thumb. Daisy bucked. Didn't care that she gasped his name, that she clutched his arm, begging him for more, more, more.

"Hunt" was all she managed.

He grinned. "What was that?"

"Please."

He leaned down, brushing her cheek with his nose. Quietly, almost tenderly, he murmured, "God. You never have to beg."

She didn't.

Because he slid a finger inside.

And then she was sure she was on fire. She was pure liquid, pure molten, a river of silken flame.

"Like this?" He repeated the movement, drawing his finger out, then plunging it back in, curling it slightly.

Daisy nodded, her hair tangled and messy, most of it covering her face. Hunt combed it back with his free hand as she moaned, "Like that." She couldn't breathe, but she urged, "Just like that."

He did it again. Thunder clapped, drowning out her cries. Their dance took off from where it left off. He led, and she followed, rolling her hips against him with crushing force. He was vigilant. Thorough. She was shameless. Erratic. All that teasing ... it wasn't teasing it all. It was research. Practice.

This was the exam.

His finger plunged deeper, slower, like he was wringing out her cries, all while his other hand kept her pinned in place. Daisy shivered when Hunt's lips dipped closer to her cheek, almost kissing it, but not quite.

"I knew you'd feel like this," he said as she trembled. "I knew you'd be perfect. Do you taste as pretty as you feel?"

She threw her head back. She wanted him to find out. Wanted to feel his tongue in her mouth, for him to claim her with it there before he claimed her between her thighs. She clawed his arm hard enough to leave a mark, that tightness inside of her cresting and throbbing.

Hunt groaned, tracing the shape of her lips with his free hand. "You drive me insane. Do you know that? I'm breaking all my rules for you. I—"

He cut himself short, cursing viciously as she took his fingers in her mouth, sucking on them while she held his hooded gaze. She ground herself against him. Not just against his hand anymore; against him. He might not let her turn around to touch him, but damn it if she wasn't going to put on a good show for him, too.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his arousal a pulsing promise of paradise behind her. His eyes didn't know where to go, and she sensed him leaning over to look down at her, wet and shuddering in his shirt. Looking down at them, dancing as if they were the last two people on earth. He watched her roll against him, moving to the beat of the instrument in his chest. His thrusts quickened in response. "Fuck yes," he muttered, entranced. "Dance, Daisy."

She moaned. She would. Forever. Nothing could make her stop. She'd do whatever he said. She'd leap and spin and dance as long as he let her stay here. As long as he stayed with her. That dizzying warmth was rippling, expanding. She shuddered against him. She felt like elastic stretched too far, the threat of the snap becoming unbearable.

"Hunt," she pleaded around his fingers. Over and over. It was all she could say. He was all she knew.

"You're doing so well," he told her. "So fucking well."

"Hunt."

"Fuck." He worked her harder. "I'm here. I've got you." He was. He did. "Breathe, sweetheart."

She didn't want to. She was scared she'd wake up.

Like he was a conductor guiding her through the final crest, Hunt held her against him as he withdrew his finger, then dipped two in as deep they could go. His thumb stroked that sputtering bundle of nerves crying out for him like a sailor lost at sea, and as he repeated the action over and over, as she rode his hand harder, he murmured softly, "Come, Daisy."

Their dance reached its climax, and she shattered in his arms.

Daisy didn't want to wake up.

Hunt held her for hours after she'd erupted against him, his cool breath flirting with the tangled strands of her hair. His hand had stayed pressed to her long after the last shiver wrung out—but not to stimulate. Just to comfort.

Still, every minuscule movement had her wanting to push up against him, to rouse those skilled hands until his fingers danced again. She was pretty sure she'd turned around at some point, her mind somewhere between consciousness and sleep. She might have burrowed into him. She was pretty sure he'd let her slide a leg between his.

But he hadn't let her touch him. She didn't think that was very fair, given all he'd done for her. But he'd been resolute. Stubborn. Every time she'd tried, he'd only pressed her firmer against him, and murmured, "Sleep."

She had.

Daisy didn't know when she'd started taking orders from him. Her body had a mind of its own, it seemed. It certainly had when it moved against him in the club, then in bed, a slithering snake of Eden that left both of them gasping for air.

He'd enjoyed it. Daisy knew enough about men to know when they liked something. And Hunt ... he'd liked what they did during the storm, even though he hadn't enjoyed the spoils himself. She found the thought alone thrilling. Intoxicating. He'd said he'd wanted to taste her. She couldn't stop wondering whether he'd lifted his fingers to his mouth at some point during the night. Whether he had.

But when sleep finally pulled her under, Hunt had slipped out from behind her. He'd left.

He always left.

So, inevitably, Daisy did wake. And when she did, she was alone.

It was harder that time.

Something heavy settled in her chest when she trudged to the bathroom. She took her time getting ready; she curled her hair, then brushed through the copper locks until they fell in loose waves down her back. She applied an extra dusting of toffee-coloured shadow over her lids. Applied blush, for goodness sake, which was how she knew that she was stalling.

But how could she go into that kitchen? Laia, for one, would smell Hunt on her. Hell, Daisy could smell him on her, all citrusy and woodsy and ... what was the word