Excerpt from His Wicked Dream

        "You suffer romantic delusions about me, Eden. I assure you, I am not the angel I was named after."
     His gaze roamed over her ribbon-bound hair to the renegade wisps that curled softly in the hollow of her throat and trailed across her bodice. His lashes fanned lower. He didn't want her to see his long-constrained hunger, the primal need that would have made him drag her into his arms and feast upon her lips.
     "You're only saying that," she said softly. "You've always wanted me to think less of you, Michael."
     Her insight was unnerving, almost as unnerving as the realization that the child who'd once bathed his wounds had grown into a woman who could see clear to the bottom of his soul.
     But Michael had never cowered before a worthy opponent, and he wasn't about to start now. He stepped closer. Then closer still. He halted only when his thighs were bare inches from her skirts, when his shoulders towered above hers and she was forced to crane back her neck to meet his gaze.
     "I'm not afraid of you, Michael."
     "You should be, Eden," he said huskily. "Very, very afraid..."
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