She squirmed with parted lips and thought, briefly, to scream. But the hand on her throat was so possessive, and even her voice was captive, held still. Not her heart, of course, which beat in that familiar rhythm, the one that exhausted her, that told her her magic and body were preparing and awakening to hunger and restlessness. But everything else was so focused, so hyper aware of Him, that she could scarcely prepare or resist when she began to squirm in the grip that held her.