She lies like an offering, consecrated by the moonlight painting her skin, with her arms draped above her head and her ankles crossed. He draws closer, just to gently sweep a stray curl from her cheek...  just to brush the tips of his fingers down her slender neck and dip into the hollow of her collarbone... to graze a perfect rosy peak before tracing along the curve of her waist and the swell of her hip and the firm expanse of her thigh as his own flesh aches, yearning with a terrible heat that urges him to grip and taste and possess—