He licked at the wound on her neck, his line of thought about the same as hers. His. She'd realize it soon enough, he was certain of it. She had been his since they first made love in his bed.

But what was happening now as his hand slipped down her pants, fingers brushing against soft golden curls, it wasn't making love. It wasn't sweet or tender or innocent the way it was before.

No, it felt more primal, more urgent to him now, so much that he barely registered the fact that for once, she was not an active participant.

Instead she was lying there like another victim.