He grabbed my shoulders and hauled me against his chest, then grabbed a fistful of my hair as his lips crashed down over my own. His kiss was fierce, angry, and boiling with a passion that I couldn't deny. Hating myself and the uncontrollable pull I felt toward him, I kissed him back just as hard. His tongue demanded entry and I allowed it, helpless to stop him and not wanting to anyway. His free hand slid down my back and cupped my bottom, pulling me closer so there was no mistaking what I had to look forward to. A groan escaped from deep within me, though I couldn't say if it was from agony or desire. I didn't want to want him. But there was no question that I did. Suddenly, he shoved me away and stood staring at me with wide eyes, the pulse in his neck beating wildly. Panting, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then muttered something in French that sounded a lot like “God help me.” Then he strode across the room, grabbed his boots, and slammed the door shut behind him.