Eyes of Fire

T here was absolutely no question of thinking about what she was doing.

Maybe she had already done all the thinking.

And maybe all the thinking and logic in the world didn’t mean anything now.

Adam had returned to her life just the way he had come the first time, becoming the very center of it simply by being there. Adam was here, and she wanted him. Just as she had before. And his touch…

Just as she had wanted it before.

She was barely aware of being carried from the shower to her bedroom. Peripheral perceptions of tile, then carpet, as he moved, and nothing more. They were both still wet when he came down beside her on her bed, the room in shadow because the sun was starting its crimson fall into the west, and she’d left the drapes half closed, as well. There were a few streaks of light filtering in, rays upon which dust motes danced in a slow, magical swirl.

Her hair was soaked, splayed across the pillow. She would have been cold if not for the inferno of heat that seemed to exist between the two of them. She shivered at first, waiting for that heat to radiate through her limbs.

She was still seeing the fused silver of his eyes, so intent upon her own, when he moved against her, the dampness of his body covering her, the pressure of his lips against her throat. The fullness of his body covered hers; the stroking of his hands warmed her.

The focus of his mouth shifted from her pulse to her right breast. Caressing, tugging, rubbing. His knee intruded between her thighs. His hand followed suit. Fingers stroked, caressed, probed.

She shivered no more.

Her fingers bit into his shoulders; her body burst into heat. She shifted, trying to avoid the exquisite pleasure of his touch, then shifted again, eager for more of it. Climbing, rising, feeling the hot spiral that burned at the center of her sex, feeding her limbs, being fed in turn. She closed her eyes as thought momentarily intruded.

No, no, no…

Yes, yes, oh, God, yes…

His lips fed on her left breast. His free hand plunged into her hair, and then his mouth was covering hers, tongue invading so hotly, completely, wetly. In, out, around, decadently, like the motion between her thighs. Cries rose within her throat; she could bear no more, yet she was desperate for more.

Suddenly he drew away, staring at her as he ran his palms down her thighs, then lower. She met his gaze and tried to reach out, to caress him, to hold him intimately, to torment as he had done. To arouse him.

He pressed her back.

Rose over her.

Came into her….

Absorbing the pleasure of him, she briefly remembered words Yancy had said to her once, Yancy spilling out her own desperate emotions, laughter, love, pain….

Sometimes men wanted to be touched.

Sometimes they wanted to get right to it.

Oh, God.

He was getting right to it.

Her arms encircled him; her limbs embraced him. She clung to him, fingers digging, releasing, digging once more, as her breath was swept away again and again. Their bodies dried from the heat emanating from within them, sheened over again from that same heat. She felt him. In her. Deeper. Deeper. More a part of her than ever. Touching, rubbing, stroking. Harder, filling her, arousing her. In, out, she couldn’t think, could barely feel, had to, had to…

Suddenly he was gone completely. Her eyes had been closed, but now they opened, met his. Now his lips touched hers again. She made some sound of protest, but it didn’t matter. He was stroking her again, kissing her again. Her lips, breast, throat. Her abdomen, the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her inner thigh, higher, circling, never really touching, never touching…

Sam shrieked, twisting, writhing, struggling, constricting, soaring to a pinnacle with passions she thought could crest no higher. Yet he was atop her again, and the fire she felt within was stoked again, maddened, hardened, driven to a wilder, more urgent, desperate level. She was keenly aware of the force of his body, scarcely aware of anything else, the sheets, the dust motes on the air. She knew only the slickness of her flesh, of his, their bodies moving, ever moving, against each other. She could hear the wind, but it wasn’t the wind, it was her own breath, the husky, erotic whispers that complemented the scent, taste, the feel of their loving as he urged onward. At last a fountain of light and shadow seemed to erupt, and she heard the keening of the cries that exploded from her lips as the climax seized her.

He slid to her side, gasping for breath. She instantly and instinctively curled against him, her head on his chest so she could listen to the thunder of his heart. This was where she had wanted to be, this was what she had wanted to feel, since she had seen him, heard his voice, touched him. He’d gone out of her life, and sheltered as she might have been, she’d known that what they’d shared had been vivid, that someone to love so fiercely, someone who lived so determinedly and passionately, came along but seldom.

For long moments Sam simply breathed, inhaling deeply, trying to still the wild, erratic beating of her heart. She could still feel his body warmth like a blanket that swept over her in comforting waves.

They’d had sex, she tried to tell herself. Something as physical and natural as the simple breathing she was now trying so hard to achieve. Nothing miraculous, nothing unusual, nothing that wasn’t shared millions of times a day across the world. She had no right to look to the past, to make more of this relationship than what existed. She’d done that before, never realizing what a fool she was being. She couldn’t blame him for the way things had ended, not completely.

It had never been right between them.

No, it hadn’t been right. But it had been nearly perfect.

She didn’t want to think about the past right now. About the emotions she’d felt. The things she had done. The life she had been living.

But, oh, dear God, when it was nearly perfect, it was wonderful. Every part of it. The sweetness of wanting, of reaching. Flying higher and higher, savoring sensations, wanting them to go on forever, desperate to reach the climax.

Then the aftermath. The breathing. The intimacy. The wonderful closeness that could only be shared in the intimacy following lovemaking. Words could be so awkward, but also personal, reflecting the very uniqueness of being together, that special intimacy.

She felt his fingers on her chin, lifting her face to his. She offered him a slow smile, waiting to hear tender words that would envelop her more fully in the blanket of intimacy that was wrapped around them.

His eyes were sharp, his features taut, his jaw twisted at an angle.

“Tell me about you and Hank Jennings,” he demanded.

The phone rang.

The newly showered diver picked it up quickly, looking furtively over one shoulder.

“Yes?”

“We’ve got real trouble.”

“And that is?”

“There’s someone on the island who’s missing from elsewhere. Get that? Someone is missing from where he’s supposed to be. Escaped to the island.”

“Then someone is surely dead.”

“Bones and body parts make someone dead. Not missing. Missing is trouble.”

“All right, all right—”

“I want dead. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“A fucking head on a platter, you understand?”

“Yes, yes.”

“A head on a platter.”

“Yes.” Exasperated now.

“Soon. Damned soon.”