against his chest. His eyes were pitch-black with desire. “You told me that once before. Remember?”
Molly nodded mutely, her breath shallow and labored.
“And do you remember what I did then?” His voice was hushed, shaken.
Her eyes were large, infused with sudden tenderness.
“I told you what holding you did to me. I told you how every touch of your small hands set me on fire. Touch me. Touch me again, now, like you did then,” he implored, pulling her hand downward, “and you'll see the power you still have over me…”
She hesitated, but in her mind's eye she saw the hard length of him, and a shiver raced up her spine. “Could I take this a little more slowly?” she asked on a long exhalation of breath, trying to deal with ten years of longing and instant gratification simultaneously.
“As slow as you want, Honeybear.”
“I'm sorry.” She felt guilty somehow for her green uncertainty. “I want you very much,” she added in a whisper.
“I know.” She didn't have to tell him when their heated bodies were talking in their own fervent dialogue. “You're my sweet and earnest virgin,” he whispered back, lying over her with his erection hard against her stomach, their naked chests only inches apart, her hands trembling in his.
“I thought I was more blasй.”
“I'm glad you're not. I know half a world of blasй people, but I don't know any sweet and earnest virgins.” His grin was intoxicating, like a drug that touched your senses, curled into your nostrils, drifted down the back of your throat so you could taste its offered pleasure.
“I'm too old for trepidation,” she murmured, trembling.
“You're forever young to me. I'm feeling sensations-” He stopped to swallow, staggered by emotions he would have written off as mawkish sentiment two hours ago, seeing Molly as he had the first time…
His hand still covered hers, the heat of his palm so much warmer than her skin. “Do you remember what you used to call me?”
“And do you remember,” he went on in a low voice, “what I said at the very last, after you'd whispered that to me?”
A hot rush of pleasure stabbed through her body, and though she didn't answer, her eyes told him she remembered.
His words were hushed, just as they'd been when his young body had hovered above hers on Mrs. Larsen's rented bed. “Try and stop me,” he said.
After that she was lost. Reaching up, she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. He helped, and with two impatient shrugs it was off completely and sliding to the floor. Molly's hands were trembling when they touched the zipper of his jeans. His hands covered hers, sliding them down over the strained denim. Pressing against his maleness, feeling the hard desire, the enormous size, she whimpered in shivering excitement. Carey's eyes closed for a brief moment, his breath in abeyance, then he swung up from the couch in one swift movement and stood. In a few seconds he was stripped to the naked beauty that always reminded Molly of sheer male strength. She caught only a glimpse of his marvelously made body, his maleness so rampant it hugged his belly before he was back beside her, unbuckling her belt, undoing buttons and zippers, slipping off her shoes, slacks, lace panties, all with a quiet haste that beat like drum rolls, that spread a fiery ache of anticipation through her.
“I'm not doing this right,” he murmured as he eased over her and lowered his body, an expression of intense concentration drawing his dark brows together. His hand was already reaching to touch her, to make way for the urgency that was exploding inside him. “But I can't wait,” he whispered, this man known for his skill as a lover. His breath was hot on her lips, his rigid arousal forcing its way into her soft, warm body. “God, Honeybear,” he groaned and thrust forward with a fierce, uncontrolled madness.
Molly cried out, passion flaring, and she arched up in ancient welcome as he filled her deeply, crushing her in an embrace that spoke of harsh need and restless homecoming. In mere seconds she felt him begin to shudder, felt his initial movement of withdrawal. “No,” she cried softly, her hands strong against his arching back. “Please stay,” she whispered, reaching up to kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his strong jaw.
“I can't,” he moaned, knowing she was wrong, knowing he shouldn't stay, knowing with the exception of a few youthful moments of reckless passion with her, he'd always been careful. Since Vietnam and Agent Orange, since bouts of nausea and intermittent periods of nerveless fingers and toes, he'd forced himself to be careful.
“Yes, you can,” Molly breathed. “Stay… don't leave me…” Her words were full of lush invitation and searing want, they were words for now and for the past. She looked up at his face in the lamplight, his eyes stark with strain, the predator's gaze softened by need, and she felt as though it were she who were the possessor, not he. It was a primeval emotion, a female feeling of triumph that defied explanation.
It was too late by then-moments past any rational decision.
She felt his unchecked trembling, the first small orgasmic spasm. This time when her demanding hands urged him closer, he capitulated, crushing her savagely close, grinding into her, pouring out his pent-up white-hot climax.
“Damn…” he breathed softly when it was over. His body still covered hers, impaled her, his face buried in the curve of her shoulder.
She was smiling in a way she'd forgotten existed, stroking his back, lazily sliding her hands down the heavy muscles bordering his spine, touching the smooth dip in the small of his back where pale, silky hair formed a swirling pattern. “It's all right.”
His head lifted, dark brows creased into a mild scowl. “It's not, and you know it.”
“No problem,” Molly said, moving her hips gently. Feeling his reaction, she smiled again.
He looked down at her face, contoured with the rosy flush of passion, and his scowl disappeared. “You're still the same.” A lopsided smile creased his cheek. “Still demanding.”
“You haven't changed, either,” she replied, a teasing light in her eyes, “except maybe a little more… impatient.”
“Sorry about that.”
“How sorry?” Her slim hips moved again with the requisite response.
“About two-minutes-more sorry,” he answered in a husky drawl.
“You always were reliable,” she announced graciously with an impudent, seductive smile.
His mouth quirked and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “I recall you commenting on that before.”
Gently arching upward, Molly wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him close. She felt the full length of him surge, strong and hard, deep within her waiting body.
His smoldering glance held her in a current of understanding. “This time, Honeybear, you can have as long as you want.” He said the words slowly in time with the driving motion of his lower body, his rich voice promising fulfillment. “You tell me how long you want.”
“A day, a week, a hundred years…” Molly dreamily murmured.
He began leisurely, as if the hundred years were beginning that moment. Teasing her, pleasing her, lightly kissing her, nibbling on her lips for an infinite amount of time, he whispered seductive words, words that shamelessly stroked the delicate mind centers of sexuality. With languid abandon she followed him or led him where she wanted to go. But he wouldn't allow her to order the pace, to order his strokes or hasten the excruciatingly disciplined pauses, or keep him deep inside her so it would be over too soon. He knew what she liked, he remembered as if they were both back in his bed at Mrs. Larsen's. He remembered, so he ignored her protests, whispering, “No, Honeybear, wait… wait.” With infinite skill he brought her pulses beating to such an intensity that when she climaxed she sobbed great, panting sobs of release. Then-fainted.
She had always been a spendthrift with her body, generous, reveling in the hurtling temptations of passion, wanting things too fast, he thought, wanting everything right now, wanting him. Thank God.
He put both his arms around her slim body, rolled over, and lifted her into his arms. She woke in a few
