come again. “I can’t, dear God, stop it, sweetheart. Come over me, now.” He pulled her over on top of him.
He saw she didn’t understand. “Come up on your knees and bring me inside you. Then you can move the way you want to.”
She glowed at his words, her eyes as deep and hot as her body, and he saw the intense passion in her and it was dazzling. He watched her stare at his penis, then clasp him, and still she stared at him, her look absorbed and intent and eager. He watched her come up on her knees, saw her ease him between her widespread legs. He felt the heat of her as she slid him inside her. He’d known that heat would be there for him, and so it was, incredible and dark and smooth, this welcoming of hers. He felt the wet of his seed, and the wet of her, he supposed, a woman’s moistness, and the heat that was pouring onto him, and into him, and it eased his way. He didn’t think he could hold on. He grasped her hips suddenly in his hands and in a furious downward motion brought her down hard on him as he jerked up.
She yelled, her back arched. He looked up to see her breasts thrusting out, her head thrown back, her lips parted. She looked pagan with all that thick waving hair like a nimbus around her head. She looked like a woman who had no thought beyond his penis pumping inside her and the pleasure she was drawing from him. He worked her, showing her how to move on him, then paused. He raised his hand. He smiled up at her when, lightly, with a tempter’s touch, his fingertips found her clitoris and gently squeezed.
“Taylor!” She yelled and bucked and heaved, and he went over the edge.
Her palms were flat on his chest, and she was staring at him, seeing him climax, and then Lindsay felt the pressure build higher and higher still until she couldn’t contain it anymore. His fingers were fast and hard, then slow and easy on her, and she yelled again and again, rocking against him, madly, senseless with the lust that drove her.
He watched her as her climax took her, watched her as the deep quivers slowly lessened and her legs relaxed their grip around his hips. She was staring down at her hands, palms flat on his belly. Jesus, he thought, gazing up at her. It was unbelievable, this insane and uncontrolled passion, but he would accept it, willingly, as he accepted her.
He released her hips, saw that there would be bruises on her white flesh, and slid his hands upward to cup her breasts. She quivered again and he smiled.
“You’re very responsive,” he said in the greatest understatement of his life, and he had to laugh at himself. “You’re wonderful, Lindsay.”
“Not like you,” she said, her mouth dry, her mind sluggish, her body growing more limp with exhaustion by the moment. “Not like you.”
“Give me your breasts. That’s it, lean down. Good.” And he took her nipple in his mouth and she jerked with the shock of it, the newness of it, the utter amazement of it, until she could take no more. Her body had stopped.
She fell atop him, sprawling loosely, covering him, and he touched her hair, stroked his hands down her back, and felt himself still deep inside her.
She’d been so tight that first time. Like a virgin, like a woman who hadn’t had sex in a very, very long time.
She’d had two orgasms. He wanted to dance and shout. He wanted to give her ten more. Tonight. Instead, he eased her onto her back and came out of her. She moaned, throwing her arm over her eyes.
“Don’t move,” he said.
She could only moan again, drawing her knees up.
When he came back, he gently spread her onto her back again and pressed a warm washcloth against her, wiping away his seed, but not the heat, oh, no, not the heat of her. He pictured making love to her in the summer, when the outward heat would consume them and they would sweat and heave together and meld and become one. He quivered at the thought. He looked down at her sprawled on her back, those long legs of hers, so beautifully formed, and the softness of her, the streaked blond hair that covered her woman’s mound. She was too thin, but he didn’t care. Even her ribs made him want to come inside her again. And her breasts. Fuller than he expected and round, her nipples a light soft pink. He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth.
She lurched up, gasping. “Please, Taylor.
The responsiveness of her made him want to shout.
She was tugging at his head, whispering, “ Goodness—why won’t it stop? Why, Taylor? I don’t understand, oh, God, it’s splendid. Don’t let it end.”
She was babbling with her discovery of it but he knew she was also exhausted. No wonder. He didn’t know what had happened to her in San Francisco. Whatever it was had pushed her to him, completely, openly. “No, love. I’m sorry, forgive me, but you’re so beautiful. Not now, not yet.” He gently pushed her back down, tossed the washcloth onto the floor, and managed to get both of them under the covers. Within minutes they were asleep, wrapped in each other, close and warm and together.
Taylor fought the urge to come inside her again, but he didn’t want to sleep either. He had to think because he had this stark feeling that when she awoke in the morning she wouldn’t think, she would simply react and that reaction would be one of cold fear, fear shaped from the past. He put himself to imagining what she would think tomorrow. After she’d behaved in the dark of the night like the most impassioned of lovers, like a woman to whom sex was the greatest thing in the world, and she’d just discovered it and couldn’t, quite simply, get enough of him. He smiled, a sated smile, one tinged with a good deal of satisfaction, but it faded as his worry grew. He had to bind her to him. He had to make her trust him. Hell, at least she’d told him her name. But it wasn’t enough. The secrets, the puzzles, had to be solved. He shook his head. His brain felt like mush. She’d behaved completely out of the character she’d created for herself. But created when? Why? Nor did he know what had triggered this change in her. Then, quite suddenly, he didn’t care. None of the other mattered, just having her with him, next to him, wrapped around him, here now, and now, now—
He felt her breasts against his chest, felt her leg between his. What the hell, he thought, and gave in. Slowly, gently, he came over her, spreading her onto her back, and slipped slowly and deeply inside her. This time he could feel the stretching of her flesh to accommodate him. Sweet Jesus, she was soft, and that incredible heat of hers made him want to pound deep and not stop. He’d been so frantic before, he hadn’t really felt the tight flesh that surrounded him, the slickness of her, he’d been aware of an incredible tightness that had driven him insane, but he was now aware of every bit of her. He closed his eyes against the wonder of her.
Then she awoke. He felt her muscles clench spasmodically around him. She didn’t, couldn’t, have any idea what that did to him. He rode her gently, not so deep this time, but still he felt his body clenching, tightening, felt his heart pound harder and harder, and knew he would leave her if he didn’t stop, if he didn’t pull out of her now. He quickly eased out of her, came down between her legs to put his mouth on her, knowing she would welcome him. She was sleepy, sated, she wanted him again, and it was dark and hidden, and she was safe with him and she knew it.
She came in soft shudders. Then, to his surprise, as he prepared to ease his rhythm, to bring her down, to soothe her, she came again, her hips lurching upward, reaching a higher level, and he felt the deep flexing of her legs, the tightening of her muscles, the rippling of her flesh. Her hands fisted his hair and he breathed his hot breath against her and she came again. Arching and jerking, she was caught, by him, within herself, and when she quieted this time, he slid into her again, riding her deeply and silently, and spilling himself with gentle shudders deep inside her.
He had no more thoughts. She was against him, part of him, her warm breath against his throat, and when he had climaxed, when his own breathing finally slowed, he smiled down at her, for she was asleep. He joined her and they slept deeply.
Taylor awoke with a start, jerking upright, immediately alert. He whipped about, but he knew he was too late. Eden—No, not Eden and not Lynn. She was Lindsay and she wasn’t there. He felt her pillow. It was still warm, the indentation of her head still clear. God, he prayed she hadn’t run out on him. He cursed himself for not waking when she’d left the bed, for not feeling the emptiness when she’d left him. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
He threw back the covers and ran stark naked out of the bedroom. He ran down the long corridor toward the front door, and right into her, nearly knocking her down. She was ready to walk out the door, dressed, in her winter coat and boots and gloves, her huge bag over her shoulder.
He grabbed her arm, twisting her around.
