Laurel twisted and rolled to make room for Call, and when he was beside her, she tugged on the top sheet to cover them. Call immediately tossed it aside. “For later,” he said. “We’ve got nothing to hide, and I missed this at the falls. I regret I wasn’t able to see you like this.”
Laurel’s skin prickled. He did that with his talk; he didit with the way he looked at her. She remembered Call as he was when she first met him. He’d been a little green around the edges from the journey, but he’d looked at her then as he was looking at her now. She had been fully clothed and he didn’t undress her; it wasn’t that kind of interest he showed. He regarded her with respect and something like reverence. He’d liked her then, but she hadn’t understood, hadn’t recognized the signs of a man’s admiration.
She had come to know those signs, for he was certainly admiring her. His darkening eyes told her that. The silver-blue rings had narrowed around his widening pupils, and the color was less like moonlight and more like smoke. She wondered about her own eyes because she was shamelessly admiring him. What color would they be if not merely brown? As dark as coffee grounds? Lighter like cinnamon? What would he see as she studied the slope of his shoulders, his tapered waist, the gentle concave curve of his hip?
Laurel had been with him in the full light of day, but she hadn’t seen him like this. The lamplight was a steady muted glow, casting Call in dim golden light and shadow where the light could not reach.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. When his lip curled and he looked away, she asked, “Are you blushing? I can’t tell.” She laid her fingertips against his cheek in the event she could feel rising warmth.
Call circled her wrist and removed her hand. “I amnotblushing.”
“Oh, so you’ve grown accustomed to the compliment. Is that it?”
“That isnotit. Where do you come by these absurd assumptions?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged a bit defensively. “They simply occur to me.”
“Well, put it out of your mind. I don’t blush.” Because he was still holding her wrist, he lifted her hand to his ear. “Go on,” he said. “Touch the tip. Feel that?”
Laurel brushed aside his hair and traced the outer shell of his ear with her fingers. She nodded. “It’s warm.”
“That’s because the tips of my ears are red. Like I said, I don’t blush.”
Laurel’s quiet laughter ended when she leaned toward Call. Her mouth hovered a hairsbreadth above his. “Whatever you say.” Then she kissed him.
Call rolled onto his back and hauled her in. She laid her bent knee across his thighs. One of his palms cupped her rounded buttock. He told her she was a perfect handful and she slipped her hand between their bodies, found his cock, and huskily declared that so was he.
Mere seconds passed and she discovered the truth. He was more than a handful. She moaned softly against his lips when his hand slid to the small of her back and his fingers walked up her spine. They returned to their starting point and then dipped lower, drawing another sweet whimper from her.
He showed her how to move her hand along the length of his erection, promised that she wouldn’t hurt him, and when she proved to be adept at it, Call dug his heels into the mattress, bucked, and threw her off him before he came. He gave her no time to ask questions or adapt to suddenly being under him. He moved swiftly, parting her knees and lifting them so when he was between her legs, she was hugging him. Call didn’t know if she was ready for him, and some part of him understood he was being careless by not making certain, but she had brought him to this point where he could do nothing else but what he was doing.
Call pushed himself forward and then pushed into her. Laurel cried out once at the hard thrust of his entry and then was quiet. She clutched him with her knees, her arms, and where he’d filled her so abruptly and intimately, well, she clutched him there, too.
Call groaned, pressed his face into the curve of her neck. He mouthed words of apology that were hardly coherent, and it was borne home to him that she eitherunderstood or did not care because her fingers fluttered in his hair and she stroked the back of his neck. She whispered something in return and her hips lifted and fell, lifted and fell again.
Call pushed himself up on his forearms and accepted the rhythm that she established. Laurel had seized the moment and Call knew himself to be well and truly caught in it. His thrust pushed her toward the head of the bed. She yanked the pillow out from under her head and flung it away. She arched her throat, digging the back of her head into the mattress to find purchase.
The long stem of her neck was an invitation. Call dipped his head and brushed his lips against the pulse beating there. He wanted to do more and couldn’t. He closed his eyes against temptation and put his concentration where it needed to be. Laurel was tugging on every thread that made up the sharp sensations holding him together. He knew what would happen if he let her have her way, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t allow that.
She resisted when he needed to leave her, tightening her grip everywhere. Her knees pressed more deeply against him. Her fingers clasped behind his back. And where he felt the fine, razor-sharp edge of pleasure most keenly, her slick walls contracted around him.
Call gave a shout as he heaved himself away from her, shuddered, and spilled his seed across the flat of her belly. Sucking in a deep breath, he rolled onto his back and lay still. Beside him, Laurel slowly lowered her knees and then lay as quiet as he did. She stared at the ceiling, dry-eyed and a little bewildered. He stared at her profile.
Laurel stirred first. As Call watched, she lifted one hand and touched the milky seed on her belly with a forefinger. She raised the finger so it was in her line of sight and inspected the tip. She rubbed the semen between her thumb and forefinger, introducing herself to the texture and viscosity. From Call’s perspective, her examination looked thorough, but then she brought the finger to herlips and touched it with the tip of her tongue and he realized he had been wrong.
“It’s warm,” she said, lowering her arm. “A little salty. Just a hint of sweet. I didn’t expect that.”
“I didn’t expect you,” he said.
Laurel had no reply to that. She wasn’t certain what he meant by it, yet she was oddly pleased that he’d said so. “Have you ever tasted it?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
“I was curious,” he said. “Like you.”
Laurel sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed. “I wouldn’t have it as a condiment, though,” she said, glancing at Call over her shoulder. His appreciative laughter warmed her, but when he stretched an arm to reach her, she eluded him by standing up.
