He crushed her to him. He lifted a hand and cupped her face to him, tilted her head back so that he could slake his thirst with her. His fingers were rough, but the whisper of his breath on her was as sweet as morning. The thunder of his heart shuddered through her. The solid wail of his chest comforted her and tormented her. Amanda lifted her own hands, sought the ridge of muscle, the tickle of hair, the security of warmth. She reeled with the heat of him, trembled with the force of him, melted with the tenderness of him.
His hands were restless, his mouth insatiable, his body impatient. Amanda felt it all, drank it like potent wine and stumbled with the drunkenness of it. His arms, his shoulders, his chest. So solid, so sleek with firelight and shadow, so fluid in her hands. His hips raked against hers; his legs insinuated between hers.
He bent a little, his one arm sweeping down her back, and Amanda stiffened.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she protested on a small rasp, all the breath she had left.
Jake’s eyes glittered like dark diamonds, hard and mesmerizing.
But Amanda had anticipated him. Bestowing a shy smile, she lifted her hand to his cheek. “You’re not hurting those ribs just to show me what a male you are. I can still walk.’’
She turned to take a step toward his room and wobbled a bit. It made her giggle for the first time in five years. “Well, kind of,” she admitted.
Jake wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair as they stumbled together to find that big, soft down comforter.
Amanda’s fantasies had entertained gentleness and patience, languid words of love rained down with the torment of sensitive fingers. She’d never anticipated the desperate feel of Jake’s hunger. She’d never imagined the fire he’d set or the grace of the ballet danced by two sweat-drenched bodies. She'd never appreciated so much the thoughtfulness of a man who could pause long enough to use a condom, or enjoyed the humor of his muttered, “Probably have to blow the dust off first.”
She knew that night. She tumbled to the bed, entwined in Jake, her body a riot of sensation, her voice mingling with his in ancient music. He tasted her breasts again. He filled his hands with them, teasing them through the soft flannel until the nipples tautened into pebbles. He filled his mouth with them, laving them with his tongue, suckling, caressing, nipping, until Amanda raked his back with impatience. She arched against him, rubbed against him, delighting in the rasp of hair against the sleek skin of her belly. Hushed by the throb of him against her. She let him sweep her gown off and demanded the privilege of torturing him with the calculated descent of his zipper. And as much as she loved the sight and feel of soft denim on his legs, hugging his taut, square bottom, she loved even better the hug of her own hands there, her fingers measuring steely thighs and tickling the tender skin behind his knees.
He never took his mouth from her. From her breasts, her throat, her belly. He tasted the inside of her elbow and licked her fingers. He nibbled her earlobe and then tickled the shell of her ear with his tongue. And always he returned to her mouth, his kisses bruising her, battering her, bringing her to life.
She tasted cloves and coffee on his tongue and smelled the snow on his hair. She mingled sighs with him and sobbed when he cupped her face between his work-roughened hands and kissed her eyes closed. He drank from her, danced with her, worshiped her. No man had ever brought her to such life, had ever driven her to such torment. No man had ever whispered her name as if he were praying.
The comforter was forgotten, unnecessary. Amanda was wrapped in Jake, arm and leg and mouth. She was drowning in him, sailing with him. The fire he’d stoked in her belly licked upward, outward, sparked, flared and melted. Wherever his fingers played, the embers burst to life. Where his tongue followed, they crested.
She felt his hand on her thigh and welcomed him, furious to have him in her. She heard his moan when his fingers first dipped into her, and touch and revelation jolted her. She cried out, the pain of his touch exquisite, the feathering of his caresses agonizing. She clutched at him, raked her own hands through his hair and demanded her own kisses. She pulled him against her, hard and urgent, and instinctively lured him on.
She shuddered, shuddered again. The crest was building in her, lapping against her belly, washing deep and hot in her. Riding, whirling, balanced on a knife’s edge, so close to climax she wept with it. She threw her head back. She opened her eyes. She saw the fire in Jake’s eyes, the harsh edge of control, the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the beautiful smile that was hers. And then she reached to him, taking him in her hand. She saw the shock of it register along his jaw, heard the harsh rasp of surprise in his voice. She saw his eyes widen, darken. She smiled to him, then, and guided him to her.
“Wait—” Jake rasped, teetering at the edge of control. “I’m not—”
She waited, just long enough.
Patience was swept away. Jake tangled his hands in her hair and lifted her face to be kissed. He plunged into her, slick and hot and sweet, deeper than the fire, deeper than the need, deeper than loneliness or desire could go, and Amanda wrapped herself around him and pulled him deeper. She arched and rocked, her hands holding him tight, his hands and his mouth devouring her. She whimpered, whispered, moaned. She felt his body tremble for release and knew the cost of his patience. And then, suddenly, like a white-hot storm, the fire swept her away, too. Shuddering, shimmering, singing, balance and thought shattered into sensation. She cried out to him, laughing, weeping with the enormity of it, when with a rasping cry, he followed. She held him tighter, tighter, whispering to him as he buried himself in her, as he, too, shuddered to release.
The moan of the wind reached them first, where they lay tangled and spent, Jake’s face still nestled against Amanda’s shoulder. She stroked his hair, savoring the weight of him, the warmth of him, the quiet strength of him. She fought the need to pull away, afraid that once separated they wouldn’t be able to find their way back.
Even so, Jake finally had to roll away. Gathering her into his arms a moment later, he cushioned her against him, rubbing his cheek against her hair.
“I think,” he said lazily, “that we should finally think about using that down comforter.”
Amanda knew she wouldn’t feel the cold for a while yet. Even so, the cover might shield them somehow from the world, from the morning that was sure to come and the problems they were going to have to address. “A good idea,” she agreed, still not moving.
He chuckled. “I’ll move if you do.”
She yawned. “You move first.”
They did get the comforter eventually, and snuggled beneath its feather-light warmth, still wrapped in each other’s arms, still silent with satisfaction, still smiling with discovery. Still refraining from what would await them when they woke.
But that would be later, Amanda knew, her eyes closed against Jake’s chest, her fingers entwined in his, her leg thrown over his. For now, she couldn’t ask more than to savor these few moments when they could both afford the illusion of perfection.
