* * *
KYRA’S BODYcurled against his, soft and warm. She was one special lady. An enchantress. How else could he have felt like himself again? Hell, she’d taken him to the edge and over, working on him like a drug, makinghim forget the pain in his back, turning the pain into a haze of need, of desire.
He stroked her cheek, and she stirred slightly, her lips parted in sleep. Carefully, so he wouldn’t wake her, he scooted to the edge of the bed.
Being in her arms may have been therapeutic, but now he was paying the price. Lightning flashed as the storm raged outside, and he fumbled for the matches, then relit the single candle they’d blown out earlier. Moving slowly, he slipped out of bed and headed for her kitchenette to search for ice for his back.
He emptied a few cubes into a dishtowel, then held the makeshift pack in place as he wandered around her cabana aimlessly, trying to loosen up. The difference in their rooms was obvious. Not so much the style, but the occupant.
Where he was a total slob, she was neat. Already, his was decorated in early-American laundry, while her clothes hung neatly in the half-open closet, not one piece of dirty clothing on the floor, except what they’d left last night.
Her dresser was topped with a brush, a little jar, a bottle of spray, and a notepad open to a page of neatly printed lists. He resisted the urge to read her notes, but gave in to the urge to smell the spray—strawberry.
Her bathroom fit the pattern. Hell, even her towels were folded neatly on the bar, and there wasn’t one glob of toothpaste in the sink.
On the table next to the front door, he found a room-servicecard and noticed that she’d put in a standing order for breakfast. He grinned. He was lucky if he remembered to hang out the card in time to order coffee for the next morning. So far, he’d remembered once. Every other day, he’d had to make his own from the supply in the well-stocked kitchenette. Since culinary skills weren’t among his repertoire, so far the stuff hadn’t been drinkable, and he’d become a late-morning fixture at the poolside restaurant.
Thinking about his morning routine reminded him that he needed to be gone by sun-up. They’d made love in the light of only one candle, and he didn’t want to risk her getting a better look at his face if the storm broke and the sun came out.
Though a tiny part of him wanted to wake her up and tell her everything—wanted her to cover his face with kisses and tell him it didn’t matter—he knew that was only a fantasy. He glanced at the clock. Four forty-five. About an hour until the sun started its slow rise over the ocean.
He longed to take her outside, to hold her hand as they watched the sun’s spectacle. But even if the storm stopped raging, he couldn’t be with her in the light.
He glanced toward the bed and saw that she’d kicked the sheet off. Her skin glowed in the reflected light of the candle, and he felt his body tighten.
He moved toward her quietly, careful not to wake her when he slipped the candle back onto the table and dropped the ice-filled towel onto the floor. Taking carenot to shake the bed, he slid in next to her and blew out the candle.
His back still ached, but it was a different kind of ache that urged him on now. And though he would pay the price later, he had to have her again. He was rock hard just from looking at her, and he needed to lose himself in her slick heat.
Gently, he kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. She turned, rolling onto her back, mumbling soft words through the blanket of sleep. He stayed still, not wanting her to awaken just yet. She was dreaming, and he wanted her to dream of him.
One arm was over her head, and her legs were spread. He knelt over her, dipping his head to taste her breast. She sighed, and his heart constricted when he realized that she’d whispered his name. In sleep, her hand drifted down, resting against her cheek. Her other hand idly stroked her side, and he kissed each finger in turn, stopping to concentrate on her index finger.
He drew it into his mouth, relishing the taste of her. With his tongue, he teased her finger, his own eyes closed, urging her to the very brink of wakefulness.
She stretched beneath him, making soft sounds that drove him crazy. She spread her legs wider, and he took that as an invitation. With his fingers, he explored her wet heat, dipping into her core, feeling her tighten around him.
“Yes,” she murmured, her hips shifting, drawing him in more. “Oh, yes.”
Even in sleep, she wanted him.
The knowledge filled him, made him harder. He rubbed himself against the soft skin of her thigh, teasing and torturing them both.
Her eyes were still closed, her mouth curled up. She looked beautiful, ethereal, and he wanted her.
She whispered his name, and the sound of his name on her lips brought him to the brink. He thrust inside her then, and her eyes opened for a moment, warm and soft and beautiful, before closing again as she whispered his name.
He thrust again, driven by an ancient need. Over and over, until she cried out, begging him not to stop, to never, ever stop.
How he wished it were possible. What a perfect world it would be if they could just stay like that, intertwined in each other’s arms, lost in that sensual place where they seemed to be one person.
With each deep stroke, he came closer to claiming her as his—a primitive urge, but he wanted to mark her as his always, so that no matter what happened, no matter when or how they parted, she would always be his.
Deeper and deeper, harder and harder. Her arms closed around him, her fingernails digging into his back as she rose up to meet him, man and woman becoming one.
Pressure built up inside of him. An explosion of need and desire, and when it burst through, he cried out her name, taking her with him as she rose up, her hips meeting his.
He collapsed onto her, slick with sweat, and she stroked his hair.
