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“Yeah, like you don’t already have about five hundred . . .” She trailed off when his fingers traced over her breasts. “Okay, if you want to be that way about it.”
“I do.” He touched his lips to hers.
He sank into her, layer by layer. The taste of her mouth, her skin, and the texture of both, aroused, soothed, seduced. The shape of her—the long legs, the narrow torso, the small, firm breasts—were an unending delight.
She tugged at the shirts, the one he wore, the one she’d borrowed, and flesh met flesh. She arched; he burrowed.
The night air cooled around them, but blood heated. She sighed as their mouths met again, as lips parted, as tongues slicked in a long wet kiss that slipped from gentle to urgent.
And her sigh was a moan as his mouth began to move restlessly down her body.
More. All. Everything, he thought. Then stopped thinking.
Her throat, her shoulders, the lines and curves of them. He fed on them, then hungrily on her breasts until it seemed he fed on her heart as well.
Shuddering, she bowed to him, offering more while her hands streaked over him to take.
He made her want more than she’d known there was to have. It was always the same. And when his mouth, his hands stroked down her, she gripped the side of the chaise and rode the ferocious storm of pleasure.
She saw the stars wheeling in the sky overhead, felt others explode inside her body. She went limp, she went liquid, and moved against him now in a slow, sinuous rhythm.
Urgency mellowed toward tenderness. A caress, a whisper, a gentle shift, body to body.
Her fingers stroked through his hair. Her lips found the curve of his throat, nuzzling against the pulse that beat for her. When he slipped inside her, she opened her eyes to find him watching her.
No one, she thought as the breath trembled through her lips, no one had ever looked at her as he did. In a way that told her she was the center.
She rose to him, fell away, rose again in a dance that was both patient and pure. The rhythm stayed slow, silky and slow as their lips met again.
She heard, felt him say her name. “Eve.”
She wrapped her arms around him, held him close, as they slipped home together.
He unearthed
robes from somewhere. Eve sometimes wondered if he had some factory of silkworms buried in the house as he never seemed to run out of silk robes. These were black and just weighty enough to keep a body comfortable on a warm spring night while dining alfresco.
She decided it was hard to beat eating rare steak, from actual cows, drinking a full-bodied red wine at a candle-lit table on the roof garden. And all this after stupendous sex.
“It’s a pretty good deal,” she said between bites.
“What is?”
“Having you back. No fun having a fancy dinner by yourself.”
“There’s always Summerset.”
“Now you’re going to spoil my appetite.”
He watched her plow through the steak. “I think not. Haven’t you eaten today?”
“I had a doughnut, and don’t start. What’s Pinot Noir forty-nine run?”
“What label?” he retorted just as casually as she had asked.
“Ahh, shit.” She closed her eyes until she had the image of the bottle in her head. “Maison de Lac.”
“Excellent choice. About five hundred a bottle. I’d have to check to be certain, but that’s close.”
