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"Well," he said, straight-faced, "you start with a couple of tablespoons of Hellman's mayo..."
Miranda laughed. She leaned back in his arms and spread her hands over his chest. He felt so warm and solid; the steady thump-thump of his heart seemed to seep through her palms and into her own blood. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she came awake trembling from dreams she couldn't quite remember. Putting her head on Conor's chest, listening to the beat of his heart, always comforted her.
"Okay," he said, his smile tilting in the way she loved, "so it's not recommended by Martha Stewart, but it's good."
God, how she loved him! Her body sang with it, and her soul.
"What're you smiling at, Beckman. You think just because I'm male and you're female—"
"Good grief, O'Neil, is that right? By golly, I knew there was some kind of difference between us but I just wasn't sure what it was."
His smile tilted even more. "Really."
"Uh-huh."
"And just when did this occur to you?"
"Well, the other morning, I was watching you shave."
"Were you, now."
"Mmm." She lifted one hand lazily, brought it to his face and rubbed her fingertips lightly over the late-day stubble that had begun to shadow his jaw. The faint abrasiveness sent a shudder of delight along her skin. "It's very sexy, watching a guy shave."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Especially a guy who shaves in his shorts. Where on earth did you get all those muscles, O'Neil?"
"Clean living, Beckman."
Miranda laughed throatily. She undid the first few buttons on his shirt and slid her hands inside the parted cotton. His skin felt hot under her fingers.
"We're very conscious of things like that in my profession, you know."
"Things like what?" Conor said, biting back a groan as her hands stroked over his shoulders and across his chest.
"Oh, you know. Musculature. Body development." Her tone was serious, almost earnest. How long could she keep it that way, she wondered, as heat spread through her blood? "These muscles here, for instance." Her fingers danced. "What do you call these?"
Conor swallowed convulsively. "Pectorals."
"That's it. Pectorals." Gently, she tugged his shirt off his shoulders and eased it back until it dropped to the floor. "And these." He caught his breath as her hands moved downward. "The ones that feel like the ridges on a washboard."
"Miranda..."
"Abdominals? Is that what you call them?"
"Miranda, if you don't stop..."
She undid his belt and the button at the top of his fly.
"And then there's this," she said, her voice soft as darkness. His zipper hissed as she drew down the tab. "This wonderful, uniquely masculine part of you."
"Miranda." His voice was choked. "Miranda, I'm warning you..."
She dropped to her knees before him and took him in her hands.
"I love you," she said, "do you know that, Conor?"
"Baby," he whispered, "Miranda..."
