From the Heart

She melted like wax in his arms even as his lips bruised hers. A man could drown in her. The pounding of the surf seemed to echo in his head. There was a sensation of standing in the surf, having it ebb and suck the sand from under him. He dragged her closer.
    Her breasts yielded against the hard line of his chest, tempting him to explore their shape with his hands. But all his power, all his concentration, was bound up in the pressure of mouth to mouth. Her hands slid under his jacket, up his back, pressing, urging him to take more. Head swimming, he drew away, struggling to separate himself. With a long, shaky breath, Jessica dropped her head on his shoulder.
    “I nearly suffocated.”
    His arms were still around her. He’d meant to drop them. Now, with her snuggled close, her hair brushing his cheek, he wasn’t certain he could. Then she tilted her face to his—she was smiling.
    “You’re supposed to breathe through your nose,” he told her.
    “I think I forgot.”
    So did I, he mused. “Then take a deep breath,” Slade suggested. “I’m not nearly finished yet.”
    With no less force, with no less turbulence, his mouth returned to hers. This time she was prepared. No longer passive, Jessica made demands of her own. Her lips parted and her tongue met his, searching, teasing, tasting. His flavorwas as dark and unsettling as she had imagined. Greedy, she dove deeper. She heard his moan, felt the sudden race of his heart against her own. An urgency filled her so quickly that it took total command. There was nothing but him—his arms, his lips. He was all she wanted.
    She had never felt this kind of need or this kind of power. Even when his lips were brutal, she returned the same aggression. Arousal was too tame a word, excitement too bland. Jessica felt a frenzy, a burst of energy that could only be tamed by possession.
    Touch me! she wanted to scream as her fingers gripped his hair desperately. Take me! It’s never been like this and I can’t bear to lose it. She strained against him, her gesture as much a demand as an offering. He was stronger, she knew—the sleek, hard muscles warned her—but his need could be no greater. No need could be greater than the one that throbbed in her, pounded in her. Her body felt assaulted, both helpless and invulnerable.
    Oh show me, she thought dizzily. I’ve waited so long to really know.
    A gull screamed overhead. Like a spray of ice water, it jolted Slade back. What the hell was he doing? he demanded as he pushed Jessica away. Or more to the point, what was she doing to him? He’d lost everything—his purpose, his identity, his sanity—in one heady taste of her. Now she stared at him, cheeks flushed with passion, eyes dark with it. Her mouth was moist and swollen from his, parted, with her breath coming rapidly.
    “Slade.” With his name husky on her lips, she reached for him.
    Roughly, he caught her wrist before she could touch him. “You’d better go in.”
    There was nothing in his eyes now. They were opaque again, unreadable. He stared down at her with a complete lack of interest. For an instant she was too confused to understand. He’d taken her to the edge, to that thin, tenuous border, then had rudely shoved her back as though she hadn’t moved him in the least. Shame flooded her face with color. Anger stole in again.
    “Damn you,” she whispered. Turning, she dashed for the beach steps and took them two at a time.
     
    Jessica dressed with care. There was nothing like the feel of silk against the skin to salve wounded pride. Turning sideways in front of the full-length mirror, she gave a nod of approval. The lines of the dress were simple, except for the surprising plunge in the back that dipped just below the waist. It didn’t bother her conscience that she had chosen the dress more with Slade in mind than Michael. And the color suited her mood—a deep, imperial purple. She swept her hair back from her face with two diamond-crusted pins, then let it fall as it chose. Satisfied, Jessica grabbed her evening bag and started downstairs.
    She found Slade in the parlor, tightening a screw in a Chippendale commode. His hands were lean and competent. She remembered the feel of them when they’d run over her body in a quick, desperate search. “Well, aren’t you handy,” Jessica stated.
    He glanced up, frowned, and tightened his grip on the screwdriver. Did she have to look like that? he thought darkly. The dress clung everywhere, and from the