Genuine Lies

arching beneath him, body straining up as the vibrations sang through her. The scrape of his teeth, the sudden greed of his mouth, the glory of the ageless hunger for the taste of flesh. With a groan caught deep in her throat she pressed his head against her, demanding and offering what he had asked for. More.
    And this was a freedom, this heedless grasping of desires, that she had denied, even spurned, for so long.
    The air around them was redolent with the perfume of the camelias in the bowl on her nightstand. Beneath them, the bed moaned as they tumbled over it. The sun creeping in through the blinds turned the light a warm and seductive gold. Whenever he touched her, that light would explode behind her heavy lids into fractured rainbows.
    This was where he wanted her, climbing slowly toward the peak of passions. Clamping down hard on the need to take, he gave, he teased, he tormented—and was given the satisfaction of hearing his name erupt from her lips.
    Her skin was smooth as silk, fragrant from the oils that had been worked so diligently into her muscles. Wanting all of it, he tugged the pants over her hips, groaning when he found her naked beneath the sweats.
    Yet he found he could wait, still longer, contenting himself with the feel of those long, slim thighs under his hands. The taste of them against his lips. When he shifted, the slightest touch had her leaping over the edge where he’d held her, and soaring beyond.
    The climax ripped through her, then left her stunned and dazed and staggered. After such a gentle introduction, the torrid pleasure was terrifying. And addicting. Even as she groped for him, he drove her up again and watched her eyes glaze over with passion, felt her body shudder from the thrill of it, heard her breath catch from the shock, expel from the glory.
    As she went limp, he levered himself over her, his own body trembling as he waited for her heavy eyes to open, meet his. He slid inside her. She rose to meet him. Iron into velvet.Merged, they moved together, the rhythm instinctive, ancient, beautiful. When her lids shuddered down again, her arms opened to bring him close. This time when she leapt off the edge, she took him with her.
    He lay quiet, still steeped in her. The scent of her skin, heated with passion, drifted through his senses and merged with the fragile fragrance of the camelias. The light, shadowed by the blinds, seemed neither of day nor night, but of some timeless space hidden between. Captured in his arms, her body moved gently, softly, with each quiet breath she took. When he lifted his head he could see her face, the glow of passion still flushing it. He had only to kiss her mouth to taste those warm and sweet remnants of mutual pleasure.
    He had thought he knew romance, understood it, appreciated it. How many times had he used it to seduce a woman? How often had he woven it cleverly into a plot? But this was different. This time—or this woman—had taken it all to another plane. He intended to make her understand that they would both go there together, again and again.
    “I told you it would come back to you.”
    Her eyes opened slowly. They were huge and dark and sleepy. She smiled. It was no use telling him nothing had come back, because she had never experienced anything like what they had just shared.
    “Is that similar to was it good for you?”
    His grin flashed before he nipped her earlobe. “It’s saying a lot more than that. In fact, I was just thinking that we could have a very productive day if neither of us moved from this spot.”
    “Productive?” She let her fingers comb through his hair, dance down his spine as he nuzzled her throat. She didn’t feel like the cat who’d licked up the cream, but like the one who’d discovered a direct line to the cow. “Interesting, maybe. Enjoyable, certainly, but productive’s another matter. My interview with Anna should—mmm—be productive.” Lazily, she glanced toward the clock. On a quick cry, she struggled toget up, only to be held firmly in place. “It’s eleven-fifteen. How can it be eleven-fifteen? It was only a little past nine when we—”
    “Time flies,” he murmured, more than a little flattered. “You’ll never make it.” “But—”
    “It’ll take you the better part of an hour to get dressed and make the drive. Reschedule.”
    “Shit. This is completely unprofessional.” She wiggled free and hauled open the drawer of the nightstand to search for the number. “It’ll