Hidden Riches

fear.
    “I want you.” Her voice was low and thick, like honey poured over flame. The hands that tugged the shirt over his head were far from steady. But her eyes, nearly level with his, were strong and sure. She unsnapped his jeans, tossing back her head as she moved closer. “I want you inside me. Now.”
    In response he gripped her hips and tumbled with her onto the bed.
    They rolled twice, tearing impatiently at each other’s clothes until damp flesh pressed to damp flesh. But when she would have locked herself around him and taken him into her, he shifted, sliding down her body. While she writhed and moaned beneath him, he feasted on her, suckling her breasts so that the answering contractions low in her belly were all but unbearable.
    Panting, she gripped his hair, her body curved in desperate invitation. “Now. For God’s sake, now.”
    He caught her nipple between his teeth, tugging until her nails dug into his shoulders. “This time I want more.”
    But the more he took, the more he needed. She gave, completely, unrestrictedly, abandoning herself to the flood of sensations. Still, it wasn’t enough.
    As he had promised himself, he explored every inch of her, tasting, touching, possessing. Whatever he asked, she gave. Whatever she offered, he took.
    He could watch her. The light sheened over her damp skin, making it gleam like one of her porcelain figurines. But she was flesh and blood, her hands as curious as his, her mouth as avid.
    Beneath them the spread was as slick and smooth as water. The music drifted in, all crying sax and throbbing bass.
    When he slipped inside her, her low throaty moan shuddered from her lips into his. Slowly, savoring, he slid deeper, deeper, swallowing her frantic gasps, inciting more with the play of his tongue over hers.
    He braced himself over her, desperate to see her face, to watch those flickers of mindless pleasure. She came again, tightening convulsively around him so that he sucked in his breath at the storm of sensation.
    Her eyes flew open, glazed and huge, to fix on his face. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but there was only another shuddering moan. He was all she could see, all she could feel, and all she wanted. Each slow stroke shivered through her so that her body was a mass of sparking nerves and tearing needs. He ignited them again and again until she could do nothing but wrap herself around him and let him take her where and how he chose.
    She cried out again. Jed buried his face in her hair and let himself follow.
     
    The music had changed. Elton John was singing his ode to Marilyn. Dora lay sprawled crosswise on the bed, her numbed body barely aware of Jed’s weight. She did feel his lips pressed lightly to the side of her breast, and his heartbeat, still raging. She found the strength to lift her hand, to run it over his hair and down to his shoulder.
    Her touch, somehow both maternal and loverlike, caused him to stir. He felt as though he’d just tumbled down a very tall mountain without skis and had landed in a deep, warm spring. Going with the urge, he kissed the curve of her breast and watched her smile.
    “You okay?” he asked her.
    “No. I can’t see anything.”
    It was his turn to smile. “Your eyes are closed.”
    “Oh.” She opened them and sighed. “Thank God. I thought I’d been struck blind.” Turning her head on the rumpled spread, she looked down at him. “I don’t think I’ll ask how you’re doing. You look entirely too pleased with yourself.”
    He levered himself up to kiss her. Her hair had tumbled down, as he’d imagined it would, and was a riot of curls around her face. Her lips were swollen, her eyes sleepy.
    He felt something stir—not the rekindled desire he’d expected, but something else. Something he didn’t recognize as contentment. “Ask anyway.”
    “Okay.” She brushed the hair away from his forehead. “How’s it going, Skimmerhorn?”
    “It’s going good.”
    “Your gift for words stuns me.”
    He laughed, kissed her again, then rolled over, gathering her close to his side. “It’s too bad I can’t think of any Tennyson.”
    The idea of him quoting poetry made her smile grow misty. “How about Shelley? ‘I arise from dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.’ ”
    She humbled him. “That’s nice.” He tipped her face up for a kiss that was both sweet and dreamy. “Really nice.”
    Content with