Homeport

her bra.
    “No wine tonight to blur the edges.” His fingers skimmed lightly over the swell above the simple white silk. “I want you to feel everything, to wonder what you’ll feel next.” He nudged one strap down with a fingertip, then the other, lowered his head to nibble at her bare shoulders.
    It was like being . . . sampled, she thought as her heavy eyes shut. Savored, lavishly savored. His tongue licked lightly over her flesh, his teeth grazed, and his fingertips slid up and down, up and down the sides of her body, gradually, thrillingly lowering the thin swatch of cotton at her hips.
    He stood intimately between her spread legs while she gripped the edge of the counter and understood what it was to be completely under someone else’s control. To want to be. To crave it.
    Everything he did to her was a shock, a jolt to the ruthlessly ordered pattern of her mind, that only seconds later was desired again and welcomed.
    A part of her brain knew the image she made, almost naked, skin flushed, body arched in surrender while the man who handled her was fully dressed.

    But when he slipped the bra aside, lowered that skilled mouth to her breast, she didn’t care.
    He hadn’t known she could be like this, or how powerful an arousal it was to have a strong and cautious woman yield to him completely. She was his, utterly, to take pleasure from, to give pleasure to. But the thrill of that, rather than dark and edgy, was almost unbearably tender.
    The backwash from the great light slid over her, turning her skin to brilliant white; then it was gone, leaving her glowing gold in the flicker of candlelight. Her hair, so recently chased by the wind, tumbled like silken fire over her shoulders. Her mouth, soft and swollen, parted under his.
    The kiss deepened, warmed, and delved beyond the heady desire neither had anticipated. For a moment they clung together, staggered. And trembled.
    It was like a dream now where the air was thick and sweet. Hot candy, melted over slow heat.
    Neither noticed the damp or the chill. They lowered to a floor that was layered with dust, that was hard and cold, and drew together as gently as a couple on a feather bed.
    Without words, she removed his shirt, her hands steady. And she pressed her lips to his heart, lingering there because she knew that somehow he’d stolen hers.
    He wanted to give her tenderness here, the compassion in mating as well as the thrill. So he was gentle with his mouth, with his hands, loving her in a way that gleamed with emotion as well as need.
    A murmur, a sigh, a long slow arch toward warm waves that cradled rather than battered.
    So when she wrapped around him, pressing her face into his throat, he stroked, he soothed, he gave himself the gift of that same tenderness.
    When he shifted her over him, cupping her hips until she took him in, took him deep, she knew what it was to love her lover.

twenty
    M iranda awoke beside Ryan for the second morning in a row, and on another continent. It was an oddly thrilling experience that seemed both carelessly wicked and decidedly sophisticated.
    Sinning in style.
    She had an urge to comb her fingers through his hair, play them over his face, explore that dashing little scar over his eye. Foolish, sentimental little strokes and pats that might lead to slow and lazy morning sex.
    It was so odd, all these feelings crowding inside of her, taking up room she hadn’t known she had in store, warming up places she’d assumed would always stay cool and uninhabited. So much more inside her now, she thought, than that first hot gush of lust. Too much more, and it left her completely vulnerable.
    And that was terrifying.
    So instead of touching what she wanted to touch, she eased out of bed and tiptoed into the shower as she had done the morning before. This time, however, she’d barely dunked her head under the spray, when arms slid around her waist.

    “Why do you do that?”
    She waited until her heart had dropped back in place. “Do what?”
    “Sneak out of bed in the morning. I’ve seen you naked already.”
    “I didn’t sneak.” She tried to wiggle free, but his teeth clamped lightly on her shoulder. “I just didn’t want to wake you.”
    “I know a sneak when I see one.” He lifted a brow at her mutter. “And saying ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ doesn’t apply. I have never sneaked out of a woman’s bed. In yes, out no.”
    “Very funny. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to shower.”
    “I’ll