Private Scandals

The explosion of need rattled them both, the swell of heat, the blast of power. The bomb detonated inside her, leaving emotions shattered, needs raw. Then he was kicking the door closed as they tumbled to the floor.
    She didn’t think. Couldn’t think. Not with his mouth burning on hers and his hands already urgently possessing. Like tussling children, they rolled over the rug, the only sounds incoherent murmurs and strained breathing.
    It wasn’t dreamlike, but stark reality. The only reality that mattered. His hands were rough, streaking under the fleece of her shirt to take, digging into her hips to press her fiercely against him.
    She seemed to be erupting beneath him, with short, static bursts of energy. Her skin was hot, smooth, unbearably soft. He wanted to taste it, to devour it, to consume the flavor of her flesh and blood and bone. Her mouth wasn’t enough—her throat, her shoulder, where he dragged the shirt down. He felt like an animal, rabid and starving, and wanted to glory in it. Yet he knew he could hurt her, would hurt her, if he didn’t harness the worst of the need.
    “Deanna.” He wished he could find some spark of tenderness within the furnace that roared inside him. “Let me . . .” He lifted his head, struggling to clear his vision. He’d barely looked at her, he realized. The moment she’d opened the door and said his name, his control had snapped.
    Now she was vibrating like a plucked string beneath him, her eyes huge and dark, her mouth swollen. And her skin . . . He brought his fingertips to her cheek, stroking over the flushed, damp flesh.
    Tears. He’d always considered them a woman’s greatest weapon. Shaken, he brushed them away and cleared his throat. “Did I knock you down?”
    “I don’t know.” She felt like a jumble of nerve ends and sparks. “I don’t care.” Slowly, beautifully, her smile bloomed. She framed his face in her hands. “Welcome home.” She lettheir slow, quiet kiss soothe them both.
    “I’ve been told I have considerable finesse with women.” Taking her hand, he closed it into a loose fist and pressed it to his lips. “Though it might be hard for you to believe at the moment.”
    “I’d rather not ask for corroboration.”
    His grin flashed. “Look, why don’t we . . .” He trailed off as he stroked a hand over her hair. Confused, he pulled back, eyes narrowed, and studied her. “What in the hell did you do to your hair?”
    In automatic defense, she combed her fingers through it. “I cut it. New Year’s Eve.” Her smile wavered. “The viewers like it—three to one. We did a poll.”
    “It’s shorter than mine.” With a half laugh, he moved back to squat on his haunches. “Come here, let me get a good look.” Without waiting for assent, he hauled her to a sitting position.
    She sat, pouting a little, her eyes daring him, and the lamplight glowing over the glistening cap. “I was tired of dealing with it,” she muttered when he only continued his silent study. “This saves me hours a week, and it suits the shape of my face. It looks good on camera.”
    “Um-hmm.” Fascinated, he reached out to toy with her earlobe, then skimmed his finger down the side of her throat. “Either several months of celibacy is playing hell with my libido, or you’re the sexiest woman alive.”
    Delighted, flustered, she hugged her knees. “You look pretty good yourself. You know they’re calling you the Desert Hunk.”
    He winced. After the ribbing he’d taken from his associates, he was hard-pressed to find the humor in it. “It’ll pass.”
    “I don’t know. There’s already a fan club here in Chicago.” Seeing that he could be embarrassed only amused her. “You did look pretty hunky with Scuds flying in the sky behind you, or with tanks rolling across the sand at your back. Especially since you didn’t shave for a couple of days.”
    “Once the ground war started, water was at a premium.”
    Her amusement faded. “Was it bad?”
    “Bad enough.” He took her hand, gently now, remembering to appreciate the elegance. That was what he needed, the warm reality of her. Maybe, in a day or two, the things he’d seen, the things he’d heard would fade a little.
    “Do you want to talk about it?”
    “No.”
    “You look tired.” She could see now how drawn he was beneath the desert tan. “When did you get back?”
    “About an hour ago. I came straight here.”
    Even as her heart picked up rhythm, she responded to the