Summer Desserts

stroked, enticed. He could feel them slide leisurely over him, pausing to linger while she sighed. And while she sighed, she exploited. His body was weighed down with layer after layer of pleasures—to be seduced so carefully, to be desired so fully.
    With long, lengthy, openmouthed kisses, she explored all of him, reveling in the firm masculinity of his body—knowing she would soon rip apart that impenetrable control. She was obsessed with it, and with him. Could it be that now, after she’d made love with him, after she’d begun to understand the powers and weaknesses in his body, she would find even more delight in learning of them again?
    There seemed to be no end to the variations of her feelings, to the changes of sensations she could experience when she was with him like this. Each time, every time, was as vital and unique as the first had been. If this was a contradiction to everything she’d ever believed was true about a man and woman, she didn’t question it now. She exalted in it.
    He was hers. Body and mind—she felt it. Almost tangibly she could sense the polish, the civilized sheen, that was so much a part of him melt away. It was what she wanted.
    There was little sanity left. As she roamed over him the need became more primitive, more primal. He wanted more, endlessly more, but the blood was drumming in his head. She was so agile, so relentless. He experienced a wave of pure helplessness for the first time in his life. Her hands were clever—so clever he couldn’t hear the quick unsteadiness of her breathing. He could feel her tormenting him exquisitely, but he couldn’t see the flickers of passion or depth of desire in her eyes. He was blind and deaf to everything.
    Then her mouth was devouring his and everything savage that civilized men restrain tore from him. He was mad for her. In his mind were dark swirling colors, in his ears was a wild rushing like a sea crazed by a storm. Her name ripped from him like an oath as he gripped her, rolling her to her back, enclosing her, possessing her.
    And there was nothing but her, to take, to drown in, to ravage and to worship until passion spun from its peak and emptied him.

Chapter Eleven
    “I ’m starving.”
    It was full dark, with no moon to shed any trickle of light into the room. The darkness itself was comfortable and easy. They were still naked and tangled on Summer’s bed, but the piano had been silent for an hour. There were no more supper smells in the air. Blake drew her a bit closer and kept his eyes shut, though it wasn’t sleep he sought. Somehow in the silence, in the darkness, he felt closer to her.
    “I’m starving,” Summer repeated, a bit sulkily this time.
    “You’re the chef.”
    “Oh, no, not this time.” Rising on her elbow, Summer glared at him. She could see the silhouette of his profile, the long line of chin, the straight nose, the sweep of brow. She wanted to kiss all of them again, but knew it was time to make a stand. “It’s definitely your turn to cook.”
    “My turn?” He opened one eye, cautiously. “I could send out for pizza.”
    “Takes too long.” She rolled on top of him to give him a smacking kiss—and a quick jab in the ribs. “I said I was starving. That’s an immediate problem.”
    He folded his arms behind his head. He, too, could see only a silhouette—the drape of her hair, slope of her shoulder, the curve of her breasts. It was enough. “I don’t cook.”
    “Everyone cooks something,” she insisted.
    “Scrambled eggs,” he said, hoping it would discourage her. “That’s about it.”
    “That’ll do.” Before he could think of anything to change her mind, she was off the bed and switching on the bedside lamp.
    “Summer!” He tossed his arm over his eyes to shield them and tried a halfhearted moan. She grinned at that before she turned to the closet to find a robe.
    “I have eggs, and a skillet.”
    “I make very bad eggs.”
    “That’s okay.” She found his slacks, shook them out briefly, then tossed them on top of him. “Real hunger makes allowances.”
    Resigned, Blake put his feet on the floor. “Then I don’t expect a critique afterward.”
    While she waited, he slipped into a pair of brief jockey shorts. They were dark blue, cut low at the waist, high at the thigh. Very sexy, she mused, and very discreet. Strange how such an incidental thing could reflect a personality.
    “Cooks like to be cooked for,” she told him as he drew on his slacks.
    He