The Reef

streaked up her body, pinned her hands over her head. When she opened her eyes, the light dazzled them.
    “No, you look at me,” he demanded when her lashes fluttered down again. “You look right at me.” His lungs were burning and the words ground in his throat like glass. But her eyes opened, an unfocused, swimming green. “Can you think?”
    “Matthew.” Her hand strained against his. “Take me now. I can’t stand it.”
    “I can.” Linking her wrists in one hand, he cupped the other over her hot center so that she bucked wildly under him. She came again, violently. He bit back his own groan when her arms went to water under his grip. “Can you think?” he repeated.
    But she was beyond words, beyond sight. Her senses were scattered, a tangle of live wires that sparked and sizzled through her system. When he released her hands, she didn’t move, but lay defenseless against the next onslaught.
    He devoured her, inch by inch, pale flesh, delicate curves. When he could feel himself all but being absorbed into her, when her mouth was as hungrily avid as his again, he thrust into her.
     
    She felt battered and bruised and blissful. His weight pinned her to the unforgiving floor, and she thought vaguely of the aches she would have in the morning. Somehow she found the strength to stroke a hand over his hair.
    She felt sorry for every woman who didn’t have Matthew Lassiter as a lover.
    “I could use that wine,” she managed in a voice that came huskily through a dry throat. “Any chance you can reach it? Or if not, if you can roll off, I might be able to crawl a few feet.”
    He pushed himself up and wondered how he could feel drained, satisfied, pleased and ashamed all at once. He brought both glasses back, sat beside her on the floor.
    With effort, she lifted rockily to her elbow and took the glass. A long, cooling sip did a great deal to steady her. “What,” she asked slowly, “was that?”
    He jerked a shoulder. “Sex.”
    After a long, appreciative breath, she smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, but it seemed a little more like war.”
    “As long as we both won.” Since he’d already drained his glass, he rose to fetch the bottle.
    The last thing she’d expected after such wild intimacy was the cool tone. Concerned, she laid a hand on his knee. “Matthew, is something wrong?”
    “No. Everything’s dandy.” He tossed back more wine, stared into the glass. “Sorry if I got too rough.”
    “No.” Though she couldn’t have said where it had sprung from, tenderness welled inside her. Very gently, she cupped his cheek. “Matthew . . .” Words fumbled inside her head, inside her heart. She struggled to choose the ones best suited to what they had together. “Making love with you is extraordinary, every time. No one’s ever . . .” No, it seemed wise to back off from that. “I’ve never,” she corrected, “felt more free with anyone.” She tried a smile, a lightness. “I guess it comes from both of us knowing where we stand.”
    “Right, we know where we stand.” He cupped the back of her head, held firm as his gaze drilled into hers. “Sometimes, you can stand in one place too long.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    He pulled her up, crushed his mouth against hers until he tasted his own mistakes. “Maybe I don’t, either. I’d better go.”
    “Don’t.” Compelled by emotions fighting to be free, she took his hand. “Don’t go, Matthew. I . . . it’s a nice night for a swim. Will you come with me? I don’t want to be without you yet.”
    He turned her hand over, pressed his lips to the palm in a way that made her eyes film. “I don’t want to be without you, either.”
     
    All this time, VanDyke thought. All these years, the Lassiters had played him for a fool. It was all clear now.
    Unwilling to waste time with sleep, he pored over the papers LaRue had sent him, reading over the words again and again until he all but knew them by rote. He hadunderestimated them, he decided, and blamed himself for so careless a mistake.
    Too many mistakes, he thought, carefully dabbing at the sweat that beaded above his lip. All because the amulet remained out of reach.
    James Lassiter had known where to find Angelique’s Curse, and had likely died laughing at his murderer. VanDyke was not a man to be laughed at.
    Curling a fist around a jeweled letter opener, he viciously and mindlessly hacked through the creamy upholstery of a Queen Anne occasional chair.