Three Fates

words to her. The thrill of them spurted through her, flooded her heart and gushed into the kiss. She threw her arms around him, shifting her body so it pressed against his with an abandon neither of them had expected.
    Rocked, he dug his fingers into her flesh, struggled for about two seconds to maintain some reasonable control. Then he tumbled her back and did just as he had threatened. He sank his teeth into her.
    She rose under him, like a woman riding a wave, and with no thought but the taking, tugged at his shirt. “I want . . . I want . . .”
    “So do I.” He was breathless now, with muscles quivering. There was the taste of her skin, warm and sweet in his mouth, the feel of it, silky smooth, under his hands. And the surprising, delightful enthusiasm of her as she ran those small, nervous hands over him.
    She was so delicately built, and the curves of her so wonderfully subtle. Her scent was a quiet, very female drift that slowly hazed the senses until it seemed as though he could simply breathe her in. Eager to explore, he let his lips rush down her body, back up to those small and lovely breasts.
    Back to her warm, willing mouth.
    When he did no more than press his hand against the heat and she came with a quick, shocked cry, he felt like a god.
    He was murmuring something, or perhaps he was shouting it. There was such a roaring in her head, she couldn’t tell. Her system was barraged by a series of long, liquid pulls, of quick, slapping jolts with each sensation rapping so hard into the next it wasn’t possible to separate them.
    And her body absorbed them greedily, then called for more.
    And his, his was so firm and smooth, and hot. Was it any wonder her hands were in such a rush to touch? When she did she could feel the quiver of a muscle, the wild leap of a pulse.
    Need. It was need for her.
    Then she forgot his need for her own when his fingers slid slickly over her, into her. She could do nothing more than fist her hands in the rumpled bedspread, holding on even as she flew.
    His mouth came back to hers, and she opened. Opened everything, so that when he thrust inside her, he entered both heart and body.
    He said her name again. It seemed to echo endlessly in his head as he sank into her, into that wet heat. She rose to him, fell away, rose again until the rhythm was like music. He lost himself in it, in her, as the beat became more urgent, and urgency became desperation. And desperation a brilliant pleasure that swallowed them both whole.
     
     
    WEAK AND WRECKED, she lay under him. In some dim area of consciousness she was aware of his weight, of the galloping race of his heart, even of the shallow breaths he took. But she was much more aware of the lovely limp stretch of her own body, of the hot river of her own blood that swam under her skin.
    A part of her mind continued to huddle in a corner and gape with shock and stingy disapproval. She’d made frantic, reckless love with a man she had no business trusting. And at nine o’clock in the morning. A Thursday morning.
    Those same basic facts brought on a wave of smugness she knew she should be ashamed of.
    “Stop thinking so hard,” Malachi said lazily. “You’ll hurt yourself. I missed the nape of your neck.” He turned his head so he could nibble a bit on her shoulder. “I’ll have to make up for that oversight when I can move again.”
    She closed her eyes and ordered herself to listen to that scolding voice. “It’s nine in the morning.”
    He turned his head, focused on her bedside clock. “Actually, it’s not. It’s ten-oh-six.”
    “It can’t be. They left at just before nine.” It was so nice to be able to run her fingers through his hair, through all that rich, dark chestnut. “I looked at the clock so I’d know when to start worrying if they weren’t back.” She tried to shift to see the clock for herself, but he stopped the movement with his mouth on hers.
    “And when are you scheduled to start worrying?”
    “At ten.”
    “You’re running behind, then. Darling, it takes a bit of time to make love if you put any effort into it.”
    “Ten? It’s after ten?” She wiggled, shoved, squirmed. “They could be back any minute.”
    “So they could.” Her movements were perfect, he decided. “So what?”
    “They—We can’t be in here. Like this.”
    “Door’s closed, and the bedroom’s off limits, as I recall.”
    “They’ll certainly know what we’ve been doing. And we shouldn’t