Time and Again

this- desperately. She could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way his mouth came back to hers again and again for longer, deeper, hungrier kisses. His tongue tangled with hers, enticing, erotic, and she felt as well as heard him suck in his breath as her knuckles grazed his stomach.
    She had learned, Cal thought dizzily. And she had learned quickly. Her hands, and the gentle movements of her body against his, were driving him beyond reason. He wanted to tell her to give him a moment, to give him the time he needed to gain a firm, lasting grip on control. But it was already too late. Much too late.
    He dragged her to the bed. Her gasp of surprise ended in a dark moan of pleasure. She reached for him, only to find herself gripping the bedclothes as he whipped her over the first raw edge.
    She'd thought she knew what loving was. Even a night steeped in it hadn't prepared her for this. He was crazed, and in a moment her madness matched his.
    No gentle touch, no easy persuasion. It was all hot, ripe need and a desperate race for satisfaction. Like two lost souls, they rolled over the sheets and drowned in each other.
    A desperate demand. A fervent answer. Murmured requests were for the sane. Tonight there were only breathless moans and shuddering sighs. Her skin was so slick with the heat passion pumped into her that it slid sleekly over his. Each time his mouth found hers she tasted the rich, musky flavor of desire.
    There were no velvet clouds now, but a storm breaking. Exciting. Electric. She could almost hear the air singing with it. Drums seemed to pound inside her head, inside her heart, beating in an ever-increasing rhythm. Gulping in air, she rolled over him to press her open mouth to his throat, his chest, knowing only that his flavor was dark, rich and wonderful.
    He couldn't get enough. No matter how much she gave, he needed more and still more. He was unaware that his fingers were digging hard into her skin, bruising, even as his lips followed the trail. He could see her in the dim lamplight, the way her damp skin glowed, the way her head fell back each time pleasure overtook her. Her eyes were gold, like some dark, ancient coin. Tribute for a goddess. He thought of her as one now, as she rose over him, her body curved back like a bow, the light casting an aura around her hair.
    He thought he would die for her, thought he would die without her. Then she was taking him into her, deeply, fully. He reached blindly, as she did, and their hands linked.
    Then there was no thought at all.
    He held her close long after the tremors had subsided in both of them. He tried to remember what he had done, what she had done, but it was all a blur of torrential sensations and emotions that had bordered on the violent. He was afraid he had hurt her, that now that her mind and body had cooled she would pull away from him and what was inside him.
    "Libby?"
    Her only answer was a slight shifting of her head against his chest. One of her greatest pleasures was feeling his heart race under her cheek.
    "I'm sorry." He stroked her hair, wondering if it was too late for tenderness.
    Her eyes opened. Even that effort was almost more than she could manage. There was a flicker of doubt she struggled to ignore. "You are?"
    "Yes. I don't know what happened. I've never treated another woman like that."
    "You haven't?" He couldn't see the smile that curved her lips.
    "No." Cautious, ready to release her if she jerked away, he lifted her head. "I'd like to make it up to you," he began. Then saw that the glint in her eyes was not tears but laughter. "You're smiling."
    "How," she said, kissing the bandage on his forehead, "would you like to make it up to me?"
    "I thought I'd hurt you." He rolled her over on her back, then took a good long look. She was still smiling, and her eyes were dark with centuries of secrets only women fully understood. "I guess not."
    "You haven't answered my question." She stretched, not because she meant to entice, but because she felt as contented as a cat in a sunbeam. "How are you going to make it up to me?"
    "Well-" He glanced around the rumpled bed, then shimmied up to look down at the floor. Reaching down, he plucked up her fallen glasses. He twirled them once by the sidepiece, then grinned. "Why don't you put these on, and I'll show you?"

CHAPTER 9
    Libby was lingering over a second cup of coffee, wondering if being in love was directly connected to the difficulty she was having facing a day cooped up