Trust Me

turned abruptly in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her hot face against his broad shoulder.
    “Six weeks? Three months? Next summer?” he breathed into her hair. “Please, Desdemona. Give me a time frame. Any time frame. I can work with that.”
    She gave a choked laugh. “You’d wait until next summer?”
    “I didn’t say I wouldn’t try to manipulate the time frame somewhat,” he hedged. “But, yes, if necessary, I’ll wait.”
    Desdemona took a deep breath and prepared to walk out on stage. “How about tonight?”

9

    The unpredictability of complexity was nothing compared to the gloriously unpredictable nature of Desdemona, Stark decided.
    He’d told her to give him a time frame, and she had done just that. She’d said here. Now.
    Tonight.
    She could hardly have chosen a more awkward moment if she had tried.
    Stark surreptitiously glanced at his wristwatch and thought of Jason and Kyle waiting at home with Macbeth. His next thought concerned the small package of condoms he had tucked into the glove compartment of his car a few days ago. It was still there, right where he had put it, six floors below in the garage.
    Desdemona had given him no warning that she was on the point of changing her mind about this aspect of the relationship. Hell, they’d had a blazing argument in the middle of a dance floor less than ninety minutes earlier. He’d had no way of guessing that she might be in a mood to make love by the time they got back here to her loft. She’d seemed downright distant, even cool, when she’d emerged from the rest room.
    It was enough to drive a logical man a little crazy.
    On the other hand, she’d just said yes.
    Stark was not about to argue with a yes.
    “Stark?” She raised her head from his shoulder. Her eyes were huge and mysterious, filled with questions, promises, and the mysteries that existed at the border between chaos and complexity.
    “Did anyone ever tell you that you have lousy timing?”
    She smiled. “No Wainwright has lousy timing.”
    Stark stared hungrily at her soft mouth and decided to ignore the awkward time frame. He was supposed to be very, very smart. He had a fistful of degrees in math and physics to prove it. He could work with any time frame.
    “My God, Desdemona.” He caught her face between his hands. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
    “No, but I’m hoping that you want me as much as I want you.”
    He had never seen such sweet desire in a woman’s eyes, at least not in the eyes of a woman who was looking right at him. He was lost.
    He kissed her with all the pent-up need that had been simmering in him for the past few weeks.
    Kissing Desdemona was akin to plunging headfirst into a spectacular piece of computer-generated fractal art. He was submerged in a universe of glowing colors and wildly intricate patterns.
    Everything within him accelerated to the speed of light as he was swept into the dizzyingly complex design. He found himself in a dynamic creation that could have been produced by only the most exquisite of mathematical algorithms.
    Desdemona’s mouth was soft and damp and welcoming. The taste of her was indescribable. Stark wanted more. He wondered if he would ever be satisfied. Perhaps he was fated to search forever for the key to the shifting dynamics.
    He tightened his hold on her, pulling her against him. He needed to feel every inch of her softness. The memory of how she had become wet and hot for him that night in his kitchen returned in a red-hot rush. It made his head spin.
    Her arms slipped around his neck, and her head fell back beneath the onslaught of his kiss. He moved his mouth to her ear, her throat, her shoulder. She sighed and nestled closer.
    Complex patterns shifted again, spreading outward to fill the void with light and energy.
    Stark could feel Desdemona’s breasts against his chest. Her dress and his shirt were in the way. He found the zipper of the black gown and tugged it downward. Desdemona lowered her arms, and the dress fell to her waist.
    Her black slip and a small, lacy black bra were in the way now. Stark got rid of both in a few swift movements. All the clothing Desdemona wore except a tiny triangle of black lace and a pair of black thigh-high stockings pooled on the floor around her feet.
    Stark looked down at her, riveted by the sight of her nearly nude body. He was so enthralled by her graceful breasts and the gentle flare of her thighs that he barely noticed