Trust Me

effort to remove the black lace panties in the normal manner. He gripped the narrow strip of fabric and yanked it out of the way. The sheer lace tore in his hand.
    Stark drove himself into Desdemona in a single, deep thrust.
    She stiffened and sucked in her breath. “Stark.”
    For an instant the flowing, shifting, impossibly intricate design stood still for Stark.
    She was so small. Incredibly tight. He could feel himself stretching her. He knew that if she hadn’t been so thoroughly damp with her own dew, it would never have worked.
    “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “Yes.” She sounded breathless. “Just give me a second. You know, I hadn’t realized that weightlifting impacted so many different parts of a man’s body.”
    “Christ, Desdemona, don’t make me laugh. Not now.”
    She clung to him for a moment longer and then slowly, cautiously, lifted herself, inviting him even deeper inside.
    He moved his hand downward, searching out the small, sensitive bud that was the source of her excitement. He could feel the electricity that shot through her. He wondered that it did not set him ablaze. She cried out, an enchanting, half-swallowed sound of stunned surprise.
    Stark felt her clench even more tightly around him, saw her lips part, felt her legs close around his waist.
    Her climax shimmered through him, sending him into the heart of a spectacular, exceedingly complex whirlpool of colors and shapes. He was in the middle of a fractal. For an instant Stark saw and understood all the patterns in their entirety.
    For that brief moment in time he was no longer alone.
    Rain struck the bank of the windows that formed one wall of Desdemona’s loft. The wind had shifted.
    Desdemona lay happily crushed beneath Stark’s large, warm frame. His head rested on her breast. His legs firmly lodged between hers. The fabric of his formal black trousers scraped lightly against the inside of her bare thighs.
    “You didn’t even take off your pants, cowboy,” she murmured.
    “What?” Stark raised his head. He looked down at her with half-closed eyes. There was a distinct air of sleepy indulgence about him.
    “I said, you didn’t even take off your pants. Or your shoes.” She stretched languidly beneath his weight. “I suppose I should be grateful that you don’t wear boots, hmm?”
    “Damn. I’m sorry.”
    “Forget it.” She grinned. “I was just teasing you.”
    “Your sheets…”
    “I can change them.”
    He groaned and glanced at his watch. Desdemona saw that the numbers on the dial were glowing softly.
    “Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
    “Howdy Doody time?”
    “It’s after midnight.”
    She gave him a dreamy smile. “No kidding.”
    “I’ve got to get out of here.” Stark rolled off the bed and stood. “Macbeth will be wondering where the hell I am.”
    “He won’t panic.” It was cold without Stark to warm her.
    “No, but Jason and Kyle might.” Stark’s gaze lingered wistfully on her black stockings and the scrap of torn black lace panties. His jaw tightened. He scooped his shirt off the floor and headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Take your time.” Desdemona studied the high, shadowed ceiling of her loft and marveled at the interesting sensation between her lees Not pain. Not quite an ache. More like the pleasantly used feeling that she experienced after brisk exercise. Her body had just done something it had been designed to do, and it felt good. It felt right. Satisfied with itself.
    She got up and reached for the Kimono-style bathrobe that hung on the brick wall behind the bed.
    Stark emerged from the bathroom, his big hands busy with the buttons on his white shirt. He had run his fingers through his dark hair. He crossed the room to retrieve his gold-framed glasses. His face was set in familiar lines of intent concentration.
    “I don’t suppose you have time for coffee?” Desdemona said as she tied the sash of her robe.
    “No. Sorry.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slanted another quick glance at his watch. “I’ve got to get home. I’ll call you in the morning.”
    “Promises, promises.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing. Just mumbling. A bit of postcoital disorientation, I guess. Or maybe I’ve been reading too many warnings in women’s magazines.”
    He frowned. “Are you all right?”
    She gave him a sugary smile. “Just peachy.”
    “You’re acting weird.”
    “Nobody ever said that I was the best