Trust Me

doesn’t know who paid for his ticket?”
    “Uh-huh.” Desdemona finished her sandwich and brushed pita bread crumbs from her fingers. “Weird, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Stark said softly. “Very.”
    “Want a chocolate-chip cookie?” Desdemona picked one up out of the picnic basket.
    “Thanks.” Stark took it from her fingers and downed it in two bites.
    Desdemona got off the desk. “I’ll clean up, and then I’ll make some coffee.”
    “All right.” Stark turned back to the computer.
    Desdemona repacked the picnic basket, set it in the corner, and then went downstairs to make the coffee.
    When she returned a few minutes later, Stark was on his feet behind his desk. His back was to the door of the study. He was stretching.
    Desdemona came to a halt in the doorway, a mug of coffee in each hand. She watched, entranced, as Stark raised his arms over his head. He moved with the fluid power of a waterfall. His big hands clenched into large fists. His back and shoulder muscles shifted smoothly beneath his wrinkled white shirt. The motion jerked the tail of the garment free of the waistband of his trousers.
    “I’ve got the coffee,” she whispered.
    Stark lowered his arms and slowly turned around to face her. His eyes locked with hers. He was still completely focused, but the direction of the focus had suddenly and without warning switched from the computer to her.
    Desdemona stopped breathing. Ripples moved across the surface of the coffee. They were caused by her racing pulse. She knew that if she did not set the mugs down quickly she would spill the contents.
    She managed to move her feet, but it took an effort. She walked across the room and carefully set down the mugs. “How’s it going?”
    “Nothing yet.” Stark walked slowly around from behind the desk. He came to a halt in front of her. He took off his glasses and set them down on the desk. “I need a break.”
    “Stark?”
    His hands closed over her shoulders. He pulled her against him. “What about you?”
    Desdemona wrapped her arms around his neck. She smiled. “I guess I could use one, too.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.” Stark covered her mouth with his own.
    Desdemona was instantly enveloped by the storm. It rolled and crashed, sending shudders through her.
    She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the impact of Stark’s lovemaking. She knew that even if she were to become used to it, she would never, ever grow tired of it.
    She felt his hands slide down her back, kneading her spine, pressing her closer. Stark groaned and wrenched his mouth from hers with obvious reluctance. And then he was kissing her throat, unfastening her blouse, undoing the front of her jeans.
    He went down on one knee in front of her and tugged the denim down to her ankles and off her feet. Her panties went with the jeans.
    The shadowy room whirled as Stark rose and lifted Desdemona. He settled her on the desk. The glass was cold beneath her bottom. Stark gripped her knees and eased her legs apart. She speared her fingers through his hair as he stepped between her thighs.
    The urgent rasp of his zipper was very loud in the silence. Desdemona closed her eyes and reached down to cradle him in her fingers as he readied himself.
    He touched her intimately.
    Desdemona felt herself swell and soften.
    He sucked in his breath when she tightened her hand around him “Wrap your legs around my waist,” Stark said into her hair.
    Desdemona obeyed. The position opened her further to his touch. He stroked her gently, slid a finger inside her and probed deeply.
    Desdemona cried out.
    He fitted himself to her. “I need this.” His voice was jagged and torn, as though the words had been ripped from his soul. “I need you.”
    It was as close as he had ever come to telling her that he loved her. Perhaps it was as close as he would ever be able to come, Desdemona thought. From a man like Stark, the words were enough. They were real.
    “I love you, Stark,” Desdemona said against his shoulder. “ I love you.”

    Stark flinched as though he had been shot. He surged suddenly, uncontrollably, into her. His body convulsed. His hoarse shout could have been a cry of either anguish or triumph. It was impossible to tell.
    Desdemona clung to his granite-hard shoulders. She did not know if he had even heard her soft confession of love. There was no time to wonder about it. She was already lost somewhere in a whirling vortex of sensation. Her only guide was the man