"Dance with me," he said softly, standing up and holding out his hand to her. She stood and went silently into his arms. She closed her eyes, and her head found her personal resting place on his shoulder. There couldn't be anything more perfect, she thought, than slow dancing, barefoot, on a balcony in New Orleans, while the rain poured down and twilight wrapped around them. He was so marvelously warm, she wanted to sink into him, and she actually caught herself pressing closer. Immediately, she started to pull back, but he stopped her with a firm hand on the small of her back, urging her even closer.
"It's okay. Just rest against me." The words were barely a murmur, as if he didn't want them to intrude on the moment.
So she relaxed again, so readily that she felt a flicker of guilt in the far recesses of her brain. She was shamelessly using him, for comfort, for support, for… for pleasure. Yes, this was pure pleasure: the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and belly rubbing against her breasts, her own belly, as they swayed to the hypnotic wail of the sax. His thighs slid along hers, his feet brushed hers, and occasionally she even felt the bulge of his genitals, though she thought he was being careful about that—his perfect manners again. She found herself waiting, almost breathless, for the next time their movements brought her hip against him. She wanted to curl into him, press herself fully to that intriguing bulge.
Her heartbeat was slow, heavy. The chill was gone; she felt deliciously warm, almost boneless, all thought suspended.
One strong hand slid up her back to close lightly over the nape of her neck, and the other moved down to her bottom. She didn't think of protesting. Somehow the touch wasn't demanding anything of her. He was just gently kneading her bottom, that was all. She had never before realized how good that could feel.
He tilted her head back, his hand firm on her neck. She saw the sensuous curve of his mouth, then he was kissing her, and even that wasn't demanding. Her eyes drifted shut again. His lips were soft, shaping hers, and he didn't use his tongue.
Abruptly, she wished he would. She wanted more of his taste. But she enjoyed what he was giving her, more than she had ever enjoyed any other man's kisses, so she let herself get lost in those light, brushing kisses. And she realized she had curled into him, after all, her hips arched toward him. His hand left her bottom, almost drawing a protesting moan from her. But she heard the click of the door handle behind her and realized he was guiding her back into the kitchen. It was dark inside; he hadn't left a light on. She didn't bother opening her eyes, merely sighed with dreamy pleasure as he continued kissing her and his hand returned to her buttocks. Both hands, she dimly realized, and she was clinging to his shoulders with both hands. Her breasts were tight, achy; her loins were full. It felt good, better than good. She wanted his tongue, she wanted it so much that she rose on tiptoe and deepened the kiss herself, tentatively probing. And she wanted to stretch against him, so she did that, too, pressing her
breasts to him and feeling her nipples pinch with pleasure.
He gave a low growl, deep in his throat, and took the initiative from her. This time, the pleasure was sharp, splintering, and she moaned aloud. Oh, yes. He tasted wonderful, like cookies and wine and himself. His tongue moved deep and sure, taking, and hers danced around it, softly teasing. She had never before realized kisses could be so subtle, so full of meaning, so varied. He grasped her skirt and worked it up to her waist, then slid his hands beneath the waistband of her panties to clasp her bare bottom. Her buttocks were cool, his hands hot; the contrast had her arching forward, gasping. Her breasts throbbed; her hips undulated a little, reaching for and finding the hard ridge of his penis, rocking against him, instinctively seeking relief. She had gone beyond warm; she felt feverish, her skin too tight, her clothes too binding.
He stooped a little, tugging at her panties. They slid down her thighs, dropped to her ankles. "Step out of them," he whispered, and mindlessly she did so. Her heart was pounding, her body caught in a fever of need.
"Open your eyes."
She did that, too, staring up at him in the rain-washed dimness of the room, his face lit by the watery light seeping through the french doors. His expression was set, his eyes narrow and piercing, his mouth fiercely sensual.
They weren't in the kitchen after all, she realized with a sort of distant surprise; he had danced her through the other set of doors. They were in his bedroom.
The bed hit the backs of her knees, and he eased her down onto it, his hands firm and sure. She barely had time to register the coolness of the sheets beneath her bare bottom, then he was on her, heavy and solid, kneeing her thighs apart while he opened his jeans.
She breathed deeply, her eyes half closed, watching him through the fringe of her lashes. She still felt dreamy, as if none of this were real, yet she had never wanted so intensely as she did now, never hungered for another man as she did for him. The power of her need surprised her; she wasn't quite certain how she had come to this moment, lying on a bed with a man she barely knew, her panties on the floor and her skirt around her waist.
The first touch of his penis to her was startling, a stark intrusion of reality. Her eyes flared with shock, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. He held her gaze, his big body pressing her into the mattress, and entered her with a hard, steady thrust, sheathing himself to the root with one movement. Her body arched in feminine shock at the force of his penetration, at this searing invasion. His penis was smooth and hard, thick, impossibly deep, and she writhed around him.
He steadied her, holding her firmly as he withdrew a little and thrust again, his gaze intent on her face. She couldn't stop her gasping cry at the resulting sensation, the pleasure that was almost torment. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She clung to him with desperate hands, feeling as if she were about to be torn apart by an internal force she couldn't contain. He whispered soothingly to her, words of masculine reassurance she couldn't quite grasp, but the dark honey of his voice was more effective than any words.