Deadly Harvest by Heather Graham Page A

to hers with equal passion, lips molding against hers, tongue thrusting deeply, evoking a rise of hunger within her that was both intoxicating and frightening.
    She was afraid. What if she had forgotten how to make love? Was it really like just hopping back on a bicycle? Could she fail? Be too awkward…?
    He caressed the length of her back while his mouth remained locked with hers, wet and hot, his fingers skimming along her flesh like the brush of wildfire. He stepped back, his deep auburn hair tousled by her roving hands, his breath coming hard, his gray eyes an enigmatic storm. She was afraid she had gone too far, been too eager, made a fool of herself, but he had moved away only to ease the sweater he wore over his head and cast it aside, and when their mouths merged once again, she felt a fever of electricity fill her and instinctively moved her hands to the waistband of his jeans, working the button free.
    The next few minutes were a blur. She remembered his hand on her face, his fingers tracing the bones of her jawline and cheek. And she remembered his eyes on hers, remembered the color of them, the tempest within them, their touch as real as the stroke of his fingers. His shoes and jeans were discarded in quick succession, and then they were lying together on the bed, and she realized that her dreams had been nothing but teasing foreplay compared to the reality of the man. She was fascinated by every aspect of him, the sun-bronzed sheen of his flesh, the strength of his fingers and their calloused touch, the length of his legs, the hard muscles of his chest…She felt as if they’d been touching forever, as if his kisses fell everywhere. He moved with unbridled passion, and she met him with the same. They made love feverishly, desperate for the moment of climax, yet holding back, unwilling for this wordless communication to end. They were bold lovers, shy lovers, anguished and eager. In the end, she lay still long enough to feel the teasing progress of his lips and tongue down the length of her, and then the weight of his body atop hers, those storm-gray eyes locked with hers once again, and the delicious slide of his erection inside her, and that, like his first touch, was like a hot wind that seemed to sweep through her entire being.
    They moved in a symphony outside of time, slow and deep, then faster, feverishly, more urgently. She clung to him, nipped his shoulder, bathed his neck with kisses, and felt the fullness of his possession with an intensity that threatened her sanity. She was lost in the rampant thunder of their hearts, the gasping of their breath and the eternal rhythm that had taken root in her being.
    His fingers threaded through hers, clutching, and she closed her eyes against the climax that exploded through her like a storm in a desert. And she felt him above her, tension constricting his every muscle, then releasing, and heard him cry her name as his own climax seized him. He was with her when the ricocheting thunder of her heart began a slower beat, when she began to breathe again as if there were suddenly more air in the world, and when the room itself came back into focus.
    Then, suddenly, she began to wonder what to say as the ticking of the clock became audible and she felt a chill along her naked flesh.
    But words were apparently not so hard for him. He rolled to his side, but his arm remained around her, pulling close, and he whispered softly, “Do you know how long I’ve fought this?”
    â€œI thought you didn’t find me attractive,” she admitted.
    She was grateful for the husky sound of his laughter, and the way he touched her again, his fingers moving over her cheek and jaw, as if marveling at the structure of them. And his eyes, gray mist now, slightly clouded, stared at her as if he couldn’t believe how foolish she’d been. She wondered if she would ever really know him, know what lurked behind his strength and passion, his determination, his