pushed against his, a subtle brush that instantly overwhelmed all his senses.
Clay suddenly felt as if he were swimming in the Gulf on the edge of a whirlpool of desire, fighting the roaring current straining to pull him in while colored lights flickered in the distance. He was no stranger to lovemaking; he’d been in these waters before. But here in Francie’s arms, they were incredibly deeper and more turbulent than he expected, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind, as his body hardened to the point of pain. How easy it would be to dive in, be swallowed up in the rush of need and want, surrender to the maelstrom of passion in her embrace.
He knew what it was to want a woman, but the strength of this yearning, this craving for her that burned in his body surprised him. He knew what it was to kiss a woman, to hold her in his arms, to make love with her until they were both exhausted. But never before had anything felt like this kiss, so all-consuming, so all-encompassing, so demanding of . . . more .
It wasn’t enough, he would never be able to get enough of her. Again his mind’s eye conjured up the whirlpool beckoning him deeper, he felt the vortex sucking at him, and his arms tightened even more around her, his siren and lifeline all in one.
Only some primitive feeling of self-preservation, or maybe hereditary caution, or a practitioner’s innate intuition, or, hell, he didn’t know what, made him pull himself back from the abyss. He ended the kiss but held her close to his chest for a long moment, struggling to sort out his feelings and control his body.
When she took a shaky breath, he realized how tightly he was holding her and loosened his arms. He drew back so that he could see her eyes, and she blinked at him in a dazed fashion. “Did I hurt you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, all he could manage from tortured lungs.
She shook her head slowly, but said nothing, her eyes still on his. The smoky brown of her irises was almost obscured by her dilated pupils, and she looked as stunned as he felt.
He put trembling hands on her shoulders to brace them both and stepped back. His body protested the separation, but he ignored it. “I think we’ve got this backward, Francie,” he said in a low, grating tone.
“Wh-what?” She took a deep breath and swallowed. She looked at his mouth and frowned slightly, as if he were speaking a foreign language and she was trying to understand him.
“About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.”
She licked her kiss-swollen lips, and he almost groaned at the sight. He had to get out of her apartment before he took advantage, too much advantage of her. It wasn’t yet time to take her to bed. Not that he didn’t want to, and not that she was in any state to deny him. But somehow he knew it was too soon, and the last thing he wanted was for her to regret their lovemaking.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he said, as he released her shoulders.
She swayed, but steadied. “Tomorrow,” she repeated in a husky voice.
The need to kiss her again flashed through him so strongly he could have howled, but he summoned the strength from somewhere and opened the door. “Tomorrow night,” he confirmed. He walked out and closed the door behind him. After one deep, deep inhalation of much-needed air, he forced himself to keep going down the steps and to his car.
Once inside the vehicle, Clay sat for several minutes, waiting for his body to relax enough so he could drive home safely. “Holy hell, where did all that come from?” he muttered later as he lay in bed, slowly rubbing the itch that seemed to emanate from under his breastbone. Exhausted, he slept.
After Clay left her apartment, Francie staggered to the couch and collapsed on it. Several minutes passed before her bones solidified again and she was able to sit upright. She ran her hands through her hair, and a few remaining hairpins fell into her lap. She held her head tightly and forced her mind to
Clay suddenly felt as if he were swimming in the Gulf on the edge of a whirlpool of desire, fighting the roaring current straining to pull him in while colored lights flickered in the distance. He was no stranger to lovemaking; he’d been in these waters before. But here in Francie’s arms, they were incredibly deeper and more turbulent than he expected, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind, as his body hardened to the point of pain. How easy it would be to dive in, be swallowed up in the rush of need and want, surrender to the maelstrom of passion in her embrace.
He knew what it was to want a woman, but the strength of this yearning, this craving for her that burned in his body surprised him. He knew what it was to kiss a woman, to hold her in his arms, to make love with her until they were both exhausted. But never before had anything felt like this kiss, so all-consuming, so all-encompassing, so demanding of . . . more .
It wasn’t enough, he would never be able to get enough of her. Again his mind’s eye conjured up the whirlpool beckoning him deeper, he felt the vortex sucking at him, and his arms tightened even more around her, his siren and lifeline all in one.
Only some primitive feeling of self-preservation, or maybe hereditary caution, or a practitioner’s innate intuition, or, hell, he didn’t know what, made him pull himself back from the abyss. He ended the kiss but held her close to his chest for a long moment, struggling to sort out his feelings and control his body.
When she took a shaky breath, he realized how tightly he was holding her and loosened his arms. He drew back so that he could see her eyes, and she blinked at him in a dazed fashion. “Did I hurt you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, all he could manage from tortured lungs.
She shook her head slowly, but said nothing, her eyes still on his. The smoky brown of her irises was almost obscured by her dilated pupils, and she looked as stunned as he felt.
He put trembling hands on her shoulders to brace them both and stepped back. His body protested the separation, but he ignored it. “I think we’ve got this backward, Francie,” he said in a low, grating tone.
“Wh-what?” She took a deep breath and swallowed. She looked at his mouth and frowned slightly, as if he were speaking a foreign language and she was trying to understand him.
“About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.”
She licked her kiss-swollen lips, and he almost groaned at the sight. He had to get out of her apartment before he took advantage, too much advantage of her. It wasn’t yet time to take her to bed. Not that he didn’t want to, and not that she was in any state to deny him. But somehow he knew it was too soon, and the last thing he wanted was for her to regret their lovemaking.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he said, as he released her shoulders.
She swayed, but steadied. “Tomorrow,” she repeated in a husky voice.
The need to kiss her again flashed through him so strongly he could have howled, but he summoned the strength from somewhere and opened the door. “Tomorrow night,” he confirmed. He walked out and closed the door behind him. After one deep, deep inhalation of much-needed air, he forced himself to keep going down the steps and to his car.
Once inside the vehicle, Clay sat for several minutes, waiting for his body to relax enough so he could drive home safely. “Holy hell, where did all that come from?” he muttered later as he lay in bed, slowly rubbing the itch that seemed to emanate from under his breastbone. Exhausted, he slept.
After Clay left her apartment, Francie staggered to the couch and collapsed on it. Several minutes passed before her bones solidified again and she was able to sit upright. She ran her hands through her hair, and a few remaining hairpins fell into her lap. She held her head tightly and forced her mind to
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