beat, answering the male challenge with feminine grace and endurance.
And then she surpassed the wild drumbeats with passionate gyrations that brought cries of “Pele!” from the audience, cries that were echoed by the panpipes’ hoarse, primitive harmonies.
Without hesitation the drummer matched the increased speed of the dance.
Matched her.
A sense of inevitability, of uncanny rightness, streaked through Nicole like lightning, bringing a new heat in its wake. Here, at last, was a man who was Pele’s equal.
She forgot the audience, forgot the stage, forgot everything but the dance, giving herself entirely to the elemental rhythms called by the stranger’s hard, skilled hands. She was no longer Nicole Ballard, haole. She was Pele, alive among the volcano’s fires, calling for a lover to equal her dance.
And the drummer answered.
Thunder poured from the drums, a wild breaking wave of sound made up of distinctly individual beats. Each pulse of drumming was instantly met by a sinuous motion of Nicole’s body, as though she and the drummer shared the same heartbeat, the same breath, the same network of nerves burning with messages of fire.
The panpipes gave out short notes, their panting cries telling of human endurance stretched to its breaking point.
The drumbeat increased yet again, a god calling to a taunting goddess. Her answer was an incandescent shimmer of motion and color, a woman on fire with the sensual demands of the drums.
She was Pele, inexhaustible, and the drummer was her more-than-human lover.
At a distance Nicole sensed the fatigue in her own body, the unintentional blurring of the clean motions of the dance. It was the same for the sound of the drums, a slurring of perfection.
And then she found out that she didn’t want to dance the drummer off the stage. He deserved far better than that, for he had brought out the best in her in a way no man ever had. He had called out both the discipline and the wildness, letting her burn within his primal rhythms.
Now those rhythms were faltering.
With a soft cry she turned to face the drummer, holding out her hands in triumph and supplication.
Even as she turned, the drumming peaked. Simultaneously the stage lights vanished, leaving drummer and dancer equally triumphant, sharing the victorious midnight.
Into the silence and darkness came applause like storm waves breaking.
Nicole didn’t hear anything but her own heart, her own breath. She felt a man’s powerful arms close around her, felt her own hands sliding over his hot skin, and then their mouths joined as though they were lovers separated since the beginning of time.
Chase pulled Nicole against his body even as he opened her mouth beneath his. There was no hesitation in him, no awkwardness, simply a hot certainty that this woman belonged in his arms. He couldn’t taste enough of her, feel enough of her, get close enough to her. His arms tightened around her until he arched her strong, lithe body hard against his. His tongue claimed her mouth fully, penetrated deeply, repeatedly.
With a husky moan she struggled in his arms, but not to get away. She wanted to be closer still, inside his very skin, as hot as the blood pounding through both of them. He tasted like heaven and hell, and she was stretched between, wanting to know it all.
Needing it .
To Chase, the sweet pain of her nails scoring his naked back was like a triple shot of whiskey. He forgot the stage, forgot the audience, forgot everything but the heat and taste of her exploding through him, destroying his normal control. His arms shifted, lifting her, pulling her legs around his waist. She clung to him like fire, surrounding him with the kind of heat and need he had never felt before.
Nor had she. She didn’t know where she was or who she was. She knew only that this was the kind of fire the burning goddess within her had always sought and never found. Until now. Now she was the flame itself, twisting, burning,
And then she surpassed the wild drumbeats with passionate gyrations that brought cries of “Pele!” from the audience, cries that were echoed by the panpipes’ hoarse, primitive harmonies.
Without hesitation the drummer matched the increased speed of the dance.
Matched her.
A sense of inevitability, of uncanny rightness, streaked through Nicole like lightning, bringing a new heat in its wake. Here, at last, was a man who was Pele’s equal.
She forgot the audience, forgot the stage, forgot everything but the dance, giving herself entirely to the elemental rhythms called by the stranger’s hard, skilled hands. She was no longer Nicole Ballard, haole. She was Pele, alive among the volcano’s fires, calling for a lover to equal her dance.
And the drummer answered.
Thunder poured from the drums, a wild breaking wave of sound made up of distinctly individual beats. Each pulse of drumming was instantly met by a sinuous motion of Nicole’s body, as though she and the drummer shared the same heartbeat, the same breath, the same network of nerves burning with messages of fire.
The panpipes gave out short notes, their panting cries telling of human endurance stretched to its breaking point.
The drumbeat increased yet again, a god calling to a taunting goddess. Her answer was an incandescent shimmer of motion and color, a woman on fire with the sensual demands of the drums.
She was Pele, inexhaustible, and the drummer was her more-than-human lover.
At a distance Nicole sensed the fatigue in her own body, the unintentional blurring of the clean motions of the dance. It was the same for the sound of the drums, a slurring of perfection.
And then she found out that she didn’t want to dance the drummer off the stage. He deserved far better than that, for he had brought out the best in her in a way no man ever had. He had called out both the discipline and the wildness, letting her burn within his primal rhythms.
Now those rhythms were faltering.
With a soft cry she turned to face the drummer, holding out her hands in triumph and supplication.
Even as she turned, the drumming peaked. Simultaneously the stage lights vanished, leaving drummer and dancer equally triumphant, sharing the victorious midnight.
Into the silence and darkness came applause like storm waves breaking.
Nicole didn’t hear anything but her own heart, her own breath. She felt a man’s powerful arms close around her, felt her own hands sliding over his hot skin, and then their mouths joined as though they were lovers separated since the beginning of time.
Chase pulled Nicole against his body even as he opened her mouth beneath his. There was no hesitation in him, no awkwardness, simply a hot certainty that this woman belonged in his arms. He couldn’t taste enough of her, feel enough of her, get close enough to her. His arms tightened around her until he arched her strong, lithe body hard against his. His tongue claimed her mouth fully, penetrated deeply, repeatedly.
With a husky moan she struggled in his arms, but not to get away. She wanted to be closer still, inside his very skin, as hot as the blood pounding through both of them. He tasted like heaven and hell, and she was stretched between, wanting to know it all.
Needing it .
To Chase, the sweet pain of her nails scoring his naked back was like a triple shot of whiskey. He forgot the stage, forgot the audience, forgot everything but the heat and taste of her exploding through him, destroying his normal control. His arms shifted, lifting her, pulling her legs around his waist. She clung to him like fire, surrounding him with the kind of heat and need he had never felt before.
Nor had she. She didn’t know where she was or who she was. She knew only that this was the kind of fire the burning goddess within her had always sought and never found. Until now. Now she was the flame itself, twisting, burning,
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