noticed the open door and the little room beyond where he’d left a light burning on a desk, and a sleek black computer running.
“Is that your office?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’ve interrupted your work, then.”
“It’s not pressing.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you ask if you want to see?”
“I do,” she admitted. “If it’s all right.”
In answer he simply gestured and waited for her to step into the room ahead of him.
The room was small, but the window was wide enough to let in that stunning view of the cliffs. She wondered how anyone could concentrate on work with that to dream on. Then laughed when she saw what was on the monitor screen.
“So you were playing games? I know this one. My students were wild for it. The Secrets of Myor.”
“Don’t you play games?”
“I’m terrible at them. Especially this kind, because I tend to get wrapped up in them, and then every step is so vital. I can’t take the pressure.” Laughing again, she leaned closer, studying the screen with its lightning-stalked castle and glowing fairies. “I’ve only gotten to the third level where Brinda the witch queen promises to open the Door Of Enchantment if you can find the three stones. I usually find one, then fall into the Pit of Forever.”
“There are always traps on the way to enchantment. Or there wouldn’t be pleasure in finding it. Do youwant to try again?”
“No—my palms get damp and my fingers fumble. It’s humiliating.”
“Some games you take seriously, some you don’t.”
“They’re all serious to me.” She glanced at the CD jacket, admiring the illustration, then blinked at the small lettering: Copyright by the Donovan Legacy. “It’s your game?” Delighted, she straightened, turned. “You create computer games? That’s so clever.”
“It’s entertaining.”
“To someone who’s barely stumbled their way onto the Internet, it’s genius. Myor’s a wonderful story. The graphics are gorgeous, but I really admire the story itself. It’s just magical. A challenging fairy tale with rewards and consequences.”
Her eyes took on tiny silver flecks of light when she was happy, he noted. And the scent of her warmed with her mood. He knew how to make it warm still more, and how to cause those silver flecks to drown in deep, dark blue.
“All fairy tales have both. I like your hair this way.” He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers through it, testing weight and texture. “Tumbled and tangled.”
Her throat snapped closed. “I forgot to braid it this morning.”
“The wind’s had it,” he murmured, lifting a handful to his face. “I can smell the wind on it, and the sea.” It was reckless, he knew, but he had dreamed as well. And he remembered every rise and fall. “I’d taste both on your skin.”
Her knees had jellied. The blood was swimming so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her head. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. So she only stood, staring into his eyes, waiting.
“Rowan Murray with the fairy eyes. Do you want me to touch you?” He laid a hand on her heart, felt each separate hammer blow pound between the gentle curves of her breasts. “Like this?” Then spread his fingers, circled them over one slope, under.
Her bones dissolved, her eyes clouded, and the breath shuddered between her lips in a yielding sigh. Hisfingers lay lightly on her, but the heat from them seemed to scorch through to flesh. Still, she moved neither toward him nor away.
“You’ve only to say no,” he murmured, “when I ask if you want me to taste you.”
But her head fell back, and those clouded eyes closed when he lowered his head to graze his teeth along her jawline. “The sea and the wind, and innocence as well.” His own needs thickened his voice, but there was an edge on it. “Will you give me that as well, do nothing to stop me taking it?” He eased back, waiting, willing her eyes to open and look into his. “If I
“Is that your office?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’ve interrupted your work, then.”
“It’s not pressing.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you ask if you want to see?”
“I do,” she admitted. “If it’s all right.”
In answer he simply gestured and waited for her to step into the room ahead of him.
The room was small, but the window was wide enough to let in that stunning view of the cliffs. She wondered how anyone could concentrate on work with that to dream on. Then laughed when she saw what was on the monitor screen.
“So you were playing games? I know this one. My students were wild for it. The Secrets of Myor.”
“Don’t you play games?”
“I’m terrible at them. Especially this kind, because I tend to get wrapped up in them, and then every step is so vital. I can’t take the pressure.” Laughing again, she leaned closer, studying the screen with its lightning-stalked castle and glowing fairies. “I’ve only gotten to the third level where Brinda the witch queen promises to open the Door Of Enchantment if you can find the three stones. I usually find one, then fall into the Pit of Forever.”
“There are always traps on the way to enchantment. Or there wouldn’t be pleasure in finding it. Do youwant to try again?”
“No—my palms get damp and my fingers fumble. It’s humiliating.”
“Some games you take seriously, some you don’t.”
“They’re all serious to me.” She glanced at the CD jacket, admiring the illustration, then blinked at the small lettering: Copyright by the Donovan Legacy. “It’s your game?” Delighted, she straightened, turned. “You create computer games? That’s so clever.”
“It’s entertaining.”
“To someone who’s barely stumbled their way onto the Internet, it’s genius. Myor’s a wonderful story. The graphics are gorgeous, but I really admire the story itself. It’s just magical. A challenging fairy tale with rewards and consequences.”
Her eyes took on tiny silver flecks of light when she was happy, he noted. And the scent of her warmed with her mood. He knew how to make it warm still more, and how to cause those silver flecks to drown in deep, dark blue.
“All fairy tales have both. I like your hair this way.” He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers through it, testing weight and texture. “Tumbled and tangled.”
Her throat snapped closed. “I forgot to braid it this morning.”
“The wind’s had it,” he murmured, lifting a handful to his face. “I can smell the wind on it, and the sea.” It was reckless, he knew, but he had dreamed as well. And he remembered every rise and fall. “I’d taste both on your skin.”
Her knees had jellied. The blood was swimming so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her head. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. So she only stood, staring into his eyes, waiting.
“Rowan Murray with the fairy eyes. Do you want me to touch you?” He laid a hand on her heart, felt each separate hammer blow pound between the gentle curves of her breasts. “Like this?” Then spread his fingers, circled them over one slope, under.
Her bones dissolved, her eyes clouded, and the breath shuddered between her lips in a yielding sigh. Hisfingers lay lightly on her, but the heat from them seemed to scorch through to flesh. Still, she moved neither toward him nor away.
“You’ve only to say no,” he murmured, “when I ask if you want me to taste you.”
But her head fell back, and those clouded eyes closed when he lowered his head to graze his teeth along her jawline. “The sea and the wind, and innocence as well.” His own needs thickened his voice, but there was an edge on it. “Will you give me that as well, do nothing to stop me taking it?” He eased back, waiting, willing her eyes to open and look into his. “If I