Miami Midnight by Maggie; Davis Page B

damp, firm mouth touch her shoulder, then it descended to nuzzle her lace-edged bra.
    In the back of her mind she realized she was going to let him make love to her. It was insane. It was inevitable. He murmured something in her ear as his fingers slid under her brassiere. Then he pulled it aside and his mouth was on her bare flesh.
    Gaby’s mind reeled. She wanted this beautiful man who smelled of rain and night and storm to touch her everywhere. His lips tugged at her nipples and she writhed, lifting her hips against him, a soft, throaty sound on her lips. She wanted him to hurry. She wanted to pull his clothes away, take in his hard body, his shaking, fiery hunger. Her exploring hand pressed boldly between them, outlining his sex under the damp fabric. A groan broke from him, his control stretched to the limit.
    There was the sudden rasp of a zipper. Then his hand was guiding hers. “Don’t say no,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you. God, how I want you!”
    Gaby was beyond denying him anything. His hand closed hers around hard flesh, hot to the touch. She couldn’t believe the power, the size of him. His clenched, shadowy face was right above her. She saw him as he responded to her touch with an expression of almost helpless ecstasy.
    Then his mouth was on hers, claiming her in such a blazingly exultant kiss that when he stopped, she clung to him wide-eyed, breathless for more.
    “Are you all right?” he gasped. He was trembling with passion. “Tell me I’m not making you do this against your will.”
    She stared up at him with her lips parted, not sure what he’d said.
    Whatever this strange dream was about, this mad sensual fantasy there in the lightning-wracked darkness, she didn’t want it to stop. Against her will? She was beyond everything except her own body’s clamoring wildness!
    When she didn’t answer, his arms tightened around her. He lowered his head and pressed his forehead to hers. Several long moments passed. “Oh damn.” He groaned. “Oh damn.”
    His lean frame was still tense with desire, yet he lay motionless. What was wrong? she wondered desperately. Why had he stopped ... when she didn’t want him to?
    “I can’t,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Not like this.”
    She heard his harsh, indrawn breath, felt his body strain even more tightly against her. His narrow hips moved against her hand once, convulsively, then stilled.
    Instinctively, she lifted her free hand to touch the side of his face. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to her throat. Every muscle of his body tensed as she took his weight, his heavy, dragging gasps, for long moments. He had stopped. Passion had stopped. Everything had stopped.
    She heard him sigh. Then he lifted her hand away.
    In a lithe movement, he stood up by the couch, a white shadow in shirt and the trousers he hastily zipped up. He gazed at her without speaking, the expression on his handsome face indistinct. Then, abruptly, he turned away.
    Slowly, Gaby raised herself on one elbow. The storm was moving off, lightning no longer lit the room. She was aware of her own open shirt, her exposed breasts, her loosened hair drifting over her bare shoulders. What in the world had happened? Her eyes strained into the darkness. Should she be glad they had stopped? But why hadn’t this powerful, virile man made love to her?
    James Santo Marin, she realized slowly, was leaving. Halfway across the dark sala his feet encountered a water-filled pan and he shied, cursed, then gave it a ferocious kick. It clattered away across the tile floor. He strode out onto the sun porch and she heard him curse again, fervently.
    Then the door slammed and he was gone.
    Gaby lay where she was, listening to a last low growl of thunder receding across Biscayne Bay. Her whole body still throbbed with interrupted, unsatisfied desire. And she was light-headed with tiredness. It threatened to drag her into sleep right there on the couch. Gingerly, she touched her hands to