Moondance Beach by Susan Donovan Page A

to be seen.
    That voice
. He had never heard it before, not the adult version of it, anyway. It was slightly husky but feminine. Soft, but clear enough to carry right up the staircase, brush along the back of his neck, and settle in his ears.
    An image flashed in his mind. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes, swaying black hair, a knowing half smile, and the sweet, soft terrain of the female torso—lounging on the sea floor, waiting for her lover to return.
    Duncan’s legs felt weak, but he made it up both flights of stairs and down the hall without taking a rest. He read for a while. His eyes wandered to the painting. He turnedon the TV. His gaze traveled along her shape. He turned off the lights. He still envisioned her in his mind’s eye.
    And then, unbelievable as it seemed, he was with her.
    Her touch was silky soft and hot on his skin, her mouth wet and greedy upon his. Damn, it had been so long since he’d held a woman in his arms. But this? This was different. Duncan knew instinctively that she wasn’t just a woman. She was
his
woman. For the first time in his life, his touch had become a devoted caress, and his need originated in love.
    He rolled with her, her body sliding along his, her arms around his neck, his hands all over her hips and thighs and ass. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted so much more. She laughed, and his whole being rose up to meet the husky, feminine sound. Where were they? In the sea? In a field of wildflowers? In a bed protected by an endless blanket of stars? Somehow he knew they were all those places and none of them, that the only important thing was that they were together, and ahhh . . . Her hot little mouth had just moved down the front of his body and she wrapped him up in a silky embrace. It was almost too much to bear. Such an outpouring of giving. Teasing licks and sucks that drove him to the edge. Duncan grabbed long and thick sections of her dark hair in his hand, fascinated at how it spilled between his fingers. The pleasure expanded; the need increased. He could not wait another second.
    He was inside her, his eyes locked on hers, and it was like nothing he’d ever known. She was his. She had always been his, and he could not enter her deep enough. This beautiful woman closed her eyes and cried his name. Yes, he wanted this for her. Yes, she was falling apart beneath him, breaking free, flying so high that her only tether washer love for him and his love for her. He climaxed with her, and the instant was so beautiful, it danced on the edge of pain. He wanted to call out her name as he emptied his soul into hers, but his tongue caught . . . The words weren’t there. He didn’t know them.
    Her name! What was her name? Who was this woman? As hard as he tried, his brain remained mired in mud, spinning its wheels. And that’s when she slipped through his embrace and disappeared, carried away like an osprey feather on a wave, like smoke on the wind.
    Duncan jolted awake with a gasp and flipped on the light. He touched his fingers to his face and found tears rolling down his cheeks. Tears.
Un-fucking-believable
. The last time he had cried was seventh grade.
    He dropped his head into his hands. How was it that this particular nightmare had cracked him more than the ones filled with bombs and blood and death? Why did he feel this particular loss so deeply? Why was there so much grief?
    He did not understand the symbolism of the dream, but he had enough sense to know that he had just allowed something precious to slip through his fingers. The sadness he felt was loss. Regret.
    Duncan stretched, then carefully walked toward the fireplace, knowing what had to be done. He reached high and lifted the gilded frame over his head, carried it out into the hallway, then flipped the painting around before he leaned it against the wall.
    Tomorrow morning, after he’d gotten some rest and pulled himself together, he would find a place for it in the attic. Way off in a corner somewhere. Away from