like.”
“You’re on!” she rejoined gleefully. “And what’s this about doubting my prowess as a salesman— saleswoman if you’re into lib jargon?”
“I’m not, and neither are you, thank the Lord. I didn’t say you can’t make a living at it. You’re obviously doing it, but what about those little extras you’re so fond of, such as lobsters thermidor and Mercedes sports cars? Don’t tell me your commissions cover such luxuries because I won’t believe it. No, there’s a man somewhere in the background and I’m becoming increasingly curious about him. Feel like taking your hair down, love?”
She remained silent. Kiel’s tone had been light and playful, but there was an underlying thread of steel . . . or was it just her imagination? Was she letting past history color present relationships too much? “I feel like taking a nap, is what I feel like taking,” she prevaricated, snuggling deeper into her seat and closing her eyes. “If I start talking in my sleep, don’t listen; it’s only the horseradish talking. It always gives me bad dreams.”
“If you start mumbling in your sleep, I’ll pull over and listen. I have an idea that what goes on under that lazy, spotted exterior of yours would make mighty fascinating listening.”
She hoped he was teasing. Somehow, she sensed a deeper note under his surface lightness, and things were precarious enough without imagining things. She pretended to be asleep until she felt him gearing down for Wimble Court. There was a particular pattern of patches on the pavement that sang against the tires with an unmistakable beat and she sat up and stretched, surprised to find she had really dozed.
Tonight he walked her up her stairs, one arm around her and their hips moving together with a fascinating rhythm as they jostled each other on the narrow treads, and when they reached the top, Kiel took the key from her nerveless fingers and unlocked her door. Before turning on the lights, he revolved her deliberately in his arms, murmured the word, “Onions,” and lowered his mouth to her own.
In spite of herself, Willy was caught off guard, for he hadn’t kissed her since that night they went dancing, and now she felt all her old fears rushing in on her. Against his intense virility she was utterly helpless, for her own traitorous body negated the warnings of her cautious mind. As his kiss deepened, probing, tasting, provoking her into a response, her arms went around his waist and her fingers dug into the satin-hard muscles of his back, and he groaned and hauled her breathlessly close to him, making her alarmingly aware of his aggressive masculinity. Taking the lobe of her ear into his mouth, he breathed her name over and over and each stroke of his breath on her sensitized nerves brought her closer and closer to surrender.
One of his hands moved up to her breast and she curved into the pressure, craving it as a starving man craves food, while deep inside her some flickering fragment of rationality told her she was courting disaster. She had been hurt badly enough, the voice of sanity whispered, when only her pride had been involved, but what if more were concerned in this case? Kiel Faulkner was a man apart, a man whose natural dominance had nothing to do with what he owned, but with what he was, and any sexual entanglement with a man of his caliber could only spell disaster.
Even as her frantic mind sent messages of caution, her willful body was growing more and more lethargic, its senses drugged with the sweet narcotic of passion. Her bands slid slowly down his sides to his hips, digging into the hard muscles convulsively in a way that had an immediate physiological effect on him as a man.
“God, Willy, I want you so much I’m going out of my mind! You—Come on,” he growled, half-dragging her in the direction of the bedroom.
“No . . . Kiel, no,” she pleaded in a last-ditch effort to slow the lemminglike course of self-destruction.
“What is
“You’re on!” she rejoined gleefully. “And what’s this about doubting my prowess as a salesman— saleswoman if you’re into lib jargon?”
“I’m not, and neither are you, thank the Lord. I didn’t say you can’t make a living at it. You’re obviously doing it, but what about those little extras you’re so fond of, such as lobsters thermidor and Mercedes sports cars? Don’t tell me your commissions cover such luxuries because I won’t believe it. No, there’s a man somewhere in the background and I’m becoming increasingly curious about him. Feel like taking your hair down, love?”
She remained silent. Kiel’s tone had been light and playful, but there was an underlying thread of steel . . . or was it just her imagination? Was she letting past history color present relationships too much? “I feel like taking a nap, is what I feel like taking,” she prevaricated, snuggling deeper into her seat and closing her eyes. “If I start talking in my sleep, don’t listen; it’s only the horseradish talking. It always gives me bad dreams.”
“If you start mumbling in your sleep, I’ll pull over and listen. I have an idea that what goes on under that lazy, spotted exterior of yours would make mighty fascinating listening.”
She hoped he was teasing. Somehow, she sensed a deeper note under his surface lightness, and things were precarious enough without imagining things. She pretended to be asleep until she felt him gearing down for Wimble Court. There was a particular pattern of patches on the pavement that sang against the tires with an unmistakable beat and she sat up and stretched, surprised to find she had really dozed.
Tonight he walked her up her stairs, one arm around her and their hips moving together with a fascinating rhythm as they jostled each other on the narrow treads, and when they reached the top, Kiel took the key from her nerveless fingers and unlocked her door. Before turning on the lights, he revolved her deliberately in his arms, murmured the word, “Onions,” and lowered his mouth to her own.
In spite of herself, Willy was caught off guard, for he hadn’t kissed her since that night they went dancing, and now she felt all her old fears rushing in on her. Against his intense virility she was utterly helpless, for her own traitorous body negated the warnings of her cautious mind. As his kiss deepened, probing, tasting, provoking her into a response, her arms went around his waist and her fingers dug into the satin-hard muscles of his back, and he groaned and hauled her breathlessly close to him, making her alarmingly aware of his aggressive masculinity. Taking the lobe of her ear into his mouth, he breathed her name over and over and each stroke of his breath on her sensitized nerves brought her closer and closer to surrender.
One of his hands moved up to her breast and she curved into the pressure, craving it as a starving man craves food, while deep inside her some flickering fragment of rationality told her she was courting disaster. She had been hurt badly enough, the voice of sanity whispered, when only her pride had been involved, but what if more were concerned in this case? Kiel Faulkner was a man apart, a man whose natural dominance had nothing to do with what he owned, but with what he was, and any sexual entanglement with a man of his caliber could only spell disaster.
Even as her frantic mind sent messages of caution, her willful body was growing more and more lethargic, its senses drugged with the sweet narcotic of passion. Her bands slid slowly down his sides to his hips, digging into the hard muscles convulsively in a way that had an immediate physiological effect on him as a man.
“God, Willy, I want you so much I’m going out of my mind! You—Come on,” he growled, half-dragging her in the direction of the bedroom.
“No . . . Kiel, no,” she pleaded in a last-ditch effort to slow the lemminglike course of self-destruction.
“What is
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