Balancing Act by Fern Michaels Page A

to her own building emotions and desires. He rose to his feet, drawing her up into his arms, dipping his face to bury it in the hollow of her throat.

Chapter Six
    H e carried her into his darkened cottage, completely sure of his movements through the darkness. Rita nestled her face into his neck, hurrying him with playful touches of her tongue against the faint stubble of tomorrow’s beard. She loved the way he smelled: spicy, musky, and most of all, masculine.
    I’m like a girl again, she thought, delicious tremors racing through her body. I never thought I would feel this way again, all quivery inside, a little nervous in my stomach, more than a little light-headed. She had thought those sensations were left far behind her, that a woman her age would be too old, too knowledgeable about why her blood pressure rose, to respond with any spontaneity. It wasn’t so, she rejoiced. There was no such thing as “too old.” Here, inside her, were those old but never forgotten feelings: the skittishness of a new colt, the wild flutter of wings, the desire, no need, to please and be pleasured. In his arms she was as smooth and supple as that sixteen-year-old girl within her. Her hair was as dark as walnut, her skin as white as alabaster. She felt beautiful and, feeling it, became beautiful.
    He took her into his bedroom and gently placed her on his bed. She was aware of his scent in here—aftershave, soap and dampness from the adjoining bathroom, leather and tobacco. All aphrodisiacs to her senses.
    Twigg flicked on the night table lamp; it glowed dimly, filling the room with a cozy glow. “I want to see you, Rita. I want to watch you when I make love to you.” There was a huskiness in his voice, a seductive look in his eyes, that set her pulses racing. She watched his hands as they came down to undo the buttons on her blouse, slowly lifting it off her shoulders and kissing the newly bared flesh and the top of her breasts.
    She was mesmerized by his movements, a little frightened, very much aroused. Whispers filled her head as he kissed and petted her, telling her how much she pleased him, how very much he wanted her. One by one her garments came away under his hands, and always he abated the sudden chill of skin bared to cool night air with the caress of his hands and the touch of his lips. The sound of his voice, deep, throaty, brought echoing vibrations from somewhere deep within her. She responded to him totally, entirely, allowing him to be the aggressor, the maestro.
    She heard herself moaning with pleasure as his lips ignited tiny flames of fire she had thought were long cold and dead, swept like ashes in a winter wind. He was murmuring his pleasure in her, telling her she was beautiful, womanly, desirable.
    Rita wanted to be beautiful for him. Wanted to bring him pleasure, make him happy. At the center of Twigg’s pleasure she would find her own, waiting for her, exciting her, making her fully aware of herself as a woman. Standing before her, he began to undress. He was gold from the sun, slender and hard muscled. His chest was broad, his long arms powerful, his hips sleek and narrow. Gilt hair bloomed on his chest and threaded over his belly to thicken again in a darker grove between his thighs. His legs were long and lithely muscled, but it was to the darkness between his thighs that her eyes returned. His desire for her was evident in the proudness of his sex, and she reached out to touch him, her hands lovingly holding his maleness and falling between his thighs to that special fragility that was a man’s. His hands were in her hair, his eyes closed, head thrown back on the thick column of his neck. “I love how you touch me,” he told her softly, so softly, she might have only imagined he’d uttered the words.
    Her arms opened to him, taking him into her embrace as he slid down into the bed, sliding his nakedness against hers and reveling in the contact between them. She was electrically charged. His mouth