Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky Page A

Before her was a large, open room with a wall of solid glass which looked out upon the medley of early evening color that was Long Island Sound. Yellows and oranges skittered over the waves in long, rippling shards of light, blending with the gray of the water, the amber-hued stone and sand of the beach, and the darkening blue of the sky. It was a breathtakingly private moment for Justine, made even more precious by Sloane’s silent arrival.
    His arms slid around her gently as he joined her survey of the peaceful panorama. “Like it?” he murmured.
    â€œMmmmm:” Words seemed inadequate. Her hand moved up to cover his, holding it against her waist.
    â€œI’m glad.”
    For an eternity of silent appreciation they stood watching and absorbing the glory of the seascape. Justine felt a sense of serenity flow through her, a sense of contentment she had never known. If preservation of the moment in all its heartfelt beauty had been in any way or form possible, she would have fought for it. But serenity was fleeting—as
it would always be. Contentment was relative—as it too would always be.
    Only the present was a fact. And the fact was the need she had to be totally one with Sloane. If she’d deprived herself in the past, she’d had good reason. Now that reason eluded her as her body strained toward fulfillment. Silent yearnings sparked then flamed, fed by the solid mass of lean and muscled masculinity which braced her back, her hips, her thighs.
    Simultaneously Sloane felt the change. Turning her in his arms, he lowered his lips to kiss her softly. “I thought of you all the while I was away—picturing you here, wanting to hold you just like this. I need you, Justine. I—” The thought went unspoken as his attention was totally absorbed by her features, soft and open and overwhelmingly feminine in invitation.
    She was a gentle spring flower, tall and slender, brandy-budded and ready to bloom. Sloane was her sun. It had been his riveting command which had sparked her growth, this sense of unfolding deep within, this sense of awakening. Now nothing less than his total possession would see it to fruition. He was the catalyst, the most moving force to have ever entered her life. For him alone was she willing to put aside past vows and bask in the moment’s glory.
    His kiss drew her inexorably closer to him. His sensual appeal was an intoxicant, pushing all other thought from mind. As he held her back for a long moment, his hands explored her curves, exhausting their outer limits before moving inward. He inspired total submission with his knowing touch, exacting helpless sighs from her as his fingers caressed the fullness of her breasts, made even firmer by his stimulation. Intuitively seductive, Justine strained against him, her arms velvet petals stretching up to cling to his neck. Whatever Sloane did to her she wanted;
she wanted whatever he could give. Her life at that moment was Sloane; her being needed his for completion.
    Her breasts glowed in creamy sheen when he slid the sweater over her head, then released the catch of her bra and discarded it quickly. The warmth of his hands sent quakes of desire through her, heightening a need which only he could fill.
    But submission was not what he wanted. Taking her hand in his, he put it to his chest in silent command, urging her to touch him as he touched her. Instinct guided her fingers over and around the buttons of his shirt as, one by one, each was released. She gasped in wonder when the shirt fell to the floor, for it revealed a chest bronzed and broad, matted lightly with a T of gray-spiced curls that tapered to a narrow thread, then disappeared beneath the snap of his jeans.
    â€œGo on,” he urged softly, his urgency barely held in check. She touched him, timidly at first, then steadily thrilling to the glory of his body. Her fingertips traced a route from the leanness of his ribcage, made even leaner by his