Riding the Thunder by Deborah MacGillivray

suit covered more of Asha’s body than Netta’s bikini—at least the front did. A deep scoop neck plunged low on her breasts and had French-cut legs, very flattering. The back was what tended to be not all there. The straps met on the shoulders and merged into an inch-wide strip that followed the line of her spine down to the thong bottom.
    At least she’d been smart enough to put it on and give her reflection a hard inspection in the full-length mirror before coming to the pool. She’d lost seven pounds since she bought it, which only accented her 34D chest. Asha had never felt comfortable in a bikini, though surprisingly, she felt at ease, confident in this bit of nothing. Or had. Now she wished she’d played coward and gone with the more sedate suit that covered her arse!
    Once more Jago demonstrated their fey connection. Turning his back to the pool wall, he stretched out his beautiful arms along the drain in a signal that he wasn’t moving until she took off her black robe. This ability to read him unnerved her.
    What would it feel like to make love to a man so attuned to you that his thoughts brushed your mind? The near telepathy would see her arousal stronger, as she would know what he felt, experienced, doubling their passion since he’d feed off her reactions, too.
    Ignoring the hard fist to her womb, she slowly rose to her feet, meeting his dare. She untied the belt around her terry robe, and let it slide off her shoulders to pool around her feet. His smug smile vanished, and one of Jago’s arms dropped off the edge of the drain.
    â€œHope he didn’t skin it.” She chuckled. Shoulders squared, she sauntered the few paces to the side stairs where she entered the pool’s shallow end, aware that Jago’s eyes tracked her every move.
    As she used the steps to enter into the tantalizingly warm water, Asha glanced down at the silken liquid gently lapping at her legs. Strangely lightheaded, a spinning sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her. She blinked.
    Everything shifted.
    The pool was no longer enclosed in the glasshouse, but open to the air. A soft spring breeze stirred the circle of red, blue, green and orange Japanese lanterns . . .
    Laura listened to Gene Pitney crooning the poignant “Town Without Pity,” the record spinning on a player set up underneath the wrought-iron staircase that went straight to the roof of The Windmill’s clubhouse. She half-heartedly took in the paper lanterns that ran along the rim of the sundeck, illuminating couples slow dancing in the deep shadows. Young men wore tuxedo jackets, while girls in full-skirted formals had their hair up in angel curls.
    â€œJunior prom for Leesburg High,” she muttered.
    Her sigh was dejected. Small wonder. The previous week had seen a flurry of activity in the small town. Excited for weeks, the girls had picked out formals and had their shoes dyed to match their gowns. Fearing not being able to get in for the all-important day, they had set up appointments well ahead of time to have their hair done at Juanita’s Wash & Curl.
    Laura failed to share the excitement of this night. Oh, her gown was beautiful—a pale yellow, a shade most girls couldn’t wear without looking sallow. On her, it was perfect. Like her classmates, she’d also had her shoes dyed the same delicate shade of her formal.
    â€œJust going through the motion,” she confessed to the soft night.
    Drawing the line, she’d worn only one petticoat and not starched so it stood out like an ironing board. She had fixed her own hair, eschewing Juanita’s beehive or angel curls specials, and wore it up, but in a simpler style, with a hint of the Victorian era. She felt pretty. Even so, she wished she was anywhere but here.
    Because Tommy wasn’t her date.
    â€œJerk.” She choked back tears.
    If Tommy had escorted her, the night would’ve been magical. She’d nearly made herself sick