The Dead Room by Heather Graham Page B

their lips locked, their hands bumped as they drew her nightgown over her head, both of them working to get the garment out of the way. And then she was against him, flesh against flesh, and he was warm and vital, hard muscle and taut sinew, his heartbeat thundering in rhythm with her own. She let her fingers play over his shoulders, slide down his back, clasp his buttocks. In turn, he drew her even closer, fitting her body to his own. It seemed as if they kissed forever, lips locked, bodies straining to be ever closer, as if they could crawl inside each other. She touched him…and touched him….
    It was sweet and aching and poignant.
    And it was a dream….
    At last he pulled away, an apparition in her mind, but one that seemed so real. She met his eyes for a moment, the deep, dark, dazzling blue eyes that had so teased and loved her throughout most of her life. “Rebel,” he breathed. “Damn, I’ve missed you.”
    She stroked a strand of hair away from his eyes.
    â€œThere really is no life without you,” she murmured.
    He shook his head. “Yes, there is. There has to be,” he told her. And then his lips curved into that smile that always took her breath away. “But not tonight.”
    And then he began to make love to her, his lips caressing her flesh, tender, provocative. His fingertips danced along her arms, her collarbone, her breasts. Delicate kisses followed, growing more forceful, teasing…the stroke of his tongue, the brush of his teeth, his lips…barely there, so that she strained toward him in search of sensation.
    He moved against her, her wraith of the night, his flesh and vitality eliciting her own growing arousal. As intimate as he had always been, his kisses found her abdomen, the brush of his hair teasing her midriff. His hands moved down her inner thighs, spreading them wide as he lowered his head, leaving a whisper of sweet wet fire everywhere his mouth fell. She felt the spiraling ache of longing grow until it approached madness, and she strained against him, whispered his name, threaded her fingers through his hair. He made love to her with the hot wired tension of his body and the searing caress of his lips and tongue, until she was writhing and whispering and finally all but sobbing his name.
    And then he rose above her again before driving into her with the passion she had never forgotten.
    Her arms were locked around him, her hips rocking with his. His hands cradled her buttocks, pulling her against him, until it seemed they really had become one. She arched, quivered, her heart thundering as she strove to get even closer to him, soaring on a cloud of dreams and ecstasy. His mouth found hers again, melding against it just as she melded into him. He stroked and drove deeper, until the fire seemed to consume her. She wanted it go on forever, wanted to reach the promised climax, to know that shattering moment of completion once again….
    Finally it came. She cried out his name, shuddering as the world seemed to explode around her, within her. And she felt him, felt him, as he tensed, frame hard as steel, haunches taut and straining. She heard the hoarse cry that fell from his lips, felt him as he fell against her, drawing her fully into his arms once again, holding her.
    â€œMatt?”
    â€œShh.”
    â€œBut, Matt…”
    His arms were still around her. His fingers smoothed back the dampness of her hair. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream.”
    And there in his arms, she did.
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    In the morning, of course, she woke alone.
    But the dream was fresh in her mind.
    She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe dreams were better than nothing, than the loss, the ache of loneliness, that never seemed to leave her.
    Or maybe, as Brad had told her, she needed to come to terms with the past, to get on with her life.
    She rose, showered and dressed for a day in the trenches in jeans, a blue denim shirt and sneakers. They were