“Dance?”
She could not refuse, nor did she want to; that much was suddenly clear. To accept the dance, to ride the bull, to take a chance on love—for all these things you had to be willing to risk the pain.
Some people never managed it. They preferred to play it safe, to avoid being hurt at all costs. But to avoid being hurt was to avoid living. And life, like bull-riding, was a heart-pounding glory too precious to be missed.
She had vowed to live dangerously, and she would. There was no other way.
She turned to gaze at him there in the dimness. He was a warm shadow, yet solid. Real. She put her hand in his then went into his arms. They closed around her, drawing her firmly against the muscle-clad planes of his chest. Accepting, absorbing his hard strength, she closed her eyes.
Together, body to body, they shifted, drifting slowly around the narrow space of the balcony. It was an ancient instinct, the urge to move in seductive rhythm. They accepted it, sustained it, used it. They held each other until nerves and sinew sang to the music and the moment, until flesh and blood could stand no more. Until the music ended.
Race brushed the silk of her hair with his lips, grazed her forehead, sought her lips as she lifted her face blindly for his kiss. Inside, she felt a sweet, warm yielding. With infinite courtesy, she let him see it, allowed him to feel it.
His chest expanded on a deep-drawn breath, then he bent to place his arm under her knees, lifting her against his chest. In that close embrace, he moved inside, where he placed her on the wide, soft surface of the bed. His knee dented the surface beside her before he joined her in a smooth, controlled glide.
She made a soft sound of pleasure as he reached to touch her breast, cupping it in his warm grasp. It was only a prelude, however, to his gentle, yet thorough exploration of the curves and hollows of her body. He stroked her, holding, pressing with shuttered eyes and widespread fingers, as if he meant to memorize every inch of silken skin and each muscle and finely tuned bone beneath it.
He unbuttoned her shirtwaist, following the opening line with heated kisses as the edges parted. Exposing the lace of her bra, he brushed the firm swells under them with his mouth, letting her feel the heat of his breath, the wet lap of his tongue around the nipples. Taking the straining peaks between his lips, first one then the other, he teased them gently to berrylike tautness.
Barely breathing, she slipped the buttons of his shirt free and trailed her fingertips through the silk thicket of hair on his chest. Finding his flat male nipple, she rubbed it with the ball of her thumb. So enthralled was she by its abrupt contraction into knobbed hardness that she hardly noticed as he slid a bra strap from her shoulder.
The hot wetness of his mouth covered her bare nipple. She inhaled with a soft gasp that grew deeper as he applied delicate, deliberate suction.
His hands, oh, his hands were sure. She tried not to think why, tried not to think of other women he might have known. And succeeded, at least in part. By degrees the suite, the bed, the night faded, to be replaced by the touch and taste and scent of the man who held her, banished by the thunder of the blood in her veins.
She was on fire inside, lost in a world of hot, consuming sensation. Flushed with need, she reached out for him, giving him in full measure the pleasure he was extending with such care and generosity. Clothing was loosened and pulled away, then dropped from sight. The smoothness of silken percale sheets soothed their skin as they turned and stretched, sought and held, while supporting themselves on an elbow or a knee.
Licking, tasting, they learned about each other, imprinting the exact pattern of the molecules of their bodies on the circuits of minds and souls. He held the apex of her being in his hand, and she gave him unrestrained access. As he
She could not refuse, nor did she want to; that much was suddenly clear. To accept the dance, to ride the bull, to take a chance on love—for all these things you had to be willing to risk the pain.
Some people never managed it. They preferred to play it safe, to avoid being hurt at all costs. But to avoid being hurt was to avoid living. And life, like bull-riding, was a heart-pounding glory too precious to be missed.
She had vowed to live dangerously, and she would. There was no other way.
She turned to gaze at him there in the dimness. He was a warm shadow, yet solid. Real. She put her hand in his then went into his arms. They closed around her, drawing her firmly against the muscle-clad planes of his chest. Accepting, absorbing his hard strength, she closed her eyes.
Together, body to body, they shifted, drifting slowly around the narrow space of the balcony. It was an ancient instinct, the urge to move in seductive rhythm. They accepted it, sustained it, used it. They held each other until nerves and sinew sang to the music and the moment, until flesh and blood could stand no more. Until the music ended.
Race brushed the silk of her hair with his lips, grazed her forehead, sought her lips as she lifted her face blindly for his kiss. Inside, she felt a sweet, warm yielding. With infinite courtesy, she let him see it, allowed him to feel it.
His chest expanded on a deep-drawn breath, then he bent to place his arm under her knees, lifting her against his chest. In that close embrace, he moved inside, where he placed her on the wide, soft surface of the bed. His knee dented the surface beside her before he joined her in a smooth, controlled glide.
She made a soft sound of pleasure as he reached to touch her breast, cupping it in his warm grasp. It was only a prelude, however, to his gentle, yet thorough exploration of the curves and hollows of her body. He stroked her, holding, pressing with shuttered eyes and widespread fingers, as if he meant to memorize every inch of silken skin and each muscle and finely tuned bone beneath it.
He unbuttoned her shirtwaist, following the opening line with heated kisses as the edges parted. Exposing the lace of her bra, he brushed the firm swells under them with his mouth, letting her feel the heat of his breath, the wet lap of his tongue around the nipples. Taking the straining peaks between his lips, first one then the other, he teased them gently to berrylike tautness.
Barely breathing, she slipped the buttons of his shirt free and trailed her fingertips through the silk thicket of hair on his chest. Finding his flat male nipple, she rubbed it with the ball of her thumb. So enthralled was she by its abrupt contraction into knobbed hardness that she hardly noticed as he slid a bra strap from her shoulder.
The hot wetness of his mouth covered her bare nipple. She inhaled with a soft gasp that grew deeper as he applied delicate, deliberate suction.
His hands, oh, his hands were sure. She tried not to think why, tried not to think of other women he might have known. And succeeded, at least in part. By degrees the suite, the bed, the night faded, to be replaced by the touch and taste and scent of the man who held her, banished by the thunder of the blood in her veins.
She was on fire inside, lost in a world of hot, consuming sensation. Flushed with need, she reached out for him, giving him in full measure the pleasure he was extending with such care and generosity. Clothing was loosened and pulled away, then dropped from sight. The smoothness of silken percale sheets soothed their skin as they turned and stretched, sought and held, while supporting themselves on an elbow or a knee.
Licking, tasting, they learned about each other, imprinting the exact pattern of the molecules of their bodies on the circuits of minds and souls. He held the apex of her being in his hand, and she gave him unrestrained access. As he
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