But look at her now. Forty-eight hours after meeting him, here she was, buck-naked beneath the comforters, shamelessly pressing herself against him, one leg bent and resting atop his hip as though in open invitation to slide himself deep inside her once again. The thought gave her a shiver, even as her sex still wept with their combined releases. God help her, she could summon none of the shame she should be feeling, only the potent desire to have him again.
Her hand traced upward from his forearm along his formidable biceps, hard even in the midst of sleep; over his broad shoulder, dipping down to his neck. Here she paused, feeling the strong, steady pulse beneath her fingertips. The rhythm carried through into her own body, coaxing her heart to beat in the same tempo.
With no other movement to indicate he was awake, Michael opened his lids. His eyes were so lovely, so deep and filled with enough power to steal her breath away.
“Michael.” She whispered his name as she cupped his cheek. He caught her hand with his own and turned his head to lay a kiss on her palm.
“Yes, sweet?” His voice was husky and deep. She wondered if it was always like this in the morning, or only after nights filled with passion. She would give just about anything to find out.
*
So much was going on behind those eyes. He watched, fascinated as they sparkled and lost focus, only to return with even more strength than they had before. He waited patiently, content to memorize the feminine contours of her face as she lay warm and soft in his arms, but there were no words that either of them could say, nothing that could accurately express the depth of what was happening between them.
“I know,” he whispered as his thumb caressed her cheek tenderly. She had given him such a tremendous gift. He wished he could tell her how much it had meant to him, how she had crawled into his heart and soul, but he could not find the words. Instead, he kissed her forehead and pulled her to him.
She sighed and burrowed into him again, and he knew she understood.
––––––––
The storm lasted for three days. When all was said and done, nearly thirty-six inches had been recorded officially, though it was not uncommon to find drifts that topped the six and seven foot marks. Highways had been shut down, airports were closed, and most of the northeastern United States had been declared a disaster area. But in one isolated farmhouse, Michael Callaghan and Maggie Flynn remained blissfully apart from all of it.
They spent long, luscious hours making love. They heated water over the fire and gave each other erotic sponge baths by candlelight. Toasted sandwiches and roasted marshmallows on sticks. Ate canned brandied peaches off of each other. Made love some more. When the wind finally died down and the snow stopped falling, neither of them was particularly pleased.
Michael dug out his truck, but while the roads in town were reported passable, the mountain roads were in no shape to drive. He was quite happy staying right where he was, but Ian’s increasingly aggressive texts insisted they all had to attend the final tux fittings, making it clear that those were Lexi’s orders, not his. Maggie, unfortunately, agreed.
Now they were awaiting the Humvee, and Michael was making the most of every last moment by holding her in his lap in the big picture window seat. He hadn’t even left yet and he was already trying to figure out how quickly he could get back to her.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, mirroring his thoughts.
Michael pulled her into his arms, devouring her mouth with his own. “Not soon enough,” he growled. “Sure you won’t come back with me?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
It wasn’t the first time he had asked. She had explained that she needed to stay at the farm, to keep the fire going so the ancient pipes wouldn’t freeze. Plus there was George to think of. She couldn’t leave him alone in this weather with the power expected to be out for a few more days at least. They had debated back and forth, but Michael discovered that Maggie, while soft-spoken, was every bit as stubborn as he was.
“Maybe I should stay,” he said, hesitating. “At least till the power comes back on.”
“No,” she told him firmly. “You need to be there for your brother. This isn’t just about tuxes, you know.” He arched a brow at her, wondering at the certainty with which she spoke. “Besides,” she continued, “I can always just fire up the generator if I need to.”
Michael’s jaw dropped open. “You have a generator? Why didn’t you say something?”
She gave him a slow smile, one that had him hardening again, despite the fact that physiologically speaking, he should be sated for days. Apparently his vast medical knowledge of human anatomical needs had not quite made it down to his penis.
“Because you are one gorgeous, sexy man,” she said, pressing her palms against his chest, flexing her fingers just slightly like a cat curling her claws. “But by candlelight, you are a god.”
Michael felt the familiar warmth spread through him. Jesus, his toes actually tingled. He groaned. “You are a wicked woman, Maggie Flynn,” he lamented. “I have half a mind to carry you back in there and –“