"Unless," she went on, still smiling, "you want to get back to your tea."
"Not hardly." His laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. He was holding back, playing the Southern gentleman, and the effort it required—the restraint—crackled in the air between them. He moved toward her, and when she still didn't send him back downstairs, didn't change her mind now that he was there, close enough to touch, he took her mug from her hands and set it on her dresser. "Hot tea doesn't do anything for me right now."
He came back to her, slid his arms around her, inside her bathrobe, his palms settling on the small of her back, on her bare skin.
"I'm not cold anymore," she said, the slightest quaver in her voice. She hoped he didn't mistake it for nervousness. Because she wasn't nervous. Shaky with want and anticipation, yes. But not nervous.
He smoothed his palms over her hips, downward to her thighs, where her skin was still cool from her dash into the bay. "You're cool here." His eyes darkened. "Cool and still a little damp."
His palms slipped around to the fronts of her thighs, until finally she gripped his upper arms, desire like hot pin prickles all over her. He didn't stop, but moved up her thighs, inward, excruciatingly slowly, until she was throbbing, aching just with the thought of those hands. She dropped her head against his chest as he slid one hand between her thighs, not moving any faster. One finger drew back her underpants, slipped inside to where she was decidedly hot and damp.
"Don't stop," she moaned half to herself. "Don't ever stop."
She could feel his erection hard between them, knew he had no intention of stopping unless she said so, and that knowledge—that certainty—only added to her sense of urgency.
His mouth found hers, his tongue spearing inside her with the same fierceness she felt. Her breasts swelled inside her bra. And all the while his hand moved slowly, with delicious agony, probing, circling, teasing out every emotion, every sensual urge she had.
Suddenly, he lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down. Her bathrobe fell off in the process. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, unclasping her bra, exposing her breasts to his gaze, his palms, his mouth. His hands moved lower, as he cast off her underpants. When she was right on the edge, he quickly pulled off his own clothes, and it was all she could do not to gasp and stare at his hard body. Small scars she hadn't seen before scored one shoulder and upper thigh, only adding to his air of rough masculinity. Yet he had brought her tea. He would, now, leave if she changed her mind.
But she had no desire to change her mind. No intention.
"I have protection," she said. "In the drawer." At his amused look, she added, unembarrassed, "You know us Yankees. We like to be prepared for anything." She had her evacuation plan for the next Category 5 hurricane, too, which of late she'd thought was more likely than finding a man she'd want to make love with. "I'm not sure about the expiration date, though."
As he reached over to her nightstand, she ran her fingers down his hips, curved inward, and skimmed his huge erection, exulting in the feel of him. Even when Hannah had been casting out into the universe for a man for her niece, Piper hadn't in her wildest fantasies come up with any who thrilled her more than this one.
"Date's good." He eased back to her, grinned. "Not that I'm ever unprepared."
"You mean you—"
"In my wallet. Always." He winked, settled his palm over her stomach. "Just in case an old Yankee witch summons me to the woman of my dreams."
His words, his sexy drawl, the gleam in his eyes were enough to rekindle her earlier sense of urgency. Then he added more fuel by easing his firm, naked body onto her, letting her touch, taste, explore, until finally he drew her hands from him and raised up off her, gazing into her eyes. "I want to love you, Piper." His drawl was husky, his body rigid, a hint of the control that he was exercising.
She nodded, unable lo speak herself, feeling breathless, already spent. Yet when he dealt with protection and came to her again, fresh energy surged through her. She guided him to the hot, wet entry, gasped when he thrust into her, gently at first, through the tightness, letting her get used to the feel of him, the size of him. Then he thrust harder, faster. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the slick, hard feel of him inside her as she went still one moment, arched up to meet his thrust the next.
But concentration, experimentation, even real consciousness quickly became impossible. Her world was spinning, sparking, shimmering. Nothing mattered but now, this moment.
She thought he called her name. She knew she called his. And it seemed so right, so perfect. Clate. It was as if she'd been waiting her entire life to cry out that name.