His mind exploded as if the color shot through it. Her fingers ploughed into his hair. She was saying something then, but words made no sense. Maybe there were no words, just sounds, whispers, moaning. She moved, she moved…arching, sinuous, sensuous. Elastic snapped in his fingers. The wisp of silk and lace was gone, and he teased, tasted, laved, teased again, breathed…. He was unaware at first that her grip on his hair was achingly powerful. She had filled his senses. His blood raced through him as if pounding out a staccato beat; his entire being and concentration were filled with the taste and scent of her. He was aware of the way she moved, aware of the sounds escaping her, aware that she had reached the brink, strained like a cat, exploded into drifting crystal. Her fingers lost their death grip. He crawled atop her, looking down. Her eyes were half closed again, lashes sweeping her cheeks in midnight…red….
Then there was her mouth. He kissed her, and she burst back to life. Arms around him, fingers kneading his shoulders, and her tongue, caught with his, twisted, wet, hot, even more seductive. Yet even as she returned the moist heat of his passion, she was pushing him away, determined that her lips would discover more, as well. To his amazement, he found that the red fire was sweeping down his body. What she could do with her lips against his flesh, the tip of her tongue teasing against the dark hair on his chest, swirling against him as she followed his natural curves, and that mane of red hair tangled over his flesh with every movement.
Her fingers fell to the band of his button-fly cutoffs, dexterous, slow…torturously, deliciously slow. Her hand slipped beneath the band. Fingers curled around the pulse of his erection. He prayed suddenly for restraint. The blood beating like thunder in his system threatened to deny him. He eased himself from her, shed the cutoffs and caught her in his arms, taking her lips again before she could inflict a madness he couldn’t resist and slid into her. She was soft, passionate, mercury, fire. He didn’t remember ever moving with such a rampant surge of desire, feeling such sweet, exquisite torture in every second that led toward climax. Madness was stilled only by a fleeting roar of pride inside.
She tensed beneath him, arching as taut as a bowstring, letting out a cry that she quickly smothered against his neck. And he let the blood-thunder-drum seize him, climaxing himself in a rush of release that, for a moment, seemed to steal every ounce of life from his body, every breath from his lungs. Sated, drenched, heavy with the aftermath of release…
That realization brought life to his limbs, and he eased off her, drawing her against the length of his body. She was still shaking. He held her. They both began to breathe.
A moment later, he said softly, “Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
Plain, simple, in a nutshell.
But she didn’t make a move to leave. Nor did he draw away.
The lights were dim; the boat was rocking. She felt so sensual in his arms. Fire draped over his flesh, soft, the mane of her hair. She was still silk. Vibrant silk, so alive, so real. He drew his hand along her arm, down the length of her spine.
Damn, what a spine.
His fingers brushed over the rise of her buttocks.
Seconds later, he pulled her against him hard, the flow of blood sending his heart into overdrive. She was wet, hot, tight and arced, and she moved as if to the most erotic salsa beat. His fingers gripped her midriff, curved around her breasts, stroked, solicited…fell to her hips and held hard until the explosion burst upon them both again. Even then, he was loathe to withdraw, so he stayed inside her, calming slowly in a glove of heat.
In time he smoothed his fingers over her shoulder, smoothed the fiery hair that teased his nose. She seemed no more inclined to talk, so he remained silent himself, holding her. And it was then that he realized he hadn’t felt so comfortable in eons, had never felt as much pleasure in holding a woman when the deed was done as when he was in the midst of it. The surf lapped against the bow, slight, gentle. He closed his eyes.
Lucy Fresia sat in the hospital chair at her son’s side. He hadn’t improved, but she had no intention of giving up on him. Stuart was in there somewhere, and he had a will of steel. She just kept telling him over and over again that she loved him.
She held his hand, leaned back. It was late. She closed her eyes. In seconds, despite the constant trauma that raged in her heart, she found herself drifting off.
She heard a click…a slight clicking sound, and it jolted her into awareness. She sat up, looking around. Nathan had come to spell her, to tell her to go home for the night. Or the sweet nurse was coming to check on him, to do whatever she could to make him more comfortable.
She glanced at the door. Through the glass, she could make out a figure in green hospital scrubs. She started to straighten, to force her smile, to greet the newcomer with all the spirit she could muster.
The figure saw her; she was certain of that, despite the fact that she was really tired and blinking away sleep.
The door didn’t open. There was a pause, and the person walked away. Puzzled, Lucy rose and walked to the door. She opened it, and looked out, but saw no one down the corridor. With a shrug, she returned to her vigil, drawing her chair closer to her son. She spoke softly. “You will make it, Stu. You will! You have to, you know.” Despite the fact that she’d been there day and night, new tears welled in her eyes. “You have to, Stu. Your dad and I…your dad and I love you so much. You’re everything in the world to us, Stu…please, Stu.”
The rise and fall of the respirator was her only answer. She squeezed his hand. “We’ll never give up. We’ll be here, no matter what.”
The sound of the alarm was painful.