by Gina Wilkins
"Mmm." His tongue darted out to taste the soft spot just below her ear, making her shiver with helpless pleasure. "I want you, Spring. It seems like I've been wanting you all my life."
She'd never had much willpower where this man was concerned. What little she'd started out with finally slipped away, unmissed, as her arms went around his neck. "I want you, Clay. I guess I have ever since the first time you kissed me," she confessed huskily. "I couldn't bear to leave California without ever knowing what it was like to have you make love to me. Please love me now."
Something she'd said made him go rigid, almost as if in pain, and she wondered if she'd spoiled the moment. But then he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his and she knew that everything would be all right. More than all right. Every feminine instinct within her told her that making love with Clay would be the most beautiful experience of her life, a memory to treasure for as long as she drew breath. The thought brought a frisson of fear, even as she trembled with excited anticipation. She suspected that nothing in the future would ever compare to Clay's lovemaking.
Clay released her mouth only to sweep her into his arms, holding her high against his chest. She clung trustingly to him as he moved toward his bedroom with long, confident strides. Spring was embarking on a fantastic adventure, and for the first time in her cautious, conservative life she didn't care about consequences or repercussions.
Chapter Seven
Clay set her on her feet beside his bed, gently, as if she were tiny and frail and, oh, so delicate, rather than tall and firm and healthy. He took her face between his hands—his trembling hands, she noted in wonder—and kissed her with such tender beauty that she almost cried. His abrupt change from passion to sweetness made her head spin. She would never know what to expect from him, nor would she want him to be more predictable. He was Clay, and just by being Clay, he made her weak with wanting him.
Her mouth was moist and soft under his, her lips parting in mute invitation. Clay moaned and touched the tip of his tongue to hers, savoring the taste of her. Had any woman ever felt as good? He couldn't remember. He knew no woman had ever made him shudder. He shuddered when Spring's hands parted his blazer to stroke his chest through his thin cotton shirt. If her touch could do this to him through fabric, how would he react to her hands on his bare skin? He couldn't wait to find out, and yet—
"I think I'm nervous," he murmured, his lips quirking into an almost sheepish smile against hers.
Her hands curled at his shoulders as she leaned back fractionally to look up at him in surprise, her violet eyes luminous in the glow of a bedside lamp. "I can't imagine you ever being nervous about anything," she told him. "You always seem so sure of yourself."
"Not with you." He moved his lips to her cheek, then to her temple. "I'm a basket case right now."
"Why?" Her question was only a whisper as she tilted her face to encourage his ministrations, her eyelids fluttering heavily.
"Because I want to make everything perfect for you. I want to be the perfect lover, say all the right things, touch you in all the right ways. I want to make you forget any other man you've ever known, satisfy you so well that no other man will ever compare to me. I'm not usually a possessive man, but you make me want to possess you, body and soul, heart and mind."
"Clay..." She squirmed a little in his arms, as if unsure of how to interpret his low-voiced words, how to respond.
Suddenly uncomfortable himself with the intensity of the moment, he spared her the necessity of response by capturing her lips, the kiss deep and consuming. Still lost in the kiss, he tumbled with her to the bed, reaching for the buckle of her wide belt as they fell. The belt fell away and the dress opened, giving him access to the skin bared by her lacy bra and panty hose. He touched the upper curve of her small breasts, then the silky slope of her flat stomach, fingertips sliding beneath the waistband of her panty hose to tease the quivering area just below her navel. He wanted to reach lower, but he restrained himself, determined to draw their-lovemaking out as long as possible.
Her hands tugged at his clothing, making him wonder just how long his noble willpower would last. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it to the floor, then tugged his shirt from his slacks. With her eager assistance he freed both of them from everything but his narrow black briefs and her satin-and-lace panties.
"So beautiful. You're so very beautiful." Clay's breath was hot on one of her breasts, his hands restlessly stroking every inch of her that he could reach.
Spring arched into his avid mouth, her fingers deep in his golden hair to hold him closer. His muttered words pleased her. He found her beautiful. Rationally she knew she was pretty, at best. Yet Clay made her feel beautiful. She moaned as he drew the straining, hardened tip of her breast deep into his mouth. Had he really been worried that he wouldn't satisfy her? How silly. Couldn't he tell that he affected her as no man ever had before?
She remembered another time when he had kissed her and she had sensed uncertainty in him. Just as she was attracted to his usual cocky self-confidence, she was fascinated by those glimpses of his vulnerabilities.
Call it love, he'd told her. And though she had fought it, she was beginning to believe that he'd chosen the right word.
Clay lifted his head for a moment to look tenderly down into her passion-flushed face. "Are you protected, sweetheart? If not, I can—"
"No, it's okay. I'm protected," she whispered, touched by his concern. Though there had been no one else since her breakup with Roger, she'd continued to take her birth-control pills, primarily from force of habit. She was glad now that she had.
Smiling his pleasure, Clay continued to caress her breasts with lips and tongue and teeth as his hand stroked downward, moving with tantalizing leisure toward the satin-and-lace triangle that was her only covering. Once there he taunted her further, his fingertips gliding over the fabric so lightly that she wondered if she'd imagined his touch. Gasping, she arched her hips upward, her thighs parting involuntarily as she silently begged him to deepen the caress. Still he teased her with butterfly touches and hot, biting kisses until she cried out and reached for him, pulling him on top of her.
Laughing throatily, he hugged her hard, burying his face in her hair. She locked her arms around his neck, pressing upward so that she could feel every inch of his damp, warm skin next to hers: her breasts flattening against his chest with its light covering of hair; her long, slender legs twining with his solid, rough ones; his heart pounding against her; his breath raw and ragged in her ear. The signs of his arousal heightened her own, and she whispered his name, telling him how badly she wanted him.
Still he tormented her, thrusting against her, hard and virile and throbbingly aroused. Only the fabric of their underwear kept him from entering her. Her head tossed on the pillow. "Please, Clay, please," she moaned, clutching at his waist.
"I will, sweetheart," he promised her, sliding up and down against her to create a sensual friction that soon had her panting and bucking wildly.
"Clay, please!" Was this really her, this mindless creature begging for completion? She'd never lost control like this, never wanted like this. Never ached like this. Was he deliberately trying to drive her out of her mind? "Damn you, Clay," she muttered when he thrust against her again in frustrating simulation of that ultimate intimacy.
Using all her strength, she shoved at his shoulders, rolling him to his side. And then she attacked him, her mouth and hands all over his body as she made him ache for her the same way he'd made her ache for him. She nibbled and sucked at the taut cords of his neck, then licked swirling patterns in the golden hair around his flat brown nipples, finally moving downward to draw long, low groans from him with her bold caresses. He didn't attempt to stop her, seemed incapable of making the effort, even when she jerked his black briefs away to bare him to more intimacies.
No, this couldn't be Spring Reed, this sexy, insatiable, uninhibited woman exploring Clay's body so wantonly. Taking such unholy pleasure in
the soft, guttural cry torn from his throat when her lips and tongue stroked him. "Spring! Ah, God, Spring, yes!"
And then he was over her and all barriers were gone and he was plunging inside her to a level so deeply buried within her that she hadn't even known it existed. Moving feverishly, he carried her with him on a mind-shattering journey to a place she'd never been before, never imagined. And he took her there so fast and so hard that, in all the mental replays that would come afterward, she'd never exactly remember the details—only the explosive, climactic conclusion.
"Clay!" His name began as a scream but left her lips a mere whisper as she shuddered again and again beneath the shock waves that followed.
"Spring! Ah, love." And he, too, trembled in the aftermath of a climax so powerful, so unique, that it shocked them both.
He didn't let go of her, only rolled to his side to relieve her of his weight. He pulled her close to him, his arms around her as he snuggled against her back. Their position allowed him to soothingly stroke her breasts and stomach as he pressed his lips to the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and rested, her heart rate slowing, her breathing returning to normal. Even after their incredible lovemaking she gloried in the feel of him. The damp softness against the back of her thigh was satisfying evidence that Clay, too, had found pleasure with her, as if she needed proof.
They lay quiet and still for a long time, satisfied to be together. After a while a deeply contented sigh left her lips, causing Clay to stir and chuckle behind her. He nuzzled into the curve of her shoulder. "Are you sorry?"
"About what? Making love with you?"
"Yes."
She nestled back against him, pulling his arms more tightly around her. "No. I'm not sorry."
"I'm glad. So very glad."
Spring smiled ruefully. "I wasn't going to let this happen, you know. I told myself right from the beginning that I wasn't going to sleep with you."
"You haven't slept with me. You've made love with me, but you haven't slept with me."
She sighed again. "You know what I mean."
"Yes, sweetheart, I know what you mean. And I'm glad you changed your mind."
"I couldn't resist you," she answered, dramatically mournful. "Your fatal charm got to me."
He laughed softly. "Is that what did it?"
"Either that or your fish tie. I'm not sure which one."
"I can see where that would be a hard choice," he agreed solemnly, and then bit her on the back of the neck, making her laughingly chastise him. He lay still for another moment, then asked hesitantly, "I don't suppose I could talk you into staying the night?"
She chewed her lip. "No. I'm sorry, Clay, I can't. I wouldn't feel comfortable with that at all."
"It's okay. I understand. But, God, I'd love to wake up with you in my arms. Spring, I—"
And then he swallowed whatever he had intended to say and kissed her nape, his hand caressing one of her breasts as he did so. Her eyes opened in surprise when her body began to respond to his lazy fondling. Surely he couldn't expect her to...?
But he was still soft against her thigh, and she relaxed, her eyelids closing again. Her nipples were hard and swollen when finally his talented fingers left them to drift downward. "Clay?" she whispered uncertainly, squirming a little when his fingertips slipped into blond curls to trace damp folds.
"Shh, Spring. Just let me love you," he murmured, his cheek against hers as he deepened the caress, stroking over and inside her, slowly increasing the pressure until her breath was catching in tiny sobs of pleasure. "That's it, sweetheart," he encouraged her. "Let me make you feel good."
And he did make her feel good, his fingers taking her just to the edge of fulfillment. By then he was no longer soft but as fully aroused as she. Spring cried out in pleasure when he lifted her leg over his and entered her, his fingers never leaving that damp nest of curls. Then cried out again as she was overcome by spasms of ecstasy so intense that she wanted them never to stop, to go on for an eternity. An eternity with Clay.
She hadn't known she was crying until he rolled her onto her back and leaned over her, gently wiping the tears from her cheek. "I hope these are tears of pleasure," he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered, lifting a trembling hand to lightly stroke her thumb below one of his beautiful eyes. "Are these?"
"Oh, yes." The words held a note of awe, as if he, too, were having trouble believing what had taken place between them, not once but twice. And then he pulled her onto his chest and wrapped her close, and the gesture was so lovingly protective that she almost cried again.
Swallowing hard, she snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder and wondered almost dispassionately what the future held for her. Pain, most certainly, when her time with Clay ended. He'd said nothing about making their relationship permanent, had spoken no words of love. He'd told her only that he wanted her, and desire alone was not enough. Yet the future would also hold such beautiful memories. How could she regret what they'd done? She could only be profoundly grateful that she'd known such joy at least once in her life. She would never have believed that anything could have been so wonderful, had she not experienced it herself.
He must have felt her smile against his skin. "What are you thinking?"
She chuckled. "I was remembering the night I met you. I tried then to imagine what you must be like in bed."
"Did you?" He sounded delighted. "Why, Spring, I'm shocked."
"You mean you didn't wonder the same thing about me?" She tried to sound insulted.
She could hear his grin in his answer. "Of course not. And if you believe that, there's this bridge a few miles from here that I'd like to sell you."
He paused for a moment, then asked curiously, "So what did you think I'd be like in bed?"
"Imaginative, sensitive, considerate, and downright good," she replied humorously, recalling her exact thoughts.
"Mmm. And how was I?"
"Feeling insecure, Clay?"
"Come on Spring, I can't stand it I What's your opinion?"
Propping herself on her elbow, she relented and smiled down at him. "That you're imaginative, sensitive, considerate, and downright good."
His smile seemed to light the shadowy corners of the room. "Thank you."
"Believe me, it was entirely my pleasure," she answered with heartfelt fervency.
Then she frowned, suddenly overcome by feminine curiosity. "Well?"
He feigned innocence. "Well, what?"
"How was I?"
"Honestly, Spring, postmortems are so tacky," he drawled, then choked dramatically when her hand enclosed his throat. "Okay, okay, I'll tell."
She released his windpipe and smiled sweetly. "Well? Was I what you expected?"
"No."
"No?" Dismayed, she repeated his answer questioningly.
Laughing at her expression, he shook his head. "No. I thought you would be prim and proper and just a bit inhibited. Not that I wasn't looking forward to it, anyway, you understand. But had I known how passionate and responsive you really are, I'd have thrown you over my shoulder and hauled you into my bed that first night."
She shook her head. "It's showing again."
Lifting an eyebrow, he glanced downward along his long, perspiration-sheened body. "I beg your pardon?"
She just managed not to laugh. "I mean, that streak of macho in you is showing again."
"Oh, that."
"Idiot." The word came out an endearment. She toyed with the sparse hair on his chest for a while, then peeked through her lashes at his contented face. "Speaking of food..."
"Were we?"
"Yes. Don't you think dinner should be ready by now?"
He made a production of checking the time on his watch. "Why, yes, I do believe it is. Are you hungry, sweet Spring?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. I seem to have worked up quite an appetite since we arrived."
He climbed out of the bed and stood unselfconsciously nude, looking down at her. She almost grabbed him and pul
led him back into bed, but she decided that she wouldn't survive another session of lovemaking without sustenance. She laughed when he offered her his robe. The heavy brocade garment was straight out of a Noel Coward movie—velvet lapels, cuffs, one deep pocket. It trailed a foot behind her when she walked. She pushed the voluminous sleeves up on her forearms and scowled at him when he tied himself into a thigh-length white terry robe. "Maybe we should trade."
"I kind of like you in that one," he returned teasingly. "It's interesting for you to be the one dressed funny for a change."
"So you admit that you dress funny!"
He only laughed.
She frowned at him, struck by a sudden unpleasant thought. "This robe wasn't a present from a woman, was it?"
"Well, yes, it was," he answered thoughtfully.
She immediately began to untie it. His hand covered hers on the sash. "Summer gave it to me for a Christmas present. She said it reminded her of me, for some strange reason."
She had the grace to look sheepish. "Oh. I was being unreasonably jealous again, wasn't I?"
"Yes, you were." He turned to walk out of the room, then tossed her a cheeky grin. "This is the robe that was a present from an old girlfriend," he informed her, straightening his white terry lapels as he walked out.
The shoe she threw after him missed him by mere inches.
The gourmet dinner Clay had offered turned out to be a deli picnic, neatly packed into a basket on the kitchen counter.
"I thought you said you were cooking," Spring accused him, watching him unpack the tempting delicacies onto a round oak kitchen table.
"I said I was going to introduce you to my cooking," he corrected her imperturbably. "This is the way I cook."
"You're a fraud and a scoundrel, Clay McEntire, and I—" She stopped short, then continued lightly, "I really should be angry with you, but I'm just too hungry."
She avoided his eyes as she took her seat across the table from him.
She'd almost told him that she loved him. She wasn't sure exactly when she'd realized it, but she knew now.