Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  She reached over for a strawberry, and her robe fell open slightly, the fullness of her breasts briefly revealed; the creamy texture of her skin a subtle contrast to the immaculate whiteness of her robe. White but not white, warm and soft and touched with rosy iridescence. He felt his erection rise. When she put the strawberry in her mouth whole, he experienced a rush of heat racing through his veins.

  “Are they good?” he asked, content and happy, knowing he would touch her lush creamy skin, feel its smooth warmth, and feel himself inside her.

  Molly turned to him and nodded, her mouth still filled with strawberry. Her smile was an upcurving of red lips damp with strawberry juice.

  He couldn't resist. Stretching up, he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. “They are good,” he agreed a moment later. He returned to his lazy sprawl, the pulsing of his arousal keeping time with his heartbeat.

  “Aren't you hungry anymore?” Molly asked, tiny flutters of desire distracting her own appetite.

  “Depends.” His entire body, lean and tanned and minimally covered by a robe made for a much smaller man, was invitation.

  “On?” She knew the game, and relished the soft promise of the sound on her lips.

  “What you have to eat.”

  His dark eyes were half-closed, and she wondered if that seductive glance was intrinsic or learned in bedrooms all over the world.

  She moved her hand in the minutest gesture, indicating the trays of food spread on the bed. Her own seductive smile was indeed inherent and natural. Without the virtuoso practice of his.

  “We always did get along,” he murmured. He could feel the heat rising through his body.

  “At least in bed,” she replied in a husky contralto.

  He glanced at the food, then at her. “Was the sorbet good?”

  “It was cold,” she softly said.

  “Did you like the chocolate mousse?” The rich resonance of his voice stirred all her nerve endings to life.

  “It was too dark.”

  They weren't talking about food; they were talking about unhurried intoxication… heedless of the world around them. Their world had narrowed dramatically to two people, very close, on a small portion of a large bed.

  “I've never eaten rice pudding.” He hadn't moved, not a muscle, not an eyelash, and then one dark brow lifted in query.

  “You'll like it,” she said.

  He moved then with a swift, fluid grace, and cleared off the bed of trays and dishes. Almost cleared off the bed… except for the pudding.

  His bronzed skin seemed darker against the white terry-cloth robe, his hair more golden in the half-light of evening. His eyes were the midnight black of velvet dreams. They were her tiger eyes, their tempestuous beauty mixed with a moody restlessness mirroring his mercurial nature. And they were smiling for her.

  When he untied his robe, shrugged it off, and dropped it to the floor, her pulse responded with its own internal storm. His wide muscular shoulders exaggerated his height, and he was solid strength and lithe elegance in such perfect balance, the symmetry of nature deserved blushing honors. He was much too beautiful.

  And when he moved toward her and lowered himself to the bed, a rush of flickering shocks trembled through her body. She felt defenseless in a splendid, flaunting way, waiting for him to touch her.

  He picked up the silver bowl of pudding and handed it to her. “Hold this,” he said, placing the small ornate dish in her hands and closing her fingers around it with a gentle pressure of his large hands. “And then I don't have to reach for it.”

  Her body reacted instantly to the scented tenor of his voice and the intimate suggestion of his words, and her hands trembled slightly holding the bowl.

  “Don't drop it,” he murmured, steadying her arms with his palms. “I need that.”

  The rice pudding was prepared more elaborately than her grandmother's, folded into rich whipped cream and then frothed into a smooth, fluffy cloud. A faint fragrance of cinnamon drifted up from the bowl.

  “Am I going to like it?” Carey asked, observing the direction of her gaze.

  Her thick lashes lifted, and the intensity of her blue eyes held his for a moment before she said, “I'm sure you will.”

  “You have some first,” he said softly, scooping his index finger into the fluff and bringing it to her mouth.

  He waited the merest fraction of a second until she opened her lips as though yielding to his silent directive, and then he slid his finger into her mouth. She felt the small invasion with a responding heated flame deep in her stomach, and he shut his eyes for a brief moment of pleasure when her lips closed over his finger. “You're warm and wet,” he murmured, sliding his finger out again and dipping it once more into the pudding. And he rubbed the sweet whiteness over her lips this time, then bent to lick it off. He sucked on her bottom lip first, and then her top while she sat very still and let the throbbing between her legs inundate her mind.

  “You taste good,” he whispered, his tongue drifting over the curve of her upper lip. “Do you taste good everywhere?”

  “I hope so,” she breathed, her eyes audacious with lust. “I truly do…”

  “Would you like your robe off?” It was a gentle query with a faint dulcet undercurrent of command.

  “Yes,” she answered. “And hurry,” she added with an imperiousness of her own.

  He laughed. “And if I don't?” he inquired.

  “I'll kill you.”

  His eyelids drooped in insolent reply. “Your loss,” he said softly.

  “I'm still holding this bowl of pudding,” she threatened.

  “Which I'm sure you'll enjoy later, if you see things my way.”

  “How much will I enjoy it?” she inquired.

  “A lot,” he promised, unabashed at his proficiency.

  “You're pushing it, Count Fersten.”

  “I know. You're extremely hard to push… it makes the game so much more fun.”

  “I'll get you for this.”

  He smiled. “Maybe.” He touched her cheek with the lightest fingertips. “You look hot.”

  And she was. She was so damned hot it brought back memories of high school when you'd pet and play and never consummate the ardor because everyone was too young to know what to do. But your body would throb for hours afterward, on fire for an elusive release. But it was no longer elusive, and she wanted to feel the fevered, hot-blooded liberation, and she wanted right this very moment to feel him.

  As his fingers touched the ties of her robe, she moaned, a low, whimpering sound of wanting. She felt the searing path of his hands over her breasts a moment later, as he eased the garment off, taking the bowl from her briefly so she could free her arms.

  He painted the crests of her breasts then, quickly and delicately, with the creamy froth as though he had a job to accomplish. She was both unnerved and tantalized by his detachment, as though she were a human sculpture he was decorating with skill and finesse. His touch was sensitive as he smoothed the creamy confection over her nipples, and he smiled as they hardened and distended beneath the cool dessert like crowning ornaments swelling for him.

  But when he bent his head a short time later to taste his handiwork, he was no longer concerned with haste. He leisurely sucked and licked and nibbled until Molly would have collapsed had he not held her upright. He had to take the bowl from her hands and lay her back against the pillows a few moments later, because her eyes had closed and she was too absorbed in the waves of pleasure flooding through her body to be aware of the outside world.

  How long could she sustain such intensity, she wondered, before she died or fainted or disappeared into another dimension? If she weren't so selfish, she'd hate him for being so expert. His mouth was like heaven, consigning her into blissful Elysium until suddenly the pressure of his lips intensified, sending a river of sensation flooding down through her body. Her pulsing hunger approached uncontrollable limits. He bit her then, tiny, lush, perfectly restrained bites, and she screamed as a rus
hing conflagration ignited every feverish nerve.

  He waited for her heated cry to dissipate in the mauve twilight of the room before he gently spread her legs and settled between them, stretching out his long body without urgency, as though he had a horizonless span of mauve twilights at his disposal.

  “I want you,” Molly whispered, her eyes shut tight against her headlong plunge into ecstasy.

  “I can tell,” Carey softly replied, stroking the satiny flesh inside her thighs.

  “Hurry.”

  “No.”

  “Please…” Her breathing was accelerated, her cheeks flushed.

  “I don't like to hurry.” And he smoothed his pudding-dipped fingers over her hot, throbbing dampness. As the striking coolness covered her heated flesh, as his fingers stroked and gently stretched to fill her sweetness with his dessert, nothing mattered but feeling. The entire focus of the world was beneath his hands, and she rose into his manipulating fingers, greedy and burning. When he replaced his fingers a moment later with his tongue, she trembled violently, as though she were a celibate nun who'd never been touched.

  He reached up to soothe her tremors, his warm palms gliding over her arms first, then tenderly over the fullness of her swollen breasts. They drifted downward long moments later, across the smoothness of her stomach, to reach finally the torrid center of her longing. And he used his long fingers gently, massaging, guiding the direction of his mouth and tongue until he'd appeased his appetite for creamy pudding and deprived Molly completely of reason. She was floating in a nirvana of the senses, her entire body attuned to the progress of Carey's lips and tongue, her only conception, a flooding, intense pleasure beyond conceivable words. She had forgotten in her eagerness how he could maintain the intensity just short of the extreme limit that would take you over the edge. She'd forgotten, but he never did.

  And moments later, when he moved from his languorous ease, adjusted himself above her, and entered her with a gliding force that drove in to touch the very center of her being, she dissolved around him in blissful release.

  He smiled. In so many ways she was practical or contemplative, but never in bed. Making love, she exposed herself spontaneously to feeling as though it was pointless to settle for less. He'd always adored her hedonistic, unreserved intemperance.

  And she his. “Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her hands through his scented hair and sighing a small blissful rush of air. “I owe you.”

  “I'll be collecting in the next few minutes,” he replied with a smile, his rigid arousal buried deep inside her. “Rest for a second or so.”

  “That long?” Her half-lidded gaze was amused.

  She stretched luxuriously then, a sensual, sybaritic movement he felt tighten around his erection. When he groaned in pleasure, she murmured, “Ready?”

  Once, late that night, she sensed his shock, although his expression was hidden in the shadowed room.

  “Where did you learn that?” he growled, territorial prerogatives obvious in the bite of his voice.

  “I read,” Molly sweetly replied. “Everyone can't visit the plush red-light districts.”

  “And if I don't believe you?”

  “Can I help it if I'm a liberated woman?” she teased, savoring both his shock and possessiveness. It would never do to let a man like Carey Fersten take her for granted. She rather preferred keeping him on his toes.

  “Not anymore,” he snapped.

  “We'll see now, won't we?” she replied, moving beneath him in a unique and tantalizing way.

  Absorbing the shimmering, exquisite sensations for long, distracted moments, Carey swallowed hard before he muttered, “Damn you.”

  “And I love you, too,” Molly purred.

  He demonstrated then, moody and fevered, who exactly could do what to whom, but the delirium encompassed them both and through the night they pledged themselves to each other in a flaming passion that had survived separation and loss, intact and whole and glorious.

  CHAPTER 48

  L ater, twined in each other's arms amidst the shambles of the satin and velvet bedclothes, Molly smiled up at Carey. “You're marvelous at suppressing evening sickness,” she said.

  “I'd be happy,” he murmured, a lazy smile on his face, “to serve all your medicinal needs. Consider me on twenty-four-hour call. And since I caused this nausea in the first place, it's only fair I do my duty to alleviate it.”

  “I've never considered you as particularly dutiful,” Molly replied, her grin mischievous.

  “Fatherhood has startled me into a reappraisal of priorities. Duty first from now on. I'm yours to command,” he finished facetiously.

  “Don't go to Australia.”

  His smile flickered for a moment, and then was placidly restored. “Let's talk about it later. I'm still basking in the pleasure of this prenuptial evening romp. The loss of several million dollars requires a discussion of some length, and I'm not up to the task at the moment. Hit me with something easier.”

  “How much are you up to?” Molly queried, only half-teasing. Moving away, she sat up cross-legged, her back straight and her eyes intent.

  Carey's hands went out to stop her. Then, changing his mind, he let his hands drop back onto the sheet. Reclining against the lace-trimmed pillows like a golden surfer, he said, “Anything under ten mil, I'm braced and ready.” His smile was the enchanting one he saved only for her.

  “I don't want you to see Sylvie again.”

  “I don't intend to.”

  “You sound sure.”

  “Sure as the sun comes up over the Leonidas mine and sets over the ballpark. For you, Honeybear.”

  “That's pretty sure. How do you know she won't appear on our doorstep again? And she's still with Egon.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Oh?” It was a soft inquiry potent with ruffled feelings.

  “I talked to Egon this afternoon. His surgery is scheduled for Monday, if all goes well… and the doctors are extremely optimistic. One hot-shot young turk is betting him he'll be skiing by Christmas. On that happy news, Sylvie excused herself from his bedside and flew back to Nice. It seems some gala in Monaco was determined to go on without her. I expect she's dancing under an enormous chandelier at this very moment, exchanging banalities with some man who's suggesting they share breakfast together.”

  “How can you be so flip about her?” Molly still retained a modicum of suspicion after watching them at the Trauma Center. They'd been more than casual friends, and it showed.

  “I'm not. It's the simple truth. La Dolce Vita, Monaco style. Sylvie thrives on it.”

  “As you once did.”

  “Did is the operative word, I believe,” Carey replied, his dark eyes grave.

  “Did you ever love her?” Molly asked the old question answered so many times before, but never with the finality that would shut the door on that period in his life.

  Carey gazed at her for a long moment, wishing he could find the words that would make her understand how little Sylvie meant to him. He shook his head, no, finally, and shrugged, remembering those years. “Sylvie felt it was time I got married,” he said, as if trying to find the answer himself. “I wasn't conscious of much of anything in those days, so I said, why not? A combination of circumstances which proved disastrous. It was a stupid mistake.”

  When he saw the alarm on Molly's face, a terrible dawning of uncertainty and fear, he added in an even tone, “Don't be afraid. It's different with us. We're different. I didn't love Sylvie. You didn't love Bart.”

  Molly's expression registered shock.

  “You didn't love him,” Carey repeated. “You loved me.”

  And she knew it had always been true, though she'd locked away the truth all those years ago. Locked it away behind the wedding arrangements and the impossibility of leaving Bart and their families and friends in limbo at the church. And then she'd thrown away the key when she discovered she was pregnant. One loved one's husband, that's the way things were. You especially lov
ed your husband when you carried his child.

  “I know,” she quietly said, pained and honest. “I always loved you, I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry.”

  He understood her apology and all the sadness behind it. “Just never leave me again.”

  He opened his arms, and she went to him.

  CHAPTER 49

  A fter Pooh's return from Lucy's the next morning, when they told her they'd decided to get married soon, she scarcely changed expression. She was sitting on her old wooden rocking horse that still held its place of honor in the living room. Kicking it in a leisurely movement, she said, “I knew it. Mom's been moping all week. She runs for the phone every time it rings. We can't walk through the apartment without knocking over a basket of flowers-I see there's more.” She cast a random glance at the new baskets of white roses. “And Mom hasn't hollered at me once this week. I thought she was sick. Are we going to move?” she finished, as though her abrupt question was a perfectly logical conclusion to her statements.

  “Ah…” Carey awkwardly began.

  “Er…” Molly exhaled painfully.

  “I want to be a flower girl,” Pooh declared, “with a long dreamy dress, flowers in my hair, and silver shoes.”

  “Of course,” Carey quickly replied, relieved at the new direction of the conversation. “You and your Mom decide what color dress. Silver shoes?”

  “Jennifer Porter thinks she's hot 'cuz she's got silver shoes.”

  “Good enough reason for me,” Carey said with a grin.

  And the difficult topic of moving was brushed aside in favor of a discussion of flower girl dresses.

  Carey took them out for dinner that evening, and they celebrated their coming marriage in ten-course magnificent style. And much later Pooh was tucked into bed after an extemporaneous story of rabbits and enchanted forests.