Tailspin
Page 39
She ground the back of her head against the mattress. “I could kill you for putting me through the torture of the last six weeks.”
He fanned his tongue over her nipple.
“But don’t stop that,” she groaned and began to paw at the buttons on his jeans.
He pulled her sweater over her head. She wiggled off the loosened bra. He tore open the buttons of his shirt and lay on her again, skin to skin, their hearts thumping together, their breaths ghosting between their lips, eyes locked.
He slid his hand into the slit of her skirt, caressing her inner thigh to the top, then into her panties, his fingers separating, stroking, slipping inside. She clenched around his fingers, tilting her hips toward him in an appeal for more, even as she worked her underwear down her legs and off.
She opened his fly. He swelled against the fist she made around him. He could feel his pulse pumping hot and thick against her palm, her fingers. Pulling his hand from beneath her skirt, he spread her moisture over the head of his cock. “Guide me in.”
With his hands under her bottom, he lifted her. She planted him snugly just inside her. She squeezed, and he moaned her name. He pulsed, and her breath hitched. Then a strong, swift thrust embedded him. They held there for the endurance of a deep, soulful kiss.
Then, in perfect synchronization, they began to move.
Day faded into dusk. Twilight gave way to full darkness. The passage of time went unnoticed.
They languished in bed, eyes and hands and mouths overindulging in what they’d been able only to sample six weeks earlier, when the pace, even for lovemaking, had been hectic.
The water in the shower turned cool before they got out. When they returned to the bed, he put his bomber jacket on her. Lying facing her, he rested his cheek on one hand and, with the other, opened the jacket.
Lazily, he toyed and teased until her eyes were lambent, her lips parted, her skin flushed with arousal.
He told her he might replace the existing lining of his jacket with a new one, a painting on silk of her, posed just that way. He nosed her hair aside and whispered directly into her ear, “Knowing you’re wet.”
She said that changing his prized jacket sounded like serious business, like permanence. “Won’t you get tired of me?”
He eased her onto her back, settled in the cradle of her thighs, and rubbed against her to demonstrate how much he wanted her yet again, as badly as before.
“You know what I told you about the feeling I get right before every takeoff?”
“You can’t wait?”
He smiled.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks belong to two people who assisted me throughout the writing, rewriting, rewriting, rewriting, and editing of Tailspin.
Robert Newton, friend and private pilot, talked me through all the flight sequences—numerous times. Add to all those conversations the countless emails from me to him, asking “just one more question,” so many that he says I should be able to solo by now! Not true, but if I got anything wrong, the blame is mine, not his. Thank you, Bob.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my beloved sister, Lauri Macon, who tackled the mind-boggling subject of orphan drugs, and how they’re developed and tested. Her thorough and meticulous research acquainted me with NLA101, a drug already in clinical trials in Europe. My GX-42 is based on it but is entirely fictitious. Let’s hope not for long.
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Novels by Sandra Brown
Seeing Red
Sting
Friction
Mean Streak
Deadline
Low Pressure
Lethal
Mirror Image
Where There’s Smoke
Charade
Exclusive
Envy
The Switch
The Crush
Fat Tuesday
Unspeakable
The Witness
The Alibi
Standoff
Best Kept Secrets
Breath of Scandal
French Silk
Slow Heat in Heaven