Page 88 of Dream Lake

Yes. That much she knew. The awareness of his experience sent a nervous flutter through her stomach.

Alex drew her to the bed and lay beside her. His callused hand came to the side of her face, warmth and roughness cradling her cheek. He kissed her, slow and insatiable, the taste of him sweet and edged with lemonade tartness. She opened eagerly to the flavor and rolled to press closer to him, trembling in excitement at the feel of the hard masculine form all along hers. Her hands wandered over the arousing textures of him, the silky-coarse hair on his chest, the sleek hardness of his shoulders, the shaven bristle of his jaw.

He nuzzled beneath her jaw and worked his way to the hollow behind her ear, and touched his tongue to her earlobe. Shivering, she turned to find his lips with hers. More of those dizzying wholemouthed kisses, a little deeper, rougher.

Heat had accumulated beneath the pink robe. She wriggled to be free of the confining fabric, she was smoldering, suffocating. Clumsy with desire, she fumbled at the fabric belt. The knot defied her efforts, tightening adamantly until she began to wrench at it in frustration.

Lifting his head, Alex saw what she wanted. “I’ll do it,” he said, reaching for the belt. “Lie still.”

Zoë rolled to her back, gasping. Heat had gathered in her mouth and at the roots of her hair, and between all her fingers and toes. Everywhere. She clenched her thighs against a simmer of wetness. She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted him inside her… she was anxious and aroused, lost in the middle of a dream that might end too soon.

“Alex,” she said desperately, “you don’t have to bother with doing a lot of extra stuff.”

“What stuff?” he asked, busy with the belt of her robe.

She couldn’t prevent a moan of relief as the garment loosened. “Foreplay. I don’t need any right now. Because I’m ready.”

His hands stilled. He looked down at her flushed face, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Zoë. Do I ever go into the kitchen and tell you how to make a soufflé?”

“No.”

“That’s right. Because that’s your area of expertise. And this is mine.”

“If I were a soufflé,” she said, struggling to pull her arms from the robe, “I would be overdone by now.”

“Trust me, you’re not—oh,God.” The sides of the robe had fallen apart, revealing the abundant pink and white curves of her body. Looking down at her, Alex shook his head slowly. “This is dangerous. This is how people die.”

With a shy grin, Zoë pulled her arms free of the robe, her breasts bouncing with the movement.

Alex said something incomprehensible, his color rising.

“Take me now,” she urged, sliding her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to wait.”

“Zoë…” He wasn’t breathing well. “With a body like yours, skipping foreplay is not an option. In fact… any time you spend out of bed is wasted.”

“Are you saying I’m only good for sex?”

“No, you’re good for a lot of other things,” he said, his gaze locked on her breasts. “I just can’t think of any of them right now.”

Her laugh was muffled as he kissed her. He slid lower, dragging his mouth along her throat, his breath hot against her skin. His hand cupped beneath her breast, lifting it as he took the straining tip into his mouth, his tongue tracing liquid circles. She closed her eyes against the soft balm of lamplight, her senses humming with pleasure as he tugged gently, repeatedly.

There was no world outside this bed, nothing but the two of them. He touched between her thighs where she was wet and sensitive, and her hips rode upward reflexively. His thumb separated the seam of vulnerable flesh, rubbing lightly, the grooved scar sliding deliciously through the wetness. She was so close, so desperate for the climax that hovered just out of reach, that her eyes stung with frustrated tears.

Inside the blur of light and shadow, he was whispering for her to trust him, let him take care of her. His hand cupped her, one of his fingers entering the softness. Reaching deep inside, he traced a subtle pattern, his knuckles wriggling gently.

Her trembling hand slid down to his wrist, where she could feel the intricate movements of bone and tendon. The bedroom was silent as they both concentrated on the secret movements within her. A new tension began at the quick of her body and spread in supple pulses. His face was dark and intent above hers, his fingers slow and clever.

“What are you doing?” she asked through dry lips.

His lashes lowered over a flick of blue fire, and he bent to murmur near her ear. “Writing my name.”

“What?” she asked, disoriented.

“My name,” he whispered. “Inside you.”

The maddening stroking of fingertip and knuckles never stopped. Sensation gathered and began to roll forward as the heel of his hand pressed her rhythmically. Her head fell back against his supportive arm, and she felt his mouth caress her throat.

“That’s… more than four letters,” she managed to say weakly.

---