Page 8 of The Mating Fire
Her parents were volcanic themselves. They’d erupt into arguments over the mundane, from Mom buying the wrong cornflakes (these have SUGAR Mona, are you trying to jerk up my glucose until I drop dead?) to the absurd (Did you have to mow the lawn that short? It looks worse than your crew cut, Eric!) to the dangerous (Where are we supposed to find money to pay the damn mortgage, Eric, when you drank it all away?)
Never certain when they’d explode and she’d duck for cover under her bed to shrink into a little ball, trying to make herself invisible and avoid their ire, Harper found studying volcanoes quite soothing.
Volcanoes never deliberately set out to hurt you, lock you outside in the dark night with childish terrors demons lurked in the shadows…
The Oysterman was a local hangout in the bustling city of Miami Palms preferred by older people. The bar smelled like Old Spice, cigarette smoke and sour beer.
A cool breeze stirred her hair. At least the weather turned colder, and chased the sticky heat plaguing early December. Atthe next table a group of white-haired men drank beer and talked like old friends. She drew in a breath. Florida in winter had terrific weather, but harbored too many people. Yet here she was stricken by a bout of pure loneliness. Eating alone drinking alone. Destined to love...what? Her science journals? At least her journals didn't rush her. The journals didn’t jostle her like others did as she shopped at the local market, or snap their chewing gum with impatience as she dug for coupons at check out.
She tired of feeling rushed, as if life were a conveyer belt and she had to jog to keep up or fall off. Science was slow, like the building of magma inside a volcano for hundreds of years. Predictable.
Taking a desultory sip of her water, Harper wished for a hot cup of coffee. Or tea. Not this cold water that sent more chills racing through her.
As she picked up the glass again, it became warm beneath her fingers. The water began to churn and froth, boiling over.
Glass cracked and then shattered in her hand. Crying out, she stared at the shards. Her hand remained untouched, as if the sharp glass had no effect.
Harper glanced around. Amid the loud voices and music, no one noticed what had happened.
Except that man at the bar, who kept looking at her.
Harper mopped up the now-warm water with her napkin and set aside the ruined glass.
It was happening again. Cold liquids, cold food, even her body being cold, and she’d wish for otherwise and it would happen.
As if my hands are heating pads. Or my thoughts.
Uneasy, she rubbed her warm hands together, trying to ignore these unusual phenomena that had started when the dreams began. Certainly, it wasn’t something she desired todisplay before a total stranger, let alone a date she hoped to impress.
Most patrons at the horse-shaped counter were white-haired, except that dark-haired man who’d seen her mishap with the glass. Dying sunlight glinted on the gold fluid in his glass. Bourbon, probably.
He turned to regard her. His fathomless gaze poured into her very soul. Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, his appearance impeccable, he looked sexy and dangerous.
Harper put a hand to her aching chest. Her heart galloped as if she’d run a marathon. Desire uncurled, flaming down to her toes, up to the top of her scalp. The space between her legs pulsed with need, so much want that she felt tempted to strip off all her clothing.
If he asked her to, she’d get naked and lie down on the dirty floor, arms out, legs spread wide open.
I want you. Oh please, make love to me. Please want me.
It felt as if she’d crossed a sandy desert to suddenly fall into a cool, welcoming oasis, only the water didn’t refresh. It burned. Made her burn with aching need. Harper rocked her hips along the cushioned chair, rubbing her bottom against the fabric, imitating what she wanted to do in bed with this man. Her body responding as he stroked his thick penis deep inside her, slow, thorough strokes intended to tease and bring her to greater pleasure…
Desperate to quench the heat, she knew the gesture only worsened her arousal.
Suffused with tremendous heat, she stared at him, continuing to grind her bottom into the chair.
Harper put a hand to her hot face. Nipples saluted the air. Damn this was utterly embarrassing. Pragmatic logic took over. It was a normal, natural biological reaction to a masculine manoozing testosterone. A guy looking for a quick score, a tumble in bed and nothing more.
Her body wanted sex, of course she wanted sex. About time.
Then he slowly smiled at her, and she knew. Nothing natural about this.
Such a sexy smile and the confident way the tumbler of bourbon dangled from his fingers as he studied her. One finger slowly stroked a drop of condensation from the glass. He lifted the finger to his mouth and instead of sucking on it, he flicked his tongue over the droplet.
Slowly, touching his tongue to the tip of his finger.
The way I’d lick between your legs until you screamed my name and begged me to take you…
Where the hell had that thought come from? Harper forced herself to stop moving. She took a deep breath and wiped her perspiring forehead with a paper napkin. Biology, mere biology. Science taught her genetics played an important role in sexual attraction. Indeed, studies had been conducted that women who in their fertile time preferred more masculine men, including beards like this guy, attractive, with close-cropped facial hair…
