the unrelenting strokes.
The air when she remembered to breathe smelled like sweat and sex.
The slick sounds of skin on skin punctuated her gasping little cries.
She gripped his hands and clung to his hips, lifting up, up, up, until the world whited out. He came almost immediately after, grinding into her.
“Oh my bloody God,” she said.
He laughed, a response she felt in the bellows-like action of his ribs against hers and in the huff of air against her damp hair. The sound was almost tertiary to the experience of feeling Daniel Logan laugh while he was inside her.
He released her hands, then pulled out to sprawl beside her. “Exactly.”
She made a little sound of agreement. He got up, went into the bathroom, then untangled his boxers from his jeans. She pushed herself up on her elbows.
“Worked me out of your system?”
“I figured I’d save you the trouble of kicking me to the curb again.”
His voice was carefully emotionless, as if he didn’t really care whether he stayed or left. In thinking over their time together his voice hadn’t changed much at all, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking that a limited vocal range meant a limited emotional range. No, Daniel Logan was simply very, very careful about who he showed his emotions to.
“You can stay,” she said, surprising herself.
Completely unselfconscious about his nudity, he paused with his underpants in one hand and his jeans in the other. A sex flush faded on his throat and chest. “I can.”
She shrugged. She’d wanted like that before, knew it didn’t last, but she’d learned to hold on to something until it got too hot to hold. Right now she had the tiger by the tail. Letting Daniel Logan spend the night held no threat at all.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he studied her. “All right, but we go out for breakfast and have a conversation.”
She blinked. “That sounds serious.”
“Not that kind of conversation. A
get to know you
conversation.”
“The kind we should have had before we started sleeping together.”
He didn’t move from his position by the door. She openly admired his runner’s body, lean, muscled, the sparse hair on his chest tapering to a line that thickened again around his cock. She could see ribs, hipbones, the bulge of muscle by his knee. As she studied him his cock twitched and lifted.
“Ah,” she said. It came out rougher and throatier than she expected.
“If we’re going to do this again, we talk to each other first.”
“The last time we did this I was fairly clear about what I do and do not do.”
“You were,” he agreed, his smile creasing his cheeks. “Now I’m being clear about what I do and don’t do.”
“I don’t like ultimatums.”
“Tilda,” he said very seriously in that voice like dark, melted chocolate, “it’s not a marriage proposal. It’s not even dinner and a conversation beforehand. It’s breakfast and a conversation after, and you don’t have to tell me your whole life story over hash browns.”
“Deal,” she said, and scooted over to make room for him.
“Breakfast,” he said.
“Sarabeth’s.”
He crawled onto the bed and sprawled on his stomach beside her. “Eggs Benedict.”
“With salmon,” she said, and heard him whisper
ornery
before she drifted off.
– SIX –
September
“I let myself in,” Daniel said. He stopped in the doorway to her office and braced his shoulder against the white-painted frame. The room, like Tilda, was a hidden surprise, windows taking the entire back wall, then continuing halfway up the roof. When the trees were in bloom the effect was a bit like a greenhouse, sunlight dappling the room through the thick leaves of the oak tree. Her desk faced the wall, more conducive to work, she said, and the chaise lounge angled toward the windows, the better for sorting through the card file she kept of people who’d asked for Lady Matilda’s help with a connection. He often found Tilda up here, curled on
The air when she remembered to breathe smelled like sweat and sex.
The slick sounds of skin on skin punctuated her gasping little cries.
She gripped his hands and clung to his hips, lifting up, up, up, until the world whited out. He came almost immediately after, grinding into her.
“Oh my bloody God,” she said.
He laughed, a response she felt in the bellows-like action of his ribs against hers and in the huff of air against her damp hair. The sound was almost tertiary to the experience of feeling Daniel Logan laugh while he was inside her.
He released her hands, then pulled out to sprawl beside her. “Exactly.”
She made a little sound of agreement. He got up, went into the bathroom, then untangled his boxers from his jeans. She pushed herself up on her elbows.
“Worked me out of your system?”
“I figured I’d save you the trouble of kicking me to the curb again.”
His voice was carefully emotionless, as if he didn’t really care whether he stayed or left. In thinking over their time together his voice hadn’t changed much at all, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking that a limited vocal range meant a limited emotional range. No, Daniel Logan was simply very, very careful about who he showed his emotions to.
“You can stay,” she said, surprising herself.
Completely unselfconscious about his nudity, he paused with his underpants in one hand and his jeans in the other. A sex flush faded on his throat and chest. “I can.”
She shrugged. She’d wanted like that before, knew it didn’t last, but she’d learned to hold on to something until it got too hot to hold. Right now she had the tiger by the tail. Letting Daniel Logan spend the night held no threat at all.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he studied her. “All right, but we go out for breakfast and have a conversation.”
She blinked. “That sounds serious.”
“Not that kind of conversation. A
get to know you
conversation.”
“The kind we should have had before we started sleeping together.”
He didn’t move from his position by the door. She openly admired his runner’s body, lean, muscled, the sparse hair on his chest tapering to a line that thickened again around his cock. She could see ribs, hipbones, the bulge of muscle by his knee. As she studied him his cock twitched and lifted.
“Ah,” she said. It came out rougher and throatier than she expected.
“If we’re going to do this again, we talk to each other first.”
“The last time we did this I was fairly clear about what I do and do not do.”
“You were,” he agreed, his smile creasing his cheeks. “Now I’m being clear about what I do and don’t do.”
“I don’t like ultimatums.”
“Tilda,” he said very seriously in that voice like dark, melted chocolate, “it’s not a marriage proposal. It’s not even dinner and a conversation beforehand. It’s breakfast and a conversation after, and you don’t have to tell me your whole life story over hash browns.”
“Deal,” she said, and scooted over to make room for him.
“Breakfast,” he said.
“Sarabeth’s.”
He crawled onto the bed and sprawled on his stomach beside her. “Eggs Benedict.”
“With salmon,” she said, and heard him whisper
ornery
before she drifted off.
– SIX –
September
“I let myself in,” Daniel said. He stopped in the doorway to her office and braced his shoulder against the white-painted frame. The room, like Tilda, was a hidden surprise, windows taking the entire back wall, then continuing halfway up the roof. When the trees were in bloom the effect was a bit like a greenhouse, sunlight dappling the room through the thick leaves of the oak tree. Her desk faced the wall, more conducive to work, she said, and the chaise lounge angled toward the windows, the better for sorting through the card file she kept of people who’d asked for Lady Matilda’s help with a connection. He often found Tilda up here, curled on
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