Intoxicating!. Kathleen O'Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ together under the heat in the air. Automatically she moved into him, his arms closing around her, wrapping her in twin bands of strength and steel.

      Catherine sighed with relief, and when her mouth opened, his tongue eased inside, all hesitation gone. He stroked the inside of her lip, slipping back and forth until the drugging rhythm was ebbing through her blood, igniting her skin, pulsing between her thighs.

      Her hands explored and she couldn’t believe that this man, this masterful creation, was alive. A momentary doubt stole into her brain, but some things didn’t lie, and the thick erection burning her thigh was proof enough. She wanted that proof inside her.

      He broke the kiss, lifting his head, his breathing as ragged as hers, and she thought he was going to leave her.

      “You’ll stay with me?” she asked, needy, the doubts stealing back.

      His face was tight with tension, his fingers biting into the curve of her hip, but she didn’t care. She wanted his touch, and now the need overcame fear, overcame pride, overcame dignity. Her body needed this.

      “Bed.”

      Catherine nodded because intelligent speech was impossible. She led him to her room, her nerves simmering, threatening to boil.

      He was going to love her, touch her, kiss her, caress her, and she was dizzy with the thought of it. That amazing body that was currently hidden by his clothes was going to be hers. At least for one night.

      “Can I undress you?” she asked, the words out before she could think, but how could she think? How could any sane woman think?

      “That’s what you want?” As if women didn’t ask to undress him every day. Heckuva job, Catherine.

      “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He was going to think she was obsessed. A nympho ready to pounce, and okay, she wanted him. Badly. But there were other forces at work inside her—namely the desperate desire to see him naked to know if her currently overworked imagination was right.

      “Catherine, you don’t have to apologize for everything.”

      “I’m—No, I’m not sorry. I wanted to see you because okay, this part is embarrassing, but not exactly for what you’re thinking. You know that I draw, and, well—you have a perfect body for sketching.” Her cheeks burned, and maybe now he thought she was weird, but weird was oodles better than sleazy.

      “Really?” he said, as if he didn’t think she was weird…or sleazy. In fact, he sounded…pleased.

      “Absolutely. Certainly.” And then, because he was watching her so thoroughly, she drew his T-shirt over his head, struggling to be the artist she told him she was. “See this line here. It’s the axis of your body, your dawn line, perfectly dividing the détente muscle, those are those…uh…little ripples.” Her index finger traced the path, and she nearly sighed, but that would totally snooker the “dedicated artist” image that she was going for.

      “I’ll take your word for it.”

      “You should. I do this for a living.”

      “Really?” he asked, teasing her.

      “Not this, but—” she drew a horizontal line across his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles jump wherever she touched “—this.”

      Her palms felt the hard planes of his chest, absorbed the soft whirls of hair, the tight nipples, and she knew that she could never capture that vitality and strength on paper. Ever. Only in her hands.

      She followed the trail of hair down, lower, and she knew the instant that he stopped breathing. Daringly, her fingers delved beneath his shorts, and then she stopped breathing, too.

      But her curiosity wouldn’t let her stop. Slowly, the soft boxers slid down hard thighs and then…

      Then…

      Oh, she wasn’t going to look, but she had to look. She had to see, and heaven help her, she gasped.

      Yes, like a total dilettante, she gasped.

      For a second she could do nothing but gaze upon him with deep-seated lust, then her eyes studied his face.

      He didn’t look happy. He looked stressed.

      “Can I see you?” he asked, and she nodded once before she realized that she needed to steer his expectations toward something resembling reality because she wasn’t anywhere close to the perfection that he was.

      “I’m not nearly as well-proportioned.”

      He drew down the straps of her bathing suit. “That’s an entirely subjective statement. I think you’re very well-proportioned.”

      “I weigh too much.”

      He slipped the suit off her hips and along her legs and looked at her for a long time, that comprehensive gaze making her nervous. He wasn’t missing a thing. Not the half dozen cupcakes that resided happily on her butt, or her mushy thighs that didn’t get nearly enough exercise or the pooch in her belly that four million sit-ups could easily cure.

      “See?” she answered, completely sure he was going to tell her to put her bathing suit back on. In fact, she was so sure he was going to say that, that she reached down to pull it back over her mushy thighs, until he grabbed her hand in a death grip.

      “Don’t move,” he ordered.

      Catherine noticed the clenched jaw, the eyes that were mere slits of darkness, and began to relax. Eventually, his perfect chest heaved a sigh. “I’m better now,” he said.

      “You’re nervous, too?” she asked curiously.

      “Not at the moment. Tomorrow, yes. But right now, I’m good.”

      “I’m good, too,” she answered.

      His mouth took hers again, and he settled over her on the bed. There was another moment when his chest pressed into hers and he froze, and she swore that he was going to fly off her, but then he breathed again, and she sighed. It was very strange having a perfect man on top of her, his mouth kissing her, his hands touching her. But Catherine knew this wasn’t a dream—the ache between her legs convinced her of that—and the way he touched her, almost desperately, convinced her of it, too.

      She kissed him desperately, her curious fingers tracing the lines that she had drawn on paper, but the paper was cold compared to the warmth of his skin. No painter, no sculptor, no impressionistic master had ever captured that life, that heat. She caressed the places that she had only imagined, and when she heard him groan, she smiled.

      “I don’t have a condom,” he said, raising up on his arms. “I can’t believe I forgot this.”

      He was leaving her? Hell, no. Instantly, pathetically, panic gave wings to her speech. “I’m on the pill. It regulates my periods. I have a heavy flow, my—”

      Quickly, he shut her up with a kiss, and she really didn’t blame him. Catherine curled her arms around his neck and breathed deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and wine, and she treasured that secret smell, locking the memory safely away. She would remember this. One stolen СКАЧАТЬ