Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton

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      He was with her as they flew into the burning heart of the universe.

      They slept in each other’s arms, legs entwined, her head on his chest, his arm curved around her, his hand lightly cupping her breast.

      And awoke to the darkness of the night, the wonder of being together, the sweetness of it.

      The deep, hungry need for fulfillment.

      He caressed her. Feathered his fingertips over her nipples. Kissed them. Stroked his hand down her body, between her legs, sought and found the very heart of her.

      She moaned. Arched against his seeking hand. Used every feminine motion of her body to beg him for more. Still he hesitated. All the mysteries of a woman’s body after childbirth, he had learned tonight. She said he couldn’t hurt her, but for all he knew, in his ignorance, he could. Making love more than once, God, more than twice, might be a mistake.

      “Are you sure you can do this?” he said, his lips a breath from hers.

      She gave that wonderful laugh again, wrapped her hand around him and said, “You tell me.”

      He growled, rolled her on her back, lifted her leg and brought it high over his, opening her to him but entering her as slowly as he could bear.

      It was agony.

      Exquisite agony.

      So was her soft moan of pleasure.

      A shudder gripped his powerful body; he buried his face in her throat as he filled her, deeper, deeper, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Until they were one. One, he thought, his heart filling with joy…

      And then she moved.

      His mind emptied.

      She moved again and he groaned, moved with her and she cried out, sank her teeth into his shoulder and they let go together, shattered together, fell off the edge of the world together.

      He held her until her breathing eased and he knew she was asleep. Then he kissed her, checked the baby monitor, smiled at the sight of his sleeping son. He drew the duvet over them both, gathered her close again.

      He had never felt so complete in his life.

      He slept, too.

      They woke. Made love. The moon rose and set. And the night slipped away and became morning.

      Gabriella opened her eyes to the soft patter of rain.

      Rain, this time of year? It was too soon. Rainy season didn’t come to the Pantanal until—

      But she wasn’t in the Pantanal. She was in Manhattan. In Dante’s home.

      In Dante’s bed.

      Memories of the long, incredible night rushed in. She tried to remember how many times they’d made love even as she chastised herself for the effort. It didn’t matter…But, somehow, it did. Dante had always been an amazing lover. Tender. Savage. Giving and demanding all at once. Indefatigable. She’d been with only a couple of men before meeting him, so she was far from an expert. Still, Dante’s virility was, well, amazing.

      And yet last night the frequency with which he’d wanted her had shocked her.

      She had wanted him, too, each time. And that had shocked her, as well, that her need for him had seemed insatiable, her desire for him endless. But then, it had always been that way with him. She’d always wanted him; even these past endless months, unable to imagine feeling a need for sex ever again, even then, if she were honest, there’d been nights she’d dreamed of Dante. Hot dreams. Dreams from which she’d awakened empty and shaken, an ache low in her belly, her breasts full and sore…

      Her breasts, full and sore…

      Deus! The baby! She shot a look at the baby monitor, but it showed only an empty crib. Quickly she rose from the bed. Dante’s robe, the one she’d worn yesterday, was neatly draped over the back of a chair. She yanked it on, hurried to Daniel’s room…

      And saw Dante by the window, holding his son in his arms.

      He smiled when he saw her. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

      “I overslept. I don’t know how. The baby—”

      “He’s fine.” He looked down. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

      Daniel offered an enormous grin. Dante did the same.

      “See? He’s great.”

      “He must be starving…”

      “Well, we were starting to think we’d have to wake you. I mean, a snack’s a snack but when a guy wants his breakfast…”

      “What snack?”

      “He woke up at five.”

      “You mean, I slept through it?”

      Dante smiled. “Yeah,” he said huskily. “Imagine that.”

      She blushed, tore her eyes from his and looked at the clock. Jack and Jill were going up the hill, carrying a huge wristwatch instead of a pail of water. Her mouth fell open.

      “Ten?” she said, bewildered. “It’s ten in the morning?”

      “It’s okay. I gave him a bottle at six.” Dante gave a modest shrug but it was impossible not to notice the self-satisfied smile on his face. “I diapered him, too.” He shuddered. “It was, uh, an interesting experience.”

      She really tried not to laugh but a giggle escaped, and then another, and finally she was guffawing at the thought of her sophisticated, urbane lover changing a diaper full of poo.

      Her lover, she thought, and her laughter faded. Dante was her lover again, her foolish heart was in his hands.

      “Hey,” he said softly, “honey, what is it?”

      “Nothing,” she said, and forced a smile. “Here. Give me the baby. I’ll feed him.”

      Daniel went into her arms. She sat down in the rocker, started to open her robe…and hesitated.

      “May I stay?”

      Dante’s voice was low and soft. No, Gabriella thought, no, he could not stay. Every act of intimacy would be that much more difficult to forget after this time together ended. This was temporary. Dante might want her in his bed but the rest—permanency, fatherhood…

      “Gaby? Sweetheart, if you want me to leave—”

      “No,” she said, in rushed whisper. “Please. Don’t go. Stay with us.”

      The look that swept across his face made her want to weep with happiness. He kissed her upturned face, then sat down on the floor, cross-legged. She opened her robe. The baby turned his head, latched hungrily on to her nipple. She smiled at her son, then at her lover.

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