Liberating Lacey (24 page)

After a month apart she expected a fast rush to the finish, but he stretched out and smoothed her hair back from her face before reaching down to grip her hip. Adrift on waves of sensation she slid her hands up his damp, muscled back to grip his shoulders and find solid ground. Blunt and insistent, his shaft probed, found entrance to her body.

She watched unguarded emotion wash across his face as he sank into her. Wonder.

Pleasure. Need. Anticipation.

Love. Under it all, infusing every look, every action, every touch. Love.

Sensitized by the orgasm and need too long denied, his first thrust stroked over aching nerve endings and made her gasp. He paused, buried in her to the hilt as he stared down at her without blinking. She stared back, helplessly snared by the fierce pleasure and stark possession on his face. As he began to move she dug her fingernails into his shoulders, holding on as the pleasure grew to need, then agony. Thick and hard inside her, stretching her deliciously, each plunging stroke drove her closer and closer until she arched hard against his unyielding body and flew apart.

The harsh rasp of his breath in her ear brought her back to earth, desperate need simmering under the tense cadence of his strokes. He let out a gasp, his rhythm disintegrating as a month of deprivation took its toll. He thrust once more, deep and sure, then the agony etched into his face softened into satisfaction as he pulsed inside her.

Eventually he twisted onto his back, keeping her close against his side. She laid her hand on his breastbone and felt his heart rhythm slowly return to the normal, strong thuds. One foot rubbed lazily against his hard calf, the movement chafing her inner thigh against his hair-roughened leg.

There was nothing to say, in the best possible way.

Her stomach rumbled. He chuckled in response, then rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans. She marked his progress by his pauses, one on the stairs to grab his t-shirt.

Another at the fireplace, judging by the thud and crackle of a log being thrown onto the fire. Then the kitchen door swung open.

181

Anne Calhoun

She lay for a few minutes, savoring the pleasure ebbing sweetly from her body, the scent of him on her sheets. Pleasantly warm in bed, she snuggled in and considered dozing while he cooked, but the sheer thrill of having him back drove her out of bed and into the hallway. He’d tossed her underwear, turtleneck and pants to the top of the stairs. She plucked her sweater from the floor and tugged it on, belting it around her waist as she pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Hunter stood in front of the stove, a tea towel thrown casually over his shoulder.

He’d turned on the lights and tuned her under-the-cabinet radio to an alternative rock station, a male vocalist throatily entreating the listener to let love in. For a moment she watched him hum along, squaring up the edges of the sandwiches in the skillet as he did. He looked up and smiled his rare, wide smile, then lifted his arm, inviting her into his embrace.

Without hesitation she went to him, letting the kitchen door swing closed behind her.

The End

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About the Author

After doing time at Fortune 500 companies on both coasts, I found myself living in the suburbs of a small Midwestern city. The glamour of various cube farm jobs had worn off, so I gave up making a decent living to take Joseph Campbell’s advice and follow my bliss: writing romance.

The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and e-mail address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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