Susan Johnson (61 page)

The phone rang, but neither noticed.

Serena’s voice drifted in and out of their consciousness, wordless sounds, inaudible words, background resonance to the pounding in their ears, to the heated oscillation of their bodies, to the tropical heat wave of sensation too long delayed, intensified by morning-after sensibilities—carrying them in a rush tide toward orgasm. The message went on and on while the slippery flux and flow of their rocking bodies neared the combustible sublime. Lily whimpered once, twice, as the terrifyingly single-minded orgasmic force swelled inside her, and then she cried out, a long, keening, high-pitched scream that would have gained Myrtle Carlson’s attention had she been home. Holding his breath against the convulsive frenzy, the tension in his arms swelling his biceps, he felt that first ejaculatory rush clear down to his toes, and for long,
fierce, seemingly endless moments they shared the awesome, cataclysmic, mind-blowing glory.

As their last orgasmic ripples died away, Serena’s voice finally infiltrated their consciousness.

“… tea at my house this afternoon,” she was saying. “You know my mom’s teas.” She giggled. “See you at three …”

Lily felt Billy’s chuckle and opened her eyes marginally, blissful lethargy weighting her lashes.

“Your friend sure likes to talk.”

“You didn’t seem bothered.”

He grinned. “I didn’t notice you missing a beat.”

“I’ve been waiting since last night.”

“No kidding.” He kissed her gently and then glanced at the clock. “And it’s still early.”