Key of Light (Key 1)

“Have I mentioned that I love practical, prepared women?”

“Why don’t I help you on with this?”

She took her sweet time so that he had to fist his hands in the tangled spread to keep himself from flying to the ceiling.

The woman had wicked hands, he thought and bit back a groan.

Wonderful, wicked hands.

She rose over him, shook her hair back. And smiled. “Now,” she said.

He moved fast, flipping her onto her back, pinning her body with his. “Now,” he re

peated and drove deep inside her.

He watched the shock race over her face, felt the waves of it vibrate through him. They trembled there, each caught on some fine edge.

And with her eyes locked on his, she began to move. A rising up, a falling away, so smooth, so fluid it was like sliding through silk. Her name echoed in his head, like a song, or a prayer. He clung to the echo of it, clung to the frayed threads of control as she shattered around him.

She fell apart. Oh, God, the most wonderful sensation. A losing of self, then a gathering back. Her mind hazed. And with one last liquid sigh, she rode the final crest.

Locking him close, she took him with her.

HE didn’t want to think. Thinking under the current circumstances couldn’t be productive. It would be much better for all involved if he kept his mind a solid blank and just enjoyed the superior sensation of having a soft, sexy woman under him.

If he didn’t think, he might be able to keep her there long enough to make love with her again. Then there’d be another period of not-thinking.

Who knew how long he could keep up that pattern? Maybe indefinitely.

When she moved under him, a lazy kind of stretch, it seemed a very good possibility.

“I want some water.” She stroked a hand down his back. “You thirsty?”

“Not if it means moving for the next five or ten years.”

She gave his ass a light pinch. “I’m thirsty. So you have to move.”

“Okay.” But he nuzzled her hair a moment longer. “I’ll get it.”

“That’s all right.” She gave him a little shove and wiggled out from under him. “I’ll get it.”

She stopped by the closet on the way out, and he had a glimpse of something thin and silky billowing out over that gorgeous body before she strolled out the door.

“Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is just some wish-fulfillment fantasy, and I’m really in my own bed with Moe snoring on the floor.”

Or maybe not.

He sat up, scrubbed his hands over his face. And unfortunately, began to think. He’d come over because he’d been churned up, pissed off, and generally confused by the scene they’d had in his office that morning.

And now he was in her bed, naked, and they’d just had incredible sex. When she’d been drunk. Well, maybe not drunk, but impaired.

He should’ve walked away. He should’ve found the moral fortitude to walk away from a naked, willing woman when that naked, willing woman’s inhibitions had been erased by alcohol.

And what was he, a saint?

When she walked back in wearing nothing but a short red robe, he scowled at her.

“I’m a human being. I’m a man.”