Charon's Crossing

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Her cries as he suckled her, coupled with the taste of her on his tongue, were sweet torture. Her hips lifted and surged towards his and for one terrible instant, he was afraid he was going to unman himself.

He told himself to think about something else. A diversion.

Count from one to one hundred, he'd once heard a man say, it always works.

Nothing would work now. Hell, he couldn't have counted from one to five without getting lost after three. He was feverish with desire, desperate to thrust into Kathryn's heat and end this torment for them both.

Ah, but it was such exquisite torment. He could not get enough of kissing her mouth or of sucking on her nipples. She tasted of milk and of honey; she smelled like the Gardens of Babylon and the mystery of Venus.

He eased his hand down her belly, lightly stroked the damp curls that awaited him. She shuddered against him and he hushed her, whispering words without knowing what he said, knowing only that he was beyond thought and reason.

His hand slipped between her legs and parted her. He touched her, his fingers sliding against that hidden rosebud he had sought, and she cried out in ecstasy.

"Matthew," she sobbed. Her hips lifted to him, drowning his stroking fingers in her sweet juices.

His head was spinning. There was so much more he wanted to do. To her. With her. He wanted to bury his face in her neck and savor the scent of her, to put his mouth where his hand was and taste her. He wanted to start from the beginning and do everything again.

But it was time. It was past time. He was going to explode if he didn't take her now. He drew back, gently drew her thighs apart, and knelt between them. He looked at her, touched her, and her eyes flew open.

"Matthew," she whispered.

"I won't hurt you, love. I promise."

Carefully, so carefully, he eased himself forward, letting just the head of his blood-engorged penis touch her damp heat.

Her eyes shut and her head thrashed back against the pillow.

"Kathryn," he said in a choked whisper.

Her eyes flew open. He saw himself reflected in her pupils.

"Watch me," he whispered. "Watch me make you mine."

He moved forward again and rubbed himself lightly over that delicate pink bud. Once. Twice. His teeth clenched together; sweat glistened on his skin. Wait, he told himself, Lord wait until you're deep inside her...

Kathryn cried out and arched off the bed. Matthew groaned slipped his hands under her bottom, and gave up the battle.

"Yes," he said, and thrust home.

Chapter 16

By morning, the storm had blown over.

Matthew sat straddling a chair in the kitchen, his chin resting on his folded arms while he indulged in the nicest sort of philosophical speculation.

Which was the more perfect sight? The blue sky and golden sunlight visible through the open door that led to the terrace—or Kathryn, bustling about the room as she made breakfast?

He smiled. It was no contest. Kathryn was far more wonderful than the warm, shining day, more wonderful than any miracle of Nature or of man. He had never known a woman like her, nor even imagined one. She was the embodiment of a man's dreams, sweet one moment and sassy the next, as fiercely independent as any man yet feminine and soft when such things mattered, and so bright and quick of mind that sometimes, when they were talking, he almost forgot she was female, though he wasn't fool enough to tell her that. She bristled at the slightest suggestion of differences between the

sexes.

His smile tilted.

Nay. He could never forget she was female. How could he, when she was so incredibly lovely, so sensually feminine?

An answering throb in his loins told him his body agreed with his brain's assessment, a minor miracle if ever there were one because only a little while ago he'd felt so sated that even the thought of rising from the bed had seemed a physical impossibility.