"Yes," she cried mournfully.
"No. I'm more married to you than he is." He swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, keeping his gaze riveted on hers, which was wide with disbelief. Depositing her gently on the bed, he followed her down.
"I knew there was something odd about that night, something I should remember." He spoke rapidly, the words tripping over each other. "But I could never pinpoint what it was. Now I can. You were a virgin. I was your first and only lover. Not Shelby. Not any man. Me. Right, Devon?"
She closed her eyes. Tears leaked from them and rolled down her cheeks. She nodded. Lucky released a long-held sigh and bent down to rest his forehead on hers.
"Your marriage to him was never consummated?"
She shook her head no.
"Thank God." His breath ghosted over her tear-streaked features. He sipped a cloudy, salty droplet from the corner of her lips, then whisked them with his tongue.
Their open mouths sought each other. It wasn't as tempestuous a kiss as the previous one, but it was deeper, longer, wetter, more meaningful, their searching tongues conveying unspoken emotions.
Slowly, article by article, he removed her clothing, stopping occasionally to admire, pet, kiss areas of her body that up till now he had only imagined. He had explored them first in darkness and knew them only by touch. Now his eyes had a sensual feast as he marveled over each curve and contour.
Placing her hands above her head, he ran his fingers down the pale undersides of her arms. His hands brushed across her breasts, causing the nipples to peak, then down her belly, over her navel, to her thighs. He caressed the satin texture of each one, delighting in their slender shape. The muscles of her calves perfectly fit his palms. He stroked her slender ankles, the arches of her feet, and ran his thumbs along the pads of her toes.
She was lovely all over, but between her thighs she was so beautifully, wonderfully woman, it made his heart ache. Palming her soft mound, he bent over her and made love to her mouth with his tongue, delving and withdrawing with a tempo that fired their imaginations and their blood.
With anxious longing, she quietly cried his name. He removed his expertly caressing hand and calmed her by dusting her face with light, airy kisses. Leaving the bed, he undressed.
The blinds were open. Afternoon sunlight streamed in, casting alternate strips of light and shadow across his flesh, limning his body hair with gold.
He had never known an ounce of modesty. Yet, standing at the side of Devon's bed, as he stepped free of his jeans and was left naked, he experienced a twinge of uncertainty and self-consciousness. Would his tall, lean body appeal to her? His chest was hairy. Some women didn't like hairy chests.
But when he returned to the bed and stretched out beside her, she allayed his misgivings by imbedding her fingertips in the crinkly pelt on his chest.
To his supreme satisfaction, she explored him with bashful but lustful curiosity. Her deft caresses were driving him slowly mad, but he forced himself to lie still and let her explore to her heart's content. Dying of pleasure wouldn't be a bad way to go.
At last, unable to take any more, he captured her hand. Keeping his eyes on hers, he sucked her fingertips while stroking her palm with his thumb. He then carried her hand down and folded it around his steely erection. He held his breath, wondering if she would accept or reject the gesture.
First with wonder, then with pleasure, then with desire, her hand explored and caressed his sex—the strong root, the smooth length, the bead of moisture at its tip.
Groaning his ecstatic misery,
he lowered his head to her breasts. They were beautiful, and he told her so as he rubbed his open mouth over one flushed crest, then the other, until they were stiff. Wantonly he kissed her belly and that alluring delta of soft curls. She murmured a low, throaty "Please." He said that this time she had to be very ready, very wet.
She said she was. He tested her to see. He waited no longer.
As her body closed around him, milking him like a silken fist, he learned the difference between having sex and making love. This wasn't taking, but giving. It wasn't temporal, but lasting. It wasn't just physical, but emotional and cerebral. He was involved with her, totally involved, from the tip of his straining manhood to the outer perimeters of his soul.
They mated eye-to-eye, smile-to-smile, heart-to-heart, body-to-body, moving together with sublime compatibility. She matched his even strokes with a subtle undulation of her hips. The closer they moved to climax, the tighter she clung, the deeper he penetrated. Gritting his teeth, he held back until he felt the waves of sensation shimmy through her, felt her gentle contractions around his manhood, and saw the lights of ecstasy explode and glimmer in her green eyes. Only then did he release the rigid control he had imposed on himself. He buried his face in the soft fragrance of her hair and gave himself over to the encompassing pleasure that erupted from within him and into Devon.
* * *
"Are you all right?" He felt the affirmative motion of her head where it lay next to his on the pillow. His lips grazed her ear as he whispered, "You're still so small." He kissed her throat. "It's wonderful for me, but I know it can't be very comfortable for you."
He was already becoming aroused again, and there was nothing he could do about it except withdraw, and that was out of the question. Readjusting their bodies slightly, he heard Devon whimper, but not with pain. With pleasure. He smiled into her neck.
"Did I hurt you that night in the motel?"
"No."
"I must have."
"Not much."