of his chest. Her arms stretched out for him, beckoning him to her.
He was filled with an exhilarating power…the power that only a woman can give a man when she reveals her desire for him, welcoming him into her embrace, giving as well as taking, trusting him to carry her to the highest star, where passion is food for the gods and satisfaction is its own reward.
In the lamplight he gazed down at her, possessing her, held in the spell of the moment, watching her eyes travel the length of his body. Her lips parted, full and ripe, revealing the pink tip of her tongue as she moistened them. She was leaning back against the pillows, one knee bent, hiding her most secret place from his sight. Breasts proud, their coral tips erect, invited his hands and his lips. When he reached out to touch her, an answering voluptuous stretch revealed her womanhood where a fine feathering of downy hair caught the light, gilding her body in a soft, shimmering glow. She was beautiful, this lioness with the hungry eyes, beautiful and desirable, setting his pulses pounding anew, unleashing a driving need in him to satiate himself in her charms, to quell this hunger she created in him and to salve an appetite for her that was ravenous, voracious.
He moved into her embrace, felt her arms surround his hips, aware that she rested her cheek sweetly against the flat of his stomach, rubbing against his soft, curling hairs. His hands found the pins in her hair, pulling them impatiently, removing them, eager to see its dark wealth tumble about her shoulders and curl around her breasts. Silky chestnut strands, scented and shining, rippled through his fingers, cascading from his hands down the smooth length of her back and onto the pillows. She lifted her head, looking at him, her eyes heavy with passion. He had been right in likening her to a lion, a wildcat of the jungle. Dark lashes created shadows on her high cheekbones; upward-winging brows delineated her features. The full, ripe body, tinged with gilt, tempted his hands and invited his lips.
Her teasing touches grazed his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, slipping between them and rising higher and higher. She took in with her eyes all she touched with her fingers, the masculine hardness of him, feeling it pulsate with anticipation of her touch; and when her hand closed over him, a deep rumbling sounded in his chest, issuing from his lips in a barely audible moan.
He lay down beside her, reaching for her, covering her breasts with his hands, seeking them with his lips. But her appetite for him had not been satisfied, and she lifted herself onto her elbow, leaning over him, her hair draping over her shoulder to create a curtain between them. Again she touched him, running the tips of her fingers down his chest, hearing his small gasp of pleasure. The flat of her palm grazed his belly, and her lips followed her hand’s downward slope.
The swell of her hips and the rounded fullness of her bottom filled him with a throbbing urgency. Nothing short of having her, of losing himself in her, would satisfy. He was afraid the touch of her lips would drive him over the edge, past the point of no return. Impatiently he drew her upward, pushing her back against the pillows, trapping her with his weight. He wanted to plunder her, drive himself into her, slake his thirst, knowing his needs could be met only in her.
Her mouth was swollen, passion-bruised, and tasting of himself. Her arms wound around him, holding him close as she pressed against him. His hand caressed her breast, just skimming the rosy tip, and his lips followed hungrily, tasting and teasing until a golden warmth spread through her veins, quickening her already erratic pulse. Her hair became entangled round his neck, and he brushed it aside before resuming his sensual exploration. His lips lingered now in the place where her arm joined her body, then traced a patternless path back to her full, heaving breasts. She clung to the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms, afraid she would fall into a yawning abyss where flames were fed by passion.
His hands spanned her waist, tightening their grip to lift her above him. His mouth tortured her with teasing flicks of his tongue, making her shudder with unreleased passion. She curled her fingers into his night-dark hair, pushing him backward, away, pleading that he end the torment, only to follow his greedy mouth with her body, straining her flesh against his.
A throbbing ache spread through her, demanding to be satisfied, making her seek relief by the involuntary roll of her hips against the length of his thigh. He held her there, forcing her bottom forward, driving her pelvis against him.
Suddenly he shifted, throwing her backward and settling on top of her, looming over her. For a thousand times, it seemed, his lips and hands traveled her body, starting at the pulse point near her throat and seeming to end at her toes.
He whispered French words of love, words she’d taught him, praising her beauty, celebrating her sensuality. Her body seemed to have a life of its own, and she succumbed to it, turning, opening like the petals of a flower. His searching fingers adored her, his hungry mouth worshiped her. Lower and lower his kisses trailed, covering the tautness of her belly and slipping down to the softness between her thighs.
She felt him move upon her, demanding her response, tantalizing her with his mouth, bringing her ever closer to that which had always eluded her and kept itself nameless for her. Her body flamed beneath his touch, offering itself to him, arching and writhing, reveling in the sensation that was within her grasp, reveling in her own femininity. She felt as though she were separated from herself, that the world was comprised only of her aching need and his lips. Exotically sweet, thunderously compelling, her need urged him on, the same need that lifted her upward, upward, soaring and victorious, defeating her barriers, conquering her reserves, bringing her beyond the threshold of a delicious rapture never dreamed of or suspected, even in her fantasies.
And when his mouth closed over hers once again, he had proved her a woman and had not cursed her for it. He had allowed her to rise victorious in her passions, leaving her breathless and with the knowledge that there was more, much more. She was satisfied yet discontent; fed and yet famished. She wanted to share the ecstasy he had given her, participate in the sharing, and only with him.
Grasping her hips, he lifted her as though she were weightless. He brought her parted thighs around him, and when he drove downward, she felt as if she were being consumed by a totally different fire—one that burned still but left the sensibilities intact. Yet there was that same driving need deep within her, deeper and more elusive than she had experienced the first time. She struggled to bring herself closer, needing to be part of him this time, needing him to be part of herself. These fires burned deeper, brighter, fueled by his need for her, his hunger to be satisfied.
Tears glistened on her cheeks. She was triumphant, powerful, a woman. In this man’s arms she knew she had been born for this moment, that all her life had been leading up to what she was experiencing with this magnificent American. Together they had found the secrets of the universe.
Reuben lay back among the pillows, Mickey cradled against his chest. He knew that there would never be a moment to equal what he’d just experienced. There would be other women, he was sure of it, perhaps even a wife someday, but they would never do for him what this woman had just done. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pound.
His last conscious thought before drifting off into a contented sleep was, George, you son of a bitch, you didn’t tell me the half of it.
The purple dawn was wrapping its arms around the château when Mickey crept from Reuben’s bed and made her way down the hall to her own room.
How cold and forlorn her bed felt. She wanted to be back in Reuben’s bed with her head on his shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She’d known it would be like this…and now there was nothing she could do. She’d tasted her fill of the American, and she wanted more. Would always want more.
But how long would she be able to keep him? Six months, a year? At forty-three, she was old enough to be his mother. Hardly the basis for an enduring romance. In the end, would he be the one to ask to leave, or would she send him on his way? Where in the world would
