the front of her dress so that he could slip his fingers between the two garments. They went immediately to her rib cage, strumming it as if fine-tuning a delicate instrument. Ripples of pleasure wound through Della as he touched her, and she sighed her delight, her breath a puff of fog in the frigid air. Unable to help herself, she leaned against him, reaching behind herself with both hands to curl her fingers into his hair. Marcus used her new position to plunder her at will, covering her breasts with sure fingers.
“Oh,” she murmured at his touch. “Oh, Marcus.”
He said nothing in response, only dipped his head to her neck to drag kisses along the column of her throat. One hand gently kneaded her breast, while the other began to venture lower, moving along the elegant curves of her waist and hip and thigh, where he bunched the fabric of her dress in his fist. Slowly, slowly, oh … so slowly, he drew the garment upward, until Della could feel the cold and snow on her stocking-clad legs. Because of the gown’s length, and because of the cold, she’d worn tights that rolled just above the knee, leaving her thighs bare. When she felt the whip of cold on her naked skin, she gasped, not only because of the frosty air, but also because she realized how far, how fast, things had progressed between them.
“Marcus,” she began to protest. But the words sounded halfhearted, even to her own ears.
“Shh,” he told her. “I just want to touch you. I just want to feel your skin beneath my fingertips.”
She told herself to tell him he’d done that by holding her hand, but the words stilled before emerging. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s touch. Too long.
She’d forgotten how delicious it felt to be this close to another human being. Had forgotten how essential it was to share physical intimacy with another person. Had forgotten how exquisite it could be, how alive it could make her feel. Had forgotten—
Marcus found the leg of her panties and pushed it aside, threading his fingers into the damp, molten core of her.
Oh … oh, Marcus … She’d forgotten how that could feel, too.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured against her ear, obviously surprised by her response to him. “Della … oh, sweetheart … it’s like … It’s like you’re already ready for me to—”
He moved his fingers against her again, eliciting a groan from deep inside her. Her fingers fell to the railing again, convulsing on it, then relaxed, then gripped the fixture again. Hard. She turned her fists first one way, then the other, then began to move them up and down along the length of the railing, the way she would touch a man’s—
Marcus stroked her again, and somehow, she knew he was watching the movement of her hands and thinking the same thing she was thinking. Feeling the same thing she felt. Wanting the same thing she wanted.
He nuzzled her neck again, this time nipping her lightly with his teeth, an action she found unbelievably erotic. In response, she moved a hand behind herself and fumbled for his belt, working both it and the fly of his trousers open with trembling fingers.
Well, why shouldn’t she? It was her birthday. She was celebrating. She’d already given herself so many gifts tonight. Why not one more? Why not enjoy this man the way they both wanted to enjoy each other?
When Marcus realized what she was doing, he moved away from her long enough to help her complete the action. She started to turn around, but he placed both hands firmly on her waist and held her in place with her back to him. So she reached behind herself and thrust her hand into his trousers, finding him naked and hard and ready. He gasped at what must have been the coldness of her hand, but she quickly warmed them both. Cupping the heavy head of his shaft in one hand, she palmed him over the satiny balm of his anticipated release before moving her fingers lower along his length. And lower. And lower. Until she caught her breath at just how magnificent he was.
She honestly wasn’t sure what she had been thinking she would do next, and in that moment, Marcus’s thoughts seemed to mirror her own. Dropping one hand from her waist, he fisted the fabric of her skirt again. Only this time, it was in the back, and this time he hiked it over her waist. As Della clung to the damp railing, Marcus pulled down her panties, pushing them past her knees. Della did the rest, stepping completely out of them.
And then he was moving behind her again, deftly rolling on a condom he must have had at the ready. But then, he was notorious, wasn’t he? She had only a scant second to marvel at how he was sexually indiscriminate enough to be so prepared for sex, yet responsible enough to take such a precaution. Then, as the snow cascaded around her, Marcus thrust himself into her from behind, burying himself deeply.
When she cried out at the depth of his penetration, he gently covered her mouth with his hand. Then he began to move inside her, pulling himself out almost completely before bucking against her again, going even deeper. She had to bite her lip to keep herself silent, but he rewarded her by moving his hand between her legs and fingering the damp folds of her flesh. Of course, that only made her want to cry out again …
But she didn’t cry out. She only felt. Felt the tight coil of heat in her belly pull tighter still, until her entire body seemed ready to explode. She felt the man behind her fill her again and again and again, felt the dizzying sensations of hunger and desire and need mingling and twining until they all became one. And then she felt the white-hot release of her climax shaking her, followed immediately by his.
And then he was removing himself from inside her and wrapping up the spent condom, rearranging their clothes as best he could before he spun her around and covered her mouth with his. For a long time, he only kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. Then, finally, he pulled back enough so that he could frame her face with both hands. It was snowing harder now, swirls of powder blowing up onto the terrace, surrounding them in a virtual tornado of white. Marcus’s breath was coming in gasps, puffs of white against the sparkle of snow that merged with her own hitched breathing.
He dipped his head until his forehead was pressed against hers. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before,” he said between breaths. “Della, my God. You’re a narcotic.”
She wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so she said nothing. She only curled her fingers in the front of his shirt and clung to him. They stood that way for long moments, neither seeming to know what to say or do. Della was confident no one inside the club had seen what had happened. Not only was the place deserted by now, but the two of them had also been obscured by both the darkness and the blowing snow. She also noted with a smile that they’d managed to fog up the windows behind them to opacity.
Finally, Marcus pulled away from her. But only far enough that he could gaze into her face. She’d expected him to demand the return of his jacket and say something like, “Holy cow, would you look at the time? I gotta get outta here.”
Instead, he threaded his fingers gently into her hair and, very softly, asked, “Do you know what my favorite thing is about the Windsor Club?”
Still not trusting her voice, Della only shook her head.
“My favorite thing is that it’s connected to the Ambassador Hotel. On nights like this, when driving could be dangerous due to a mix of weather, darkness and extremely good champagne, you can just … spend the night there. You don’t have to set foot outside to get there. You can walk down the hall and through a breezeway and be at the registration desk in a matter of minutes. And, thanks to your platinum club status, within minutes of that, you can be in a luxury suite ordering another bottle of champagne from their twenty-four-hour room service.”
Finally finding her voice,
