Free Lover in the Rough by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

forgot his frightening reaction when she had mentioned owning half of a worthless mine. She forgot the ache of her arms where his fingers had gripped her flesh. She gave herself to him without thought or reservation, holding and being held until she forgot everything but his heartbeat and his deep voice murmuring words in a strange, liquid language. His hands slid over her silk clothes, molding her to him until she was a supple column of warmth from his mouth down to the hard muscles of his thighs.
    He rolled over swiftly, his body covering her in one long caress. Instinctively Reba’s hands moved from his arms to his shoulders and then down the long muscles of his back, kneading his hard flesh with a sensuality that had been buried beneath layers of civilized restraint until Chance held her, teaching her how sweet wildness could be. His tongue was hot and hard as he took her mouth in a kiss that didn’t end until she twisted against him, crying wordlessly, gripped by a hunger as wild as his.
    Slowly Chance lifted his mouth, only to return again and again with tiny, biting kisses until Reba made a small sound in her throat. He lifted his head until he could see her soft lips and feel her breath rushing out in a long sigh. When he kissed the pulse beating in her throat, she tilted her head back and arched against him.
    Chance spoke softly; strange, rhythmic syllables that were another kind of caress. His lips moved down to the smooth flesh revealed by the open neck of her blouse. The tip of his tongue touched the swell of her breast and his hand brushed over her nipple. She made a small sound and stared up at him with dazed cinnamon eyes.
    “When you touch me . . . I don’t know myself. Chance . . . ?”
    “I’m a fool,” he whispered, “a bloody fool.” And then his mouth covered hers again, filling her with his heat and hunger.
    Only later, too late, would she remember his words about being a fool. Then she would laugh bitterly, knowing that there had been only one bloody fool on the beach that day, and it hadn’t been him.

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    R eba sat at her desk in the Objet d’Art, staring at the Tiger God when she should have been staring at invoices and appraisals. Light rippled hypnotically over the sculpture, creating subtle bands of gold and shimmering brown, smooth and infinitely sensuous. The sculpture captured the essence of male power and grace. And beneath it all, beneath the satin polish and sophisticated modeling, there was a wildness that called to her in a language as old as need and love.
    She closed her eyes but still felt the Tiger God’s radiant presence. In her mind the sculpture changed, eyes silver-green now, midnight hair and moustache, resilient muscles sliding beneath her touch, gentle hands making her ache with a need that was so new to her she had no way to control it. With her eyes closed she could feel Chance’s body covering hers again, the world shrinking until there was nothing in it but him and her and the distant cry of gulls.
    She hadn’t known what it was to want a man. Not like that, tenderness and fierce heat, needing to please and consume him in the same instant, emotions tearing through her until she could only tremble beneath him, unable even to think. She had forgotten where she was, who she was, forgotten everything but the taste and feel of him.
    When he had ended the kiss by rolling aside until he no longer touched her, she had been bewildered, lost. Then she had remembered where she was and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She and Chance had been necking on a public beach like a pair of teenagers. As though he were reading her thoughts, his hand had closed around hers gently. The faint tremor that went through him when his skin touched hers told Reba that his restraint didn’t come easily. The realization had comforted her. She wasn’t alone in the dizzying new world he had opened to her.
    She hadn’t wanted to go back to the Objet d’Art. He hadn’t wanted to