Free Every Time I Love You by Heather Graham Page A

utterly weak in her limbs that she could not stand, she collapsed, falling upon him. Then, just as intense as her pleasure had been, she felt shame. She curled into herself, away from him, then sprang to her feet, sobbing. She lurched for the dressing room, desperate for something, anything, to cover herself.
    “Gayle!”
    She heard his command, loud and ringing and harsh. She stood still, then felt his hands upon her shoulders, firm and tender. “Gayle, Gayle, Gayle...” Just her name whispered so gently.
    “Oh, my God, I said that I didn't...and then I just stood there while you—and I don't do this kind of thing with a stranger, and, oh, my God! I've never done this type of thing, ever...I don't—”
    “Look at me.”
    “No!” She spoke in fervent horror.
    “Sweetheart.” His kiss grazed her hair. He turned her into his arms and she buried her face against his chest. “I know that you don't because I don't. I swear to you, I never meant it to happen. Not here. Not now. I never meant to take such an advantage. Look at me, dammit, will you?”
    She really had no choice because his fingers were in her hair, and her head was arching back. She was astounded by the emotion betrayed in his eyes.
    “This is special. We're special. Good God, can't you see that yet? Can't you feel it, can't you admit that you feel it?” He demanded ardently.
    “Tell me that you want me.”
    He leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. The salt of her tears mingled with the taste of his mouth. She came closer and closer to him until he had lifted her against him.
    “Tell me,” he whispered the words, his lips hovering just above her own. She stared into his eyes, feeling weak. She clung to him for support.
    “Tell me!” he insisted.
    “I...want you.”
    He swept her into his arms and gave her a ravaging kiss as he strode from the studio. She didn't know where they were going; she didn't really care.
    He moved quickly with long, strong steps. He paused, kicking open a door with the toe of his shoe.
    They came into his bedroom. Gayle never saw what it looked like that night. They entered in darkness and he laid her on the bed and all she knew then was sound. The thud of his shoes, the rasp of his zipper, the whispery noise as he cast his shirt and briefs aside. Then he was back beside her.
    She was able to touch him; to feel his shoulders, run her fingers over his cheeks. Run her hands along his muscular body. He groaned. She felt him shift his weight so that he was on top of her. He nudged her thigh with his knee, and she felt his breath and heard the anguish of his whisper.
    “I am dying for you.”
    “I know.” She caught his face between her hands and kissed him, arching against him. “Please!”
    He thrust and she felt him then, deep inside of her, hard and sleek. To her amazement, it all came to her again, every sensation of riveting excitement. She felt filled to the point where she would shatter, but she did not. She soared. He was like heat and lightning. There was no subtlety, no finesse, just raw hunger, yet she was ready for nothing less. She loved the rough power of him, the sleek sweat upon his gleaming flesh, the hardness that coiled and tightened his features and body.
    She had not thought it possible to climax again so quickly on such a high note; she had never known it could feel so good to simply feel a man's explosion inside of her.
    They didn't talk. They breathed and lay still, entwined. He didn't seem to think that they needed to rise. She couldn't begin to imagine that they should do so. Thinking would be dangerous altogether. It was better to savor the moment. His leg cast over hers, his fingers entwined in her hair, her cheek against the rough hair on his chest. It should never have happened but it had and, whatever else, she knew that nothing would ever be like it again in life. She should have been in panic once again; she should have been analyzing, trying to explain it all to him, to