Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [65]
Annoyed, Asha started to shove away from him, but he held her firm. She struggled in his arms. “Oh, yeah, I can see where a cat would crimp the style of Mr. Jetsetter—”
“Whoa, Asha, I was teasing. The ridiculous beast is growing on me.” He glanced at the cat, who was settling down to take a nap on his hip. “Literally. I’m playfully protesting—adjusting—to something new, unfamiliar to me. We can find a vet Monday and haul his sorry arse there, and I’ll happily pay the bill. Things are moving a little fast—for us both—but we know something rare, something special is happening between us. I’m sure each of us has been burned in relationships before. It would be nice if we came programmed to go straight to the person who was the perfect mate for us. But then, maybe Fate tosses us some jerks along the way to make certain we appreciate how extraordinary it is when the real thing walks into our lives. I could tell you where I think this is heading, but then I doubt you’re ready to believe me. So, why don’t we just relax, listen to the rain and enjoy being together. Or . . . I could tell you that when you walked through the door of The Windmill, it was like you materialized from the sun’s blinding shafts, an image branded into my memory, so that when I’m old and gray I’ll recall that instant and how it moved me . . . changed me.”
Feeling his life distill to this single moment in time, Jago reached out and took her braid. With slow movements, he undid the stretchy band around the ends, then unwound the three sections of auburn tresses. In the dimness of the bedroom her hair appeared almost brown. He couldn’t see the golden threads woven through the mane, but he could feel the silken softness as he pushed his fingers into the heavy mass. He arranged the long length over her shoulder, draped it so it fanned out. His mouth crooked at one corner as he noticed how the strands fell across the outer curve of her breast, almost clinging to it.
“Smart hair . . . lucky hair.” He lightly traced the roundness of her full breast with the tip of his index finger.
She half closed her eyes; her breathing shifted, shallow, faster. “I . . . I cannot think . . . when you are doing that, Jago.”
“Me neither.” He closed the path of his finger to where he was circling just around the rim of her nipple. “Thinking is highly overrated anyway.”
“Hmm . . . I agree.” She shifted, pushing on his shoulder until he was flat on his back and she was on her knees, straddling his hips. She said with a wicked grin, “Before this goes any further, I think I should warn you that I’m multiorgasmic.” She leaned forward and impishly lapped at his nipple with her hot little tongue. His breath drew in on a hiss and he had to fight to keep his body from bowing off the bed.
“Ah, you are? Clever lass . . . ah . . . you are. Impressive. Delightful. Am I lucky or what?” He chuckled, thinking how happy Asha made him.
That caused him pause. He’d been content before—pleased, thrilled, entertained. He’d enjoyed various aspects of his life, such as when he saved Mershan International a bundle in a takeover. But had he ever really been happy? Just happy?
She ran her hands up his chest and then over his shoulders. “Well, actually, that’s not quite the truth. I think I would be multiorgasmic if I had a man worthy enough.”
“Even better. Certainly sounds like something that would make me ‘rise’ to the occasion. So you think you could be this ‘sexual marathon maven’ if someone were to hold up his end of the bargain?” He gave a faint up thrust of his pelvis to punctuate his question.
She flexed her hips so that the V of her crotch settled perfectly over the ridge of his erection taut against his belly. “Ah, think? I’m rather positive I could be.”
“I think you would be, too. Multiorgasmic is my new favorite