The Widow - Carla Neggers [76]
“Owen!”
She shattered and melted into the warm bed under her. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
But he could, and did, still hard inside her, but moving more slowly now, as if to test her, tempt her, make her prove to him that she was spent.
Amazingly, her body responded. Desire coursed through her like a hot, oozing trickle that turned quickly to a flood, overwhelming everything in its path. She clutched his arms, digging her fingers into his muscles as he quickened his pace, his energy and stamina without limit.
For an instant, their eyes locked.
Then he smiled, shuddering with his own release, even as she pulled herself up against his chest and felt the heat there, tasted his sweat as her body convulsed yet again, this time with him.
They collapsed together, then fell onto their backs, breathing hard.
Bit by bit, the room came back into focus. The wood walls. The rich colors. Abigail could smell the fire in the other room and hear the sigh of the ocean, the rhythmic hoot of a nearby owl.
She’d just made love to Owen Garrison.
She hadn’t held back even a little. She sat up, aware of her nakedness. In the dim light, she could see spots reddened by his teeth and tongue, still sensitized. A touch—just a glance, probably—and she’d be fired up again, eager for more wild sex.
His eyes drifted from her breasts downward and back again with a frankness she found both comforting and unbelievably erotic. He made no effort to cover himself. She could see it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to take her again.
“You’re one good-looking bastard,” she told him.
He sat up. “Am I?”
“You know damn well you are. A good-looking dare-devil. And bloody rich, too.”
“And?”
“Oh, there should be more, should there? Glutton. Well, you’re also good at what you do, and committed to it, and—” All the fun went out of her tone, and she finished. “Rootless.”
“All true. Everything you say.” He sat up halfway and flicked his tongue over her nipple. “Every word.”
She gulped in a breath. “Owen…”
He flicked his tongue over her nipple again. “I think you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.” He cupped his lips around the nipple, holding it in his mouth as his tongue did its work and she started to melt. He released it, saying, “I love your dark eyes,” then captured it again.
Barely able to sit up any longer, Abigail ran one hand up his back. “Never mind my eyes. I’m—”
“And your heart.” He let go of her nipple and sat up higher, so that his eyes were level with hers. “I love your heart. You’re not cynical. You’ve seen the worst that human nature can offer, and you still believe in the rest of us.”
She sank back onto the bed, taking him with her. “Don’t be too sure,” she whispered. “Just make love to me again. Now. If you can….”
“Oh, I can,” he whispered back, taking her hand and guiding it to him.
As she stroked him, she pressed him against her most sensitive flesh, slowly, the hard tip inflaming her. When he entered her this time, he didn’t move. He filled her up with him and held her close.
“I’m falling in love with you, Abigail,” he said. “I have been for a long time.”
This time, their lovemaking was slow and tender as they explored each other, giving as well as taking, a meeting of souls and not just of bodies. She could feel his release starting and moved in such a way to heighten it. He moaned, shuddering with each thrust.
She didn’t think she’d have another orgasm—didn’t care—but before she realized what was happening, it was upon her, rocking her to her core.
“Owen,” she said. “Owen, I…”
But she couldn’t get another word out. She was done, exhausted. Satiated. She rolled into him, aware only of his arms around her as she fell asleep.
Doyle kissed his sons good-night and lumbered downstairs as if he were a million years old. Will Browning in his last days at ninety-five had walked with more of a spring in his step.
No one thought this thing with Mattie would end well.
He’d gone on self-destructive binges before, but luck and friends would walk him back from the brink. This time, luck meant not that