Triumphant, she threw her head back, and her laugh was rich and wild. Locking her legs around his waist, she arched back, "Yes." Bowed like a bridge when he drove himself into her.
She cried out, no longer surprised but shuddering nonetheless over the speed and violence of the orgasm. She arrowed up again, her body locked to his, her hips pumping.
"More," she demanded, tearing nails down his back. "Michael. More."
Blind with greed, she shoved him back, dug her hands into his waist, and took more.
The storm raged through him, whipping toward peak, but he could see her. Rising and falling over him, her eyes closed to heated slits, her head back in abandon. The animal inside him mated with hers until she'd ridden both to exhaustion.
Through hazy vision he saw her melt down on him. And felt the quakes of the aftershocks rush through her. His own body felt bruised, numbed, weightless so that he wasn't even aware that his arms were locked tight around her, like a man holding everything that mattered.
"Told you I could do it," she murmured, turning her lips to his throat.
"Yeah, you sure showed me." He pressed his lips to her hair, wallowed there. "Laura." He said her name quietly, almost to himself. Then closed his eyes and tried, for both their sakes, not to hear the rest of it. I love you. Love you.
"You wanted me."
"Yes. I wanted you." Her hair smelled like sunlight, weakened him all over again.
"Will you do something for me, Michael?"
"Yeah." Anything. Terrifying thought. Anything.
"Will you carry me to bed? I'm still drunk."
"Sure, baby. Just hold on." He rose with her, a feat that even in her impaired state made her heart flutter.
"And one more thing." Her head dropped limply against his shoulder, and when she moaned he had panicked visions of finding a basin to shove under her face before she was sick.
"Okay, don't worry. I'll take care of you. It'll be fine."
"All right." Warm and soft and trusting, she curled into him, then blinked against sudden hard light. "What? What?" Her head cocked curiously. "Why are we in the bathroom?"
"It's the handiest place to be sick. Go ahead and toss up that wine, sugar, you'll feel better."
"I'm not going to toss up perfectly good champagne." She wrapped her arms tighter when he tried to set her down. "I'm not going to be sick." Then she flopped back, dead weight, like a woman in a faint and laughed until it echoed off the walls. "Oh, that's so sweet. You were going to hold my head while I vomited. God, Michael." She raised up again, kissed him sloppily. "You're the cutest thing. Just so cute and sweet I could eat you right up. My hero."
Embarrassed, he narrowed his eyes. "Maybe I'll just stick your head in the toilet anyway. If you're not going to lose the champagne and chocolate, what do you want?"
"I told you to carry me to bed. I would think it would be obvious." Smiling, she traced a finger down his chest. "I want you to want me again. If it wouldn't be an imposition."
He glanced down at her, warm, rosy, naked female. His female. "I guess I could manage that."
"Good, and do you think you could, well…" She leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made his blood take a quick trip to his loins.
"That's pretty inappropriate behavior, but…" He made a beeline for the bed. "Under the circumstances…"
Chapter Eighteen
Contents - Prev | Next
Experiencing a first hangover, Laura discovered, wasn't nearly as much fun as experiencing a first drunk. Instead of having a head filled with light and color and gloriously rambling ideas, she had one crammed with noise—along the lines of a poorly directed high school band, with the percussion section banging away gleefully at her left temple.
Her system didn't feel free and floaty, but clogged, the way her mouth seemed clogged with enough dirt to make half a dozen mud pies.
She was grateful that Michael had left her alone rather than witness the humiliation.
She wouldn't think about the fact that she'd spent the night in his bed and now would have to stagger into the house, where her family and the staff would shoot her questioning looks.