She'd never been tasted this way, touched this way, as if she were everything, and all things.
And his mouth closed over her, suddenly greedy, rough and focused on that core of wet heat until she flew up like an arrow with the sharp edge of her own pleasure stabbing her.
He was mad for her now, wild to see her pinned on the jagged peak of her own ecstasy. Her head was flung back, her eyes blind, her hands wrapped around the iron posts of the bed as if only that desperate grip kept her anchored.
And he was mad to drive her farther.
He used his hands until she bucked against him in frantic, pleading rhythm. Watched her, watched her, until his name sobbed out of her, until her hands lost their grip, until her body went pliant as pooled wax.
She lay still, wrecked, unable to do more than moan when he lifted her enough to slip the shirt away from her shoulders.
"You're beautiful, Ms. Templeton. Gold." He touched his hand to her hair. "Rose." And her breast. She trembled under his touch.
"Michael." She opened heavy eyes, saw the room spin. "I can't."
"Can't you?" Gently now, he lowered his head, flicked his tongue over her nipple. "I wonder."
"I know you didn't—you haven't—" She reached for him, knowing she would find him hard and ready. "Let me."
"Some other time." He smiled, though his blood had leaped when her fingers closed around him. "I'll take a rain check. Let's just see if we can finish this the old-fashioned way."
This time he closed his mouth over her breast and sent the ache echoing down.
"You do things inside me." Her breath began to hitch again. That curl of new need began to spread and ache and throb. "You have no idea what you do inside me."
It was building again, impossibly strong. She could have wept. He feasted on her breasts, teeth and tongue hungry for the flavor of her, that fragile and floral taste he'd come to crave. He took her hands, wrapping them around the posts again, keeping his clamped over hers.
The thought ran through her reeling head that they were both trapped, both locked in, both prisoners of this.
Accepting, she lifted her mouth to his, linking there as well, and met his fast, desperate thrust.
Then it was only blind speed, blazing heat, gasps and the animal's song of flesh against flesh. Harder, deeper, until he was buried in her. Until, still linked, hands, mouths, sex, they plunged.
Later, when blood had cooled and the air was quiet again, she shifted. His arm curled around her, held.
"I thought you were asleep," she murmured.
"Was."
"I have to go. I can't sneak in the house at dawn every morning carrying my shoes."
"Little while more." He was still half asleep, and his voice was thick with it. "I wanna hold you."
Her heart melted. Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. Wild, untamed hair, she thought. Devil's hair, dark and seductive. "Only a little while."
She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand on his heart. But he was already asleep again. So she lay there, for a little while, feeling his heart beat.
Mrs. Williamson slid a stack of pancakes under Michael's nose. It seemed the least he could do was eat them. She watched him take the first bite, her arms folded over her breasts.
"The best," he said. "When I get my place back together, I'm going to miss sneaking over here and having you feed me. Sure you don't want to marry me and come along?"
"You keep asking, you might get surprised." She topped off his coffee. The boy had always had a raging appetite, she reflected. For all manner of things. "Did you finish up that casserole I sent down?"
"I ate it, bowl and all." Absently, he reached down to scratch the kitten that wound hopefully through his legs. "And the pie, and those cookies." He grabbed her hand, nibbling on it while she clucked at him. "If you were to see your way to making one of those chocolate cakes. The one with the cream and the cherries?"
"Black Forest. Miss Laura's favorite."
"It is?" Apparently they shared the same taste out of bed as well. "She probably wouldn't miss a piece, or two, of it."