“Claire,” he said again, his voice no longer recognizable. It was rough, raspy, and as her name left his lips, he was tearing at his clothing. In a fever, he pushed her skirt to her waist then spread her legs and put himself between them. For a frozen moment in time she felt the shock of his naked flesh against her, then he drove into her, and her body jolted from the impact. She ceased to exist as a person; she was only heat and need, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, crying out and twisting to meet his thrusts. He caught her mouth with his, and her breathing stopped, taken away by his wildfire. The pressure and aching need were building inside her, and it was more than she could stand. It was going to kill her, shatter her into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Max, stop,” she moaned, tearing her mouth from his. “I can’t…I can’t bear it.”
His teeth clenched, and an animal sound rose from his throat. “I—can’t stop. Not now, not now—”
The need exploded, and she did shatter, her body heaving in his arms. He held her and surged into her and met his own shattering, blind with the unbridled fury of what had just happened between them. Claire was limp in his arms, drooping against him, her head on his shoulder. He let his own head drop, resting on the curve of her neck and shoulder, her sweet, female scent rising to his nostrils as he gulped in air. Her skin was fevered, and he felt the way she was shaking, like a leaf in a storm.
It was a long time before either of them could move, could gather enough strength to do anything except cling to each other for support. Then she began to move, trying feebly to free herself from him, to pull her bodice up and cover her naked breast. She kept her head down, her face averted, unable to face him. She couldn’t believe that she had acted like an animal in heat, moaning and writhing against him, out of control and lost to every thought except the need to satisfy her body.
“Stop it!” he ordered in a fierce whisper, finally stepping back from her, but instead of being freed she found herself swept into his arms, held high against his chest. He carried her swiftly through the darkened apartment and into the bedroom, with only the small light from the foyer to show him the way. Without bothering to turn on a light even then, he laid her on the bed and stood over her as he tore out of his clothes, popping buttons from his shirt in his haste to get out of it. He was naked before she could control her quaking limbs enough to get off the bed, and by then it was too late. He bent to pull the gown off her, leaving her bare on the satin comforter. The satin was cool on her overheated skin. Then he was on her, and in her, and she was no longer aware of the coolness beneath her. He was slower this time, the urgency gone, his body moving against her with long, slow movements that rubbed his hair-covered chest against her breasts, and she began to move with him.
She hadn’t realized that such a degree of sensuality even existed, but he revealed to her a new side of her nature, the potential of her woman’s body for pleasure. And he reveled in her, holding her and kissing her endlessly, taking her to the peak of pleasure, letting her rest then doing it again before it all became too much for him, and he began surging wildly as he reached for his own sweet madness.
She lay in his arms, and he smoothed the sweatdampened hair back from her face. He took small kisses from her lips, her cheek, her temple. “I’ve been going half-crazy, wanting you,” he muttered rawly. “I know this was too fast, that you weren’t ready for it, but I don’t regret it. You’re mine. Don’t try to run away from me, love. Stay with me tonight.”
She was incapable of running from him, her strength gone, her legs like water, and at the moment she couldn’t think of why she should want to run. He pulled the comforter back and put her between the sheets, resting her head on the pillow. He lay beside her, his body warm and hard, his arm draped over her waist, and exhaustion claimed them. Claire went to sleep right away, sinking into the enveloping blackness and welcoming it. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to dream. She just wanted to sleep….
* * *
She woke in the darkened room and lay staring through the darkness at the blank ceiling. Max still slept beside her, his breathing deep and easy, his strong body relaxed. Until that night she hadn’t realized just how strong he was, but now her body ached in ways that testified to his strength. For all his sophistication and cosmopolitan manners, he made love savagely, as if civilization hadn’t touched him. Perhaps his smooth urbanity was only a veneer, and the real man was the one who had taken her with primitive urgency.
And perhaps she wasn’t the woman she had always thought herself to be. If he had been wild, so had she. If he had been hungry, so had she.
He had asked her to stay, but she didn’t know if she could face him in the morning. Every instinct in her wanted to find a place that was quiet and private, where she could come to terms with this new part of herself. A lifetime of reserve hadn’t prepared her for the wildness that had surged within her. It frightened her that he had such power over her. She hadn’t known that this could be a part of love.
Moving slowly, her body protesting, she slid out of the bed and groped around on the floor until she found the crumpled velvet heap of her gown. At the door she paused, looking back at his barely visible form on the bed, but he still slept deeply. Tears welled in her eyes; was it wrong to leave him now? What would happen if she woke beside him in the morning light, without the shield of darkness to protect her from the possibility that he might see too much? She wanted to creep back to his side and curl up in his arms, but she turned away.
“Come back here.”
His voice was low, rough with sleep. She stood there with her back to him. “It’s better that I leave now,” she whispered.
“No, I won’t let you.” She heard the rustle of the bed as he left it; then he was behind her, his naked body hot against her back. His arms circled her waist, and the gown slipped from her fingers to the floor.
“Have I frightened you?” he asked, his mouth against her neck. “Is it because I hurt you?”
Her head moved slowly from side to side in denial. “You didn’t hurt me,” she said.
“I was on you like a rutting bull, love, and you’re so soft.” His lips moved to her shoulder and found the tender hollow there. His hot breath wafted over her skin like a caress, and she felt her breasts tighten in automatic response. “So delicate. Your skin is like silk.” His hands were on her breasts now, and her head dropped back against his shoulder, her eyes closing as delight spiraled in her again.
“Come back to bed,” he urged softly. “I know you’re uneasy, but everything will be all right. I promise. We’ll talk in the morning.” Sometime during the next day he would tell her who he really was, and he was glad that this night had happened. It bound her to him, gave him an advantage in handling her. She would be angry, of course, but he didn’t think it would be anything he couldn’t handle.
She went to him, allowing herself to believe that it really would be all right. And a small while later, lying beneath him with the now-familiar fire burning inside her, she forgot why she had ever been uneasy.
* * *
The shrill ringing of the telephone woke her. Beside her, Max uttered an obscenity and sat up in the bed, reaching for the receiver to halt the intrusive noise. Bright sunlight filled the room, and she pulled the sheet higher under her chin then closed her eyes again. She didn’t feel quite ready to face the morning yet, and she wished the phone hadn’t rung.
“It’s too bloody early in the morning to be funny,” Max snarled into the receiver, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He listened a moment then said, “I don’t give a damn what time it is, whenever I’ve just woke, it’s too early. What is it?”
When he hung up the phone a few minutes later, he cursed under his breath before rolling over to look at her. Claire opened her eyes and stared at him, uncertainty plain on her face.
“I have to go to Dallas,” he said, putting out his hand to finger her hair. “This morning.”
She swallowed and tried for a casual tone. “It must be urgent—this is Sunday.”
“It is. Bloody hell, what timing! I wanted to spend the day with you. We badly need to talk about what’s happening between us, and there are some other things I wanted to tell you, but now they’ll have to wait.”
“It can wait,” she whispered.