No escape, she thought desperately as he brought her close, painfully close, to that first tumultuous release. She was trapped in him, utterly lost in a tangled maze of sensations. She writhed beneath his hand, too steeped in her own needs to know how deliciously wanton her movements were.

“I didn’t have time to appreciate these last time.” Zack trailed his fingers up the sheer stocking to the pristine white garter. She would think them practical, he knew. He thought them erotic.

With an expert flick of his fingers that had her moaning, he released one stocking, then the other, before tormenting them both by peeling them, inch by lazy inch, down her legs.

He had to kneel on the floor to taste her calves, the backs of her knees, the glorious satin skin of her thighs. She cried out when he slid his tongue beneath her panties to sample the hot, sensitive flesh underneath. Fighting impatience, he tugged them off to give himself the freedom to taste more of her.

As the first wave swamped her, she arched like a bow, leaping into Ukrainian when the aftershocks shuddered through her. Freed, her hands groped for him until they were struggling together to strip off his clothes. Heat to heat, she pressed against him, overbalancing him, until she straddled him and her mouth could merge hotly with his.

“Now” was all he said, all he could say, as he gripped her hips.

“I really did mean to take you out,” Zack said when they lay on the couch in a tangle of limbs.

“I bet.”

He smiled, recognized the sleepy satisfaction in her voice. “Really. We can get dressed and try again.”

With a half laugh, she pressed her lips to his chest. His heart was still thundering. “You’re not going anywhere, Muldoon. Not till I’m finished with you.”

“If you insist.”

“That’s what free delivery’s for. How about Chinese?”

“You’re on. Who’s going to get up and call?”

She shifted for the pleasure of rubbing her cheek against his skin. “We’ll flip for it.”

He lost, and Rachel took advantage of the moment to grab a quick, bracing shower. When she came back, her hair damp and curly, a plain white terry-cloth robe skimming her knees, he was pouring them both a glass of wine.

“I think I’m repeating myself,” he said, offering her a glass. “But you sure look good wet.”

He’d tugged on his jeans, but hadn’t bothered with his shirt. Rachel trailed a finger down his chest. “You could have joined me.”

“We’d have missed the delivery boy.”