He began to move in earnest. The muscles in his back and shoulders quivered beneath her palms, and the slow, deep throb inside her built. Nothing existed but the bed, their bodies, a lush, blazing wildness.

Thrust and withdraw. Arch and accept.

The ancient rhythms pushed them into oblivion.

*  *  *

Contentment radiated from her in waves, and that made Mat feel so good he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He rubbed her shoulder. She was soft everywhere. Soft, sweet, and irresistible.

Her hair brushed his chin, and she curled a bare leg over his. If she moved her leg much farther, she’d discover that he was hard again, something he didn’t want her to figure out quite yet. She needed some time. Hell, so did he. Not time for his body to adjust, but his mind.

Her breath tickled his chest hair as she spoke. “That was fabulous.”

She had no idea.

It shouldn’t have been so good. It should have been intimidating, considering who she was. Setting that aside, it should have been what sex generally was to him, a great time with a nice lady. But this particular lady hadn’t been all that nice. She’d been snooty and snappy, deliberately provoking, exciting in ways he’d never expected.

And what he couldn’t seem to take in . . . this thing that he kept trying to push out of his mind only to have it jump right back in . . . it seemed impossible, but everything inside him told him that she’d been new at this. Very new.

He shied away from the idea, only to have it return. She’d been like somebody seeing Paris for the first time, or riding her first roller coaster, or learning how to scuba dive. She hadn’t been with anybody. Not even her dead husband, the former President of the United States.

It was knowledge he could never use. He accepted that. But he still wanted to confirm it. Not for a story, but for himself.

She’d started doodling on his chest. “I know I’m too skinny. Thank you for not mentioning it.”

He smiled. Women and their bodies. He’d heard every complaint in the book, right down to one sister insisting her thumbs were too fat and another who’d spent three days with her thighs bound in Saran Wrap.

“Women starve themselves to have a body like yours.”

“It’s too skinny.”

That was true, but her thinness was part of her identity. It was as if her enthusiasm for life burned up the food she ate before it could settle anywhere. He put his hand over her stomach. “In case you haven’t noticed, your stomach isn’t as flat as it was the day we met.”

She shoved his hand out of the way and replaced it with her own. “Yes, it is. I can’t feel anything.”