Falcon's Flight by Joan Hohl Page B

inside Leslie, tighter and tighter, spiraling up to reduce her breathing to ragged gasps and push a low, whimpering sound from her throat. Flint was like liquid fire, washing over her, drowning her in a flood of searing sensuousness.
    His body taut with the same coiling tightness, Flint drove himself to the edge of reason. He didn’t want the tension to end, not ever, yet his body shivered with anticipation of joyous release. Leslie’s soft, throaty cries excited him unbearably, driving him wild with the desire to give her more pleasure than he derived himself. His body was damp, his muscles taut with strain when he felt her body contract around him an instant before Leslie cried his name. With an unfamiliar sense of awe, Flint savored the pulsating shudders cascading through her body.
    And still Flint held back, gritting his teeth as he maintained his cadence, striving to increase her pleasure, needing to prove her own sensuality to her. Dragging air into his burning chest, he gathered the last of his strength and thrust his hips into hers. Flint’s reward was twofold. Leslie’s body contracted again and her long nails scored his back as she sobbed his name. The sound of her voice shattered him into flaming pieces of unbelievable, almost painful pleasure. No longer able to think, breathe or even move physically, Flint experienced the most incredible sensation of taking flight spiritually. For one perfect instant, the feeling of soaring freedom was exquisite. Then, slowly, deliciously, he glided back to a soft landing against Leslie’s heaving breasts.
    Leslie was barely aware of the weight of Flint’s body; she felt stunned. Never, never would she have believed in the possibility of such excruciating pleasure or her own ability to attain it. Awareness came as her breathing leveled and her rioting heartbeat slowed. Still keyed to a trembling pitch, Leslie raised her hands to stroke and caress the man responsible for her double burst of ecstasy. Like her own, Flint’s muscles were quivering in reaction to the release from strain. Her hands moved lightly over his moist skin, smoothing, soothing the tension. She sighed when Flint reciprocated, stroking her trembling body from shoulder to thigh. She sighed again as she settled down, replete, complete, content. But she was tired, so very tired. Leslie’s eyelids drifted shut to the lullaby of Flint’s gentle murmurings.
    “You are the sleepingest woman.” Flint’s teasing voice drew her from that gray plane between wakefulness and sleep.
    Leslie’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “What time is it?” she murmured, putting off the moment of opening her eyes.
    “It’s after one, and you’ve been sleeping—” he paused tellingly “—off and on for over thirteen hours. It’s past lunch and we haven’t even had breakfast.” Leslie covered her mouth and yawned. “Are you hungry?”
    “Yes. Aren’t you?”
    “Umm, but I was so tired.” Leslie yawned again. “Is sleepingest really a word or did you just coin it?” She opened her eyes to the thrill of gazing into his. Flint was lying on his side, his torso propped up oil one elbow, his head resting on his closed hand.
    “Who cares?” He smiled down at her and moved his shoulder in a half shrug. “But you are not only the sleepingest woman,” he went on in a lowered tone, “you are a magnificent woman.”
    “Oh, Flint!” Leslie could say no more; emotion welled within her. She swallowed hard several times, then tried again. “But it wasn’t me, it was—”
    “I changed my mind,” he said, cutting off her attempt at words. “Your former husband is not a fool, he’s a blithering idiot and a liar to boot.”
    Leslie’s eyes filled with hot tears. He didn’t need to elaborate; she understood and was gratified by what he was trying to convey to her. Brad had excused his own reprehensible behavior by accusing her of inadequacy, an inadequacy that Flint now denied. She had given Flint Falcon