Last Bridge Home by Iris Johansen

she had spoken were an invitation to intimacy.
    He shook his head with a touch of desperation. “No.”
    “I’m not very attractive right now.” She laughed shakily. “And about as graceful as a rhinoceros.”
    “Not attractive at all,” he said huskily. “Beautiful.” His palms moved down to rest on her abdomen. “This is beautiful. Tight and brimming and full of life. And your breasts …”
    She looked up from where his hands lay so close to her breasts. “They ache. I ache. Do you suppose you could just hold me?” she asked sofly.
    His eyes were smoky and glazed as he gazed at her. “Yes, I can do that. It’s going to come close to killing me, but I can do it.” Jon’s mouth was coming closer. She could feel his warm breath on her lips. His hand moved from her abdomen to pull her close against him. His chest was moving erratically with the harsh ness of his breathing and the pulse in his temple was throbbing hard, fast. He was being so tender. She wanted to bury her fingers in hishair and bring him even closer to her. She sat there, every muscle tense, her breath, too, coming shallowly.
    His tongue tasted her. Warm. Wet. Erotic.
    A shudder ran through her. She gasped against his lips, and swayed toward him, bonelessly pliant. It was as if his lips were jerking hot cords somewhere within her.
    “You’ll be more comfortable if we lie down.” He gently pushed her backward on the sun shine-yellow satin of the spread. His fingers were running through her hair, but she was barely conscious of his action. His mouth held all her attention. She raised her mouth mindlessly toward his as she gave a low cry. The sensation was indescribable, his mouth hard, and yet gentle, his tongue moving rhythmically to caress her own. She was lost in the intimacy of the kiss, knowing she’d never be fore shared so much of herself, given so much of herself through the simple, yet passionate, act of kissing. Jon seemed to tap feelings and emotions in her that before now had lain dormant.
    She was trembling when Jon finally ended the kiss. He began to make lazy circles on her abdomen with his palm, and the incredible tenderness in his action made her realize she’d never have thought him capable of such warmth. She felt as if she were being tornapart by her conflicting emotions. Her tongue moistened her lips as she raised her head from Jon’s shoulder. “Jon,” she murmured.
    “I told you there was something special between us.” There was a hint of satisfaction in his hoarse voice. “Only with me. We’re going to be perfect together. You will never respond to anyone but me in this way,” he said quietly. She made an attempt to sit up.
    “No.” He quickly stilled her. “Stay here. Let me get you whatever you need. You have to be very careful, you’ve had a very full morning.”
    He was being so sensitive, so thoughtful. She wanted to give him an indication of how her feelings for him had changed in so short a time. Reaching to trace the outline of his mouth with her finger, she watched his dark eyes as they glowed down at her, his expression as intense as his lips had been when they’d moved over hers.
    Withdrawing her finger, she closed her eyes and tried to settle herself down comfortably in the bed, but she was so tired suddenly, that it was difficult to think of moving even a muscle. She didn’t have to move, however, because in an instant Jon was doing everything. Removing the rest of her clothes, running heated towels over her body, slipping the velvet robe over her head. “Sit up, love. Just for a minute.” Shesat up, watching dreamily as he put her arms in the sleeves of the caftan, lifting her to pull the gown down. His lips brushed her forehead as he pulled the yellow coverlet up around her. “Better?”
    Better. That was the understatement of the century, perhaps the millennium. She was deliciously content, lost in an afterhaze of plea sure. “Wonderful.”
    “I’m glad.” He rose jerkily to his