Jennifer Greene - Silver and Spice

He caught the mood. The hold-me, don’t-talk, fierce-sweet mood. Lips clung and tongues tangled and Jake didn’t let go. His eyes flickered on hers once, so very gray; she saw his surprise at the woman who’d always savored a softer seduction-surprise…and pleasure, for the uninhibited response she was offering. That instant changed everything for Anne. She forgot her fears, forgot his house, put aside the thought of marriage, life, death, everything. Just Jake mattered. Her breasts played the rub and tease of a Gypsy dance against him; her thigh brushed between his; her fingers whispered over his neck, into his hair. If he wanted her to be aggressive, she would be aggressive. He could have anything he wanted. From her depth of love came his endless choices.

Jake’s breathing changed, turned harsh and low. He pulled her flannel shirt free from the waistband of her jeans, his hands stealing inside to find soft flesh…but they didn’t find flesh. His fingers splayed over the sexy satin camisole he had bought her.

“I wore it for you,” she whispered. “Do you like it?”

“Not,” he growled, “at the moment.”

She would have smiled if she’d had the chance. She didn’t. His lips sealed hers as he lifted her high, his tongue still savoring all the sweetness of her mouth. They were going to bump into walls on the way to the bedroom, she knew that. Jake certainly wasn’t paying any attention to where they were going. And she couldn’t seem to raise any interest in opening her eyes. Her hands were feverishly trying to undo his shirt buttons-which refused to cooperate. The throb of his heartbeat beneath her palm seemed to announce the start of something-a race, perhaps. A terribly important race in midafternoon with the sun so lazily beating down on the still waters of the lake. His house was totally silent except for the sound of Jake’s breathing as he set her down next to the shaggy white spread in his room, as his hands chased the shirt down from her shoulders. She was busy with his own, finally understanding why his buttons wouldn’t give-they were Western snaps. One ruthless tug and they obediently pulled apart. The sound of that snap-snap-snap in their quiet house… Jake gently nudged up her chin with his thumb. She saw the sensual fire in his eyes, his suddenly roguish grin.

“I don’t know what on earth you think you’re doing to me, but I like it,” he murmured. “In the meantime, who punched the fire alarm?”

Anne kissed him quiet, smile matched to smile on their lips. He was such a very foolish man at times. Why on earth would anyone have punched a fire alarm when the whole world was welcome to burn down?

They could have undressed a great deal faster if they’d taken off their own clothes, but they didn’t. They slipped off each other’s shoes, then socks. Arms and wrists crisscrossed in an effort to immediately undo each other’s belts and buttons and zippers. Very low whispered laughter came from nowhere. Anne’s cords made a puddle on the floor, then Jake’s. The race only slackened because of the triangular window.

She’d forgotten it, but now she saw the colors shimmering on Jake’s golden flesh, the luminous hues dancing in her hair, in his. When Jake moved to touch her, his whole body seemed liquid in motion, a kaleidoscope of fluid coral and light purple. Fascinated, she watched his hands as they slowly reached to touch the spot above her heart. Her breasts, too, looked jeweled. It was like crossing over to a magical world.

From rampant speed to slow motion, their moods had changed. So slowly Jake unlaced the front ties of the camisole. As he slipped down the straps, the fabric slowly parted to reveal firm, creamy soft breasts, proud nipples flaunted for him, her bareness displayed in patterns of diamond and silver lilac and coral. The garment slid to her feet; he again lifted her high.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at you, love…”

She was looking at him, aware of the texture of the shaggy spread when he laid her down, aware he was taking off the last of his clothes, but interested far more in the look of color and shadow on his skin. He was a beautiful man. Sinew more than muscle, a grace that was pure male, a pride he didn’t know he even had, every time he moved. And he was always in motion. His head was at her breast, his lips seeking first one nipple, then the other. Their peaks turned rigid for him. The look of his brown hand next to her so-white flesh sent lightning, long jagged streaks of it, flashing through her bloodstream. His hand traced the soft flesh of her stomach and then traveled lower, evoking an unconscious cry from Anne.

He inhaled that sound, in a kiss that left her breathless. A languid, sensual weakness was trying to steal over her limbs, a memory of Jake’s power as seducer…but that was not what she wanted for him, not this day. She shifted away from him, just slightly. Her fingertip traced slowly down, burrowing in the hair on his chest, pausing to circle the pebble of flat male nipple. On down, to explore a flat, hollow navel, hidden in silver wiry hair. His pelvic bone, she traced all of it…

His whole body went taut. His hand found hers, drawing it back to her side as he leaned over her. Dark, luminous eyes seared her own. What is it you want?

For you to lie still. This was new for her, playing the role of aggressor. It was new, the depth and confusion of love she felt for Jake; she needed to express it. She could feel those silver eyes watching her, but he was silent. He watched her flick back the errant strands of long hair. Her fingers danced over his skin, then rubbed, then teased again with lightness. Her lips followed. Her need was to please him, and she forgot that he was watching. Her long, silky hair-he’d always loved it. She took a handful and gently brushed the strands over his chest, down his stomach, lower still to much more intimate flesh, taking an incredibly long time…

From nowhere, she found herself flat on her back again, her eyes filled with a rainbow of stained-glass prisms, all reflected on Jake’s face. “Honey, give me credit for the patience of a saint,” he murmured.

“No one would suggest you were a saint,” she began on a husky murmur.

“This time, yes. Oh, yes, Anne. But no more…”

He took her with the light still dancing on them, the afternoon sun still so delightfully pouring through the windows. When light gave way to late-afternoon dusk, they napped. But when it was dark, moonlight played through the stained-glass window, and they were again caught up in the magic of the senses. Jake played the slow torturer this time, a role he had always assumed expertly. But Anne was learning.

The next day was busy and the next, and the next. Anne had a long list of things to accomplish-unpack the motor home, put away the food, vacuum and scour the vehicle, buy groceries, wash clothes, whisk away the thin layer of dust in Jake’s house…

Jake had an equally long list of priorities. A long walk through the woods behind his house, a boat excursion on the lake, lunch in the gazebo over the water. His list was longer than Anne’s. He had a lot of odd hours scheduled for more critical activities: laughing, making love.

On Wednesday, a storm whipped up on the lake around noon, distracting both of them. Lightning pierced the frothing water in sizzling yellow slashes, casting a fluorescent glow on the surrounding trees. Branches shook and swayed in a mad dance, and thunder roared out huge, angry bellows that seemed to surround the house. The clear, still waters of the lake turned wild, and if Jake’s arms hadn’t been around her, the vision from Jake’s glass-paneled living room would have been close to terrifying.

They watched for an hour, until nature’s fireworks settled down to a steady, pelting rain. They turned to each other then, Jake with a rueful smile for the day’s plans gone awry. “No walk today,” he said wryly.