For a second time he took her flying. Though her feet never left the ground, she spun through the air. A fast, reckless journey. His mouth was on her, devouring flesh. She had no choice but to let him feed. And his greed erased her past reason so that her one desire was to be consumed.
Abandoning herself to it, she let her head fall back, murmuring his name like a chant as he ravished her.
He mated his mind with hers, thrilling to every soft cry, every throaty whimper. She stood open to him in the moonlight, soaked with pleasure and shuddering from its heat.
And such was his passion for her that his fingers left trails of gold over her damp flesh, trails that pulsed, binding her in tangled ribbons of pleasure.
When his mouth found hers again, the flavor exploded, sharp and sweet. Drunk on her, he lifted them both off the ground.
Now freed, her arms came tight around him, her nails scraping as she sought to hold, sought to find. She was hot against him, wet against him, her hips arching in rising demand.
He drove himself into her, one desperate thrust, then another. Another. With her answering beat for urgent beat, he let the animal inside him spring free.
His mind emptied but for her and that primal hunger they shared. The forest echoed with a call of triumph as that hunger swallowed them both.
SHE lay limp, useless. Used. A thousand wild horses could have stampeded toward her, and she wouldn’t have moved a muscle.
The way Flynn had collapsed on her, and now lay like the dead, she imagined he felt the same.
“I’m so sorry,” she said on a long, long sigh.
“Sorry?” He slid his hand through the grass until it covered hers.
“Umm. So sorry for the women who don’t have you for a lover.”
He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Generous of you, mavourneen. I prefer being smug that I’m the only man who’s had the delights of you.”
“I saw stars. And not the ones up there.”
“So did I. You’re the only one who’s given me the stars.” He stirred, pressing his lips to the side of her breast before lifting his head. “And you give me an appetite as well—for all manner of succulent things.”
“I suppose that means you want your supper and we have to go back.”
“We have to do nothing but what pleases us. What would you like?”
“At the moment? I’d settle for some water. I’ve never been so thirsty.”
“Water, is it?” He angled his head, grinned. “That I can give you, and plenty.” He gathered her up and rolled. She managed a scream, and he a wild laugh, as they tumbled off the bank and hit the water of the pool with a splash.
IT seemed miraculous to Kayleen how much she and Flynn had in common. Considering the circumstance and all that differed between them, it was an amazing thing that they found any topic to discuss or explore.
But then, Flynn hadn’t sat idle for five hundred years. His love of something well made, even if its purpose was only for beauty, struck home with her. All of her life she’d been exposed to craftsmanship and aesthetics—the history of a table, the societal purpose of an enameled snuffbox, or the heritage of a serving platter. The few pieces she’d allowed herself to collect were special to her, not only because of their beauty but also because of their continuity.
She and Flynn had enjoyed many of the same books and films, though he had read and viewed far more for the simple enjoyment of it than she.
He listened to her, posing questions about various phases of her life, until she was picking them apart for him and remembering events and things she’d seen or done or experienced that she’d long ago forgotten.
No one had ever been so interested in her before, in who she was and what she thought. What she felt. If he didn’t agree, he would lure her into a debate or tease her into exploring a lighter side of herself rarely given expression.
It seemed she did the same for him, nudging him out of his brooding silences, or leaving him be until the mood had passed on its own.
But whenever she made a comment or asked a question about the future, those silences lasted long.
So she wouldn’t ask, she told herself. She didn’t need to know. What had planning and preciseness gotten her, really, but a life of sameness? Whatever happened when the week was up—God, why couldn’t she remember what day it was—she would be content.
For now, every moment was precious.
He’d given her so much. Smiling, she wandered the house, running her fingers along the exquisite pearls, which she hadn’t taken off since he’d put them around her neck. Not the gifts, she thought, though she treasured them, but romance, possibilities, and above all, a vision.
She had never seen so clearly before.