Page 66 of Cloud Storm

“Look at me,” he insists. His hands grip my hips, forcing me to turn and face him. I close my eyes tightly, still resisting. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes to stare at his, they are an open portal to another dimension.

“You are my perfect woman, Ariel.”

Between us the air crackles, I can feel it, my skin reacting to his. That’s the effect he has on me. What? My body is weaker than my resolution, don’t blame me.

“Don’t hide from me, my California Girl. The wait has been too long.”

It’s been too long for me too, I want to admit. But I manage to keep my mouth shut.

“Lancelot, I don’t think it’s me you like so much right now. It’s the anti-flu syrup talking.”

He chuckles… the fucker has the nerve to chuckle!

“My beautiful girl,” he says, a smirk drawn in those lips. “I am sure.”

Then his mouth falls on mine, stealing a kiss.

In all my twenty or so years, nothing could have prepared me for a kiss to mean so much. Yes, yes, I know that Lancelot has kissed me other times, but this kiss tastes like feelings and promises. It’s liberating.

That is the right word, this kiss makes me fly.

What did the doctor say he added to his IV?

His mouth urges mine to open, to assault it, like a merciless raider. Lancelot tastes like craving, desire and man. His arms hold me against his chest and I wish he wasn’t wearing that stupid white shirt. Damn cotton, I had no idea it could get in the way.

The way he touches me makes me believe in magic.

It is here, billowing between us.

I love this feeling that makes me trust him, I’ve been disappointed so many times before in my life that I hardly dare to hope this is real.

I groan softly and his lips feed on my longing, while my arms pull him toward me. I kiss him, wanting to give him everything, aware that when the effect of his medication passes, he may recover his sanity and with his good judgment, he’ll never want to see me again.

My hands find the edge of his shirt, eager to caress his warm skin, his broad shoulders, his muscular back and the steel with which his arms seem to be constructed. He pulls my head back by my hair, giving him better access to my mouth, while his fingers search out the buttons of my plaid shirt, undoing them one at a time.

His fingers tease my nipple as he continues kissing me. I can’t control myself when it comes to him. His smell, his touch, his lips, and the way he uses them.

Holy shit.

The adoration with which that caress begins gives way to an incessant pull, as my desire soars to the moon and I’m hardly aware of my hands in his hair, searching for more of this sweet oblivion.

This wonderful mist wiping away everything but the here and now.

“Lancelot,” I whisper.

He takes that as my acceptance, my implicit assent. He lifts me by the waist, my legs curling around his waist.

His strength has returned and I want it all for me.

Surging over my body, making me more and more his.

As we take the few steps toward his messy bed, my shirt, my bra, and his shirt are discarded on the floor, only his thin cotton boxers and my leggings remain between us.

What a nuisance they are.

“I need to be inside you.” It sounds like a threat, a final warning. He can do with me whatever he wants.

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