Page 27 of Prime Time

She listened for his footsteps, but after a moment remembered that he was barefoot and finally left her post at the door. At loose ends and not knowing quite what to do, she decided she’d shower and wash her hair now. Then she’d used the remaining time until the crew arrived to study her notes.

The water felt delightful, and she was refreshed and wide awake afterward. Not that she’d needed anything to revive her. Every sensory impression was heightened. Her nerves tingled. She was aware of each one as she dried herself, applied a citrusy after-bath splash, and smoothed lotion on her arms and legs.

She hadn’t brought any underwear into the bathroom, so she slipped the batiste nightgown back on. The soft, thin cotton settled around her like a cloud. Scoop-necked and held on by two thin spaghetti straps, it coolly caressed her clean body.

Returning to the bedroom, she sat in the window seat to dry her hair. Since it seemed to have a mind of its own, she had given up years ago trying to make it conform to a rigid style. Now, as it dried, she wielded a hairbrush like an animal trainer does a whip, never totally successful in taming the beast. To her amusement she was often asked where she had her hair done.

The sun broke over the farthest hill and poured a golden pink glow over the landscape. It was a breathtaking sight, pastoral and peaceful. Lyon’s love for his land was understandable and justified.

A tentative tap on her door distracted her from the view. “Yes?”

Taking that as assent, Lyon opened the door, holding a tray aloft. “I made some coffee and thought you …”

He’d never seen anything more beautiful nor remembered ever wanting a woman more. Her arm was curved over her head, holding the hairbrush where it had been when he surprised her by opening the door. The honey-colored hair swirled around her head like a halo, reflecting the new sun. Her skin looked translucent in the soft light. Beneath the nightgown her dusky nipples were promising shadows that peaked temptingly against the cloth.

The tray was set down and forgotten on a small table. Lyon shut the door and crossed the room, his eyes never leaving her, compelling her not to move, not to speak. He’d never felt this way in his life. From adolescence he’d known his way around the female anatomy, and he’d never lacked for partners to practice what knowledge he possessed.

For a while after Jerri left, he hadn’t been kind, but had approached each woman selfishly, never caring about her, only wanting what he felt was owed to him because of the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of his wife. That attitude had mellowed considerably, and any woman who had known his love, for the brief time he alloted her, would never forget his touch. His masculine pride had been restored.

Now he felt as callow as a boy. He only hoped Andy couldn’t sense his susceptibility as he came to the window seat and sat down beside her where she was curled in the corner.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Always raspy, his voice was even huskier now.

“You didn’t.”

He embraced her first with his eyes. The gray irises that she had seen hardened and as cold as steel were now warm with emotion as he studied her face. Each feature was catalogued before his eyes surveyed her throat and the smooth expanse of her chest. In no respect did he find her wanting.

“You smell good.”

“I just took a shower.”

Their inane conversation was only an outlet for the tension that shackled them both, an excuse to release some of the excess energy that had welled up inside them, a reason to expel the breath that had become trapped in shrinking lungs.

He touched her hair, threading his fingers through it and then combing it outward until each strand had drifted through them to settle once again on her shoulders.

His fingers ghosted over her face, touching brow, eyelids, nose, cheekbones. Her lips were smoothed by alternating index fingers until he had them memorized by shape and texture. Certainly by color. Hopefully by taste.

She wanted him to kiss her then, but he didn’t. His hands continued on their wandering down her neck, across her collarbone, detailing the hollow between it and her shoulder with a

playful finger. Then he arrived at the piping that outlined the neckline of her gown.

He looked deeply into her eyes hypnotically, and like an obedient subject she closed them. He brushed his fingers across her nipples, fanning them gently. He was instantaneously rewarded with their pouting response.

“Andy,” he breathed. He hooked his thumbs under the thin straps, and the nightgown was drawn down to frothily encircle her waist. She lifted her arms free and placed her hands around his neck, stroking his jawline with her thumbs.

He looked at her breasts. From beneath he cupped her and lifted her slightly. Gently his thumbs stroked the peachy crests. “You’ve never had a baby?” he asked gruffly.

“No.” She responded in kind.

“Why?”

“My husband didn’t want one.” She didn’t want to say Robert’s name, didn’t want a third party to intrude on this occasion.

“What a waste.” He lowered his head and kissed the lush top curve, then inched his lips down, dropping damp kisses that cooled against her warm skin, until his lips skated over the nipple. Andy heard her own whimper of need. He heard it, too, and his mouth opened over her. With a sweet urgent tugging she was enveloped by his mouth. His tongue nudged her with the most erotic caress she’d ever experienced.

“Lyon.” His name was half sigh, half ecstatic cry, and she grasped his head between her hands and held him fast.

“You taste like thick, sweet cream,” he murmured as his mouth glided from one breast to the other. His ardent attention continued until her nerves were quivering like harp strings.

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