of connection from nothing more than the denim warmed by his body heat shifting against her foot.
He didn’t move away.
And she didn’t pull her foot out of the way.
He typed. She was certain he was correcting her height, knocking her down to size, but when she couldn’t stand hearing the tap-tap-tap of keys, and watching the concentration on his face as he typed, she finally leaned over to check his progress.
What he wrote was, To know Karen you have to be patient. She’s outgoing and funny, has a laugh that makes people join in and the minute you meet her you feel like you’ve known her forever. His fingers paused and she waited, silent, until they resumed. But to know the real Karen, the one behind the fun-loving social creature, takes work. She doesn’t show her true self to many people, but it’s worth waiting for. She’s gorgeous, with clear blue-green eyes that make you think you’re on the bottom of the ocean.
“Oh, Dex,” she whispered, but he ignored the interruption.
Her skin’s Irish fair, with a few freckles that remind you of the kid inside her. Her skin tastes like rain-washed apples, and she smells like cherry blossoms.
“Do I?” she murmured. It was like reading a love letter while it was being written, both romantic and the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. Those long artistic architect’s fingers moved with precision over the keys, barely hesitating, as though all this had been composed in his mind and it was a simple matter to type it all out.
“You do. Stop interrupting.” He thought for a moment and continued.
Her hair is a rich red, it’s long and curly, thick enough that you could wrap it around your hands like rope, but when she’s making love to you, looking up with those big clear bottom-of-the-ocean eyes, her hair seems to catch fire, sparking flame. Hot and cold. Cold and hot.
“I’m not,” she said, feeling breathless.
“You are.”
And when she’s naked her body is a glory. Breasts so rich and full you can fill your hands with them. But go carefully, for they are sensitive to the touch.
She made a tiny sound in the back of her throat.
He took one hand off the keyboard, as though he were pausing to think, and ran it across her nipples, already pebbled inside her cashmere sweater. She sighed, rippling her body against him like a cat desperate for affection.
He turned his head, looking down at her with lust blazing in his eyes. She didn’t even think, simply pushed her computer off his lap and onto the couch, and then threw herself at him.
He caught her against him, crushing his mouth to hers, shoving his hands into the curling mass of hair tumbling around them, and began giving her what she needed.
Off came her sweater. Underneath it, she wore a sexy black camisole and, since she hadn’t expected company and had wanted to feel at her sexiest, she wore no bra.
He groaned when he realized this, running his hands over her, squeezing her breasts in the way he knew she liked, firm but not too hard, and never squeezing the nipples, which were exquisitely sensitive.
Instead he kissed them, suckled them, bringing her close to climax. She used to be embarrassed by how responsive her nipples were, but she’d learned to accept the easy pleasure. She leaned back, loving the feelings coursing through her body and the murmured appreciation from this man.
But she didn’t want this to be a quickie, like the desktop escapade. She wanted time to enjoy him, especially if he was going to be gone for a few weeks. This was her chance to savor him, and then she could figure out what she was going to do about her inconvenient passion once he was out of state.
So she rose, took his hand and pulled him toward her bedroom. She flipped on the bedside lamps, which cast a muted pink glow over everything. Except Dex, who somehow still managed to look masculine and commanding.
She wanted to see all of him, enjoy every inch of his body, so she slowly undressed him, pulling off his sweater, the T-shirt he wore beneath it.
“I see you still work out,” she murmured, running her lips over the muscular ridges of his belly.
The pale slash of an appendectomy scar, an old and nearly forgotten friend, drew her tongue and he sucked in his breath as she traced the line, something she’d done hundreds of times when he’d belonged to her. Moved by the memory, she suspected, as she was.
He was so familiar to her. His legs with the freckles above the knees, that ridiculous tattoo on his left shoulder he’d got on a drunken college trip to Thailand. He claimed he’d asked for an eagle and somehow either in a bad translation or a lack of artistic talent on the part of the tattoo artist, he’d ended up with a rooster on his back.
Which always made her smile. It was a reminder that her ex-husband might be competent at business and brilliant at design, but he could be crazy and unpredictable and just as stupid as the next person.
“I see you still have Millie.” And who but she would have named a rooster Millie?
He smiled at her, all dark eyes and simmering sexuality. “Do you know how much it costs to get a tattoo removed?”
She laughed at him, running her hands up and down his smooth, muscular back. “You’ve got lots of money. You’re just a weenie about pain.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down beside him on the bed until they were in easy kissing distance. “You know me too well.” He kissed her. “Which has some advantages.”
“Such as?”
He grinned at her wickedly. “You know exactly what I like in bed.”
And the truth was he knew the same about her. As he pulled her even closer and began playing with her body, and she began playing with his, she knew precisely what he meant.
Just touching him, feeling his skin warm under her hands, hearing from his whispered encouragement how much he enjoyed her own response got her hot, hotter, and finally too hot to hold. He’d always been able to gauge her response and pace himself accordingly so she had the bone-deep pleasure of feeling orgasm begin to swamp her and then feeling his pleasure double hers. It was the ultimate excitement and she’d never found it before or since.
But once the first round was over, and their urgent need slaked, they began to play, rolling and teasing, laughing and groping until the play turned serious, and they were making love once more.
“I can’t keep up with you,” he groaned, his body slick with sweat, his breathing ragged. “You are the most insatiable woman I’ve ever known. But you’ve worn me out. I need fuel.” He slapped her rump playfully and rolled out of bed as gorgeous as she remembered. If anything his body had improved. It was so unfair.
“What have you got to eat?”
“Nothing. I ate earlier.”
He yawned, still naked, like it was no big deal and then he headed for her kitchen. “Any leftovers?”
“No.” She didn’t want to tell him she’d stuck a frozen diet entrée in the microwave. It seemed so lonely somehow.
But Dexter seemed to think he had the right to entertain himself in her kitchen. Maybe he felt like he could still open her cupboards and fridge as though they were still married.
Because she had to find her robe and slip it on, plus find slippers and run a brush through the red tangle that used to be her hair, by the time she got to the kitchen, naked Dex was standing with his head in the freezer section of her fridge.
He turned to her with a look of disgust. “What is all this diet crap?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve put on a few pounds.”
“No. You haven’t.” He shook his head and shut the door with the plastic thunk of a freezer that prefers to keep its secrets. “No wonder you’re always in