Cycles (4 page)

     
I spent all day getting ready for Cole to walk through the door and I can't remember the last time I was this excited about him getting home, so I went a little overboard.

     
Well, no—make that a lot overboard. The present condition of my living room says I've probably started at least one rumor that will be all over town tomorrow. Other than the bed and the pictures, the source of possible Rumor Number One—the world's biggest bottle of baby oil that I doused with a bit of eucalyptus—sits warming by the fire. Possible Rumor Number Two has to do with what's stuffing my fridge. And the source of possible Rumor Number Three is that Mrs. Garber bought six bottles of wine—I really hope Cole hasn't gotten wind of that one already.

     
Oh my God! I hear the truck! Okay, okay, I should be in bed, blanket like this—where's my wineglass? Got it. There's the outside door! He sees the note...in a minute I'll hear the inside door.

     
I wriggle, picture him reading:

The boys are gone for forty-eight hours. I'm naked and in such dire need of professional medical attention, I'll take any vet I can get. So you better take off your clothes where you stand, Doc, and get in here and examine me
.

     
Before I even process the sound of his footsteps, he's in the doorway—clutching a handful of roses, naked as requested, but wearing a shit-eating grin—which falters at the sight of the shrine.

     
"Hi," I purr.

     
"Hi, Beautiful." He's amused. "Looks like you had a busy day."

     
"Mmm-hmm. What's with the roses?"

     
"I'm taking them home to my wife," he says, studying the pictures, "as soon as I finish this house call."

     
"I see." Leave it to him to think of flowers. That we're actually in tune even when things don't seem quite right makes my throat thick. I swallow rapidly as he roams around the room, looking at where we began—considering each frozen moment like a symptom. I forgot how much I like to look at him when he's not covered in layers of clothes, and I take the opportunity to see him as my friends wish they could.

     
He's an oil-painted vision in the firelight—solid yet soft, muted yet sharp, subtly shaded by flickering flames. His hair curls against his bare shoulders, bringing attention to arms thickened from chopping wood and strong enough to support half-ton livestock. Skiing seven months a year
does
keep his ass as scrumptious as any underwear model's and it fits the trunk-like legs so well. No young stallion maybe, but still all mighty male. And all mine. Yep, he's a banana split all right—and that observation aside, the way I feel about his soul alone is worth every penny of effort I can muster.

     
He stops at the earliest shot—us laughing after a ski meet—and touches it reverently.

     
"Well, Doctor G.," I almost hate to take his attention away from the picture but I need to touch him, "I suggest you start with a kiss to get the patient's confidence."

     
I hear a moan, his lips are on mine—and I don't think the roses have hit the floor yet. He holds my head and I tangle my hands in his hair. We kiss like the starving people we are and need of air is the only reason we part.

     
He searches my face. There's an indigo heat in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time. He licks his lips but doesn't say anything.

     
"What?" I ask, unable to read his eyes for once and curious to know what he thinks of my preparations.

     
"I'm trying to find the words to tell you how much I need you, but I can't think of any that are enough."

     
"There aren't any, I know—so show me."

     
Kisses scatter over mouths cheeks eyelids, and lips tease throats. Without purpose other than love, without intention other than mutual need, we explore curves and slopes too long ignored, and I find myself hyper-aware of things I take for granted: Capable, enduring shoulders flexing under my hands. A shivering rasp of beard as he kisses my neck. His taste when it's mixed with mine. His heavier smell when he's aroused. The solace of his greater weight. The unconscious sounds he makes as our hearts beat faster and his cock rises against my thigh.

     
The room is a mirage outside the few feet we occupy.

     
With a groan, he rolls away. "I hate to say this, but I have to pee. I had to go before I got home," he chuckles, "but I didn't think you'd want me doing that first."

     
I smile. "No, I guess not—I would have died thinking you thought the note was stupid—that all this was..." I take in the room with a sweep of my hand.

     
"No, no," he says seriously, casting a quick look around. "It's great." He takes a deep breath and says in a rush, "I was starting to think—I mean, I even—"

     
"Shh." I press my finger to his lips. "We'll talk later, after we've—go, before I make you stay."

     
"Is that wine?"

     
"I'll pour you some—now go!"

     
He scoots into the bathroom. I grab a glass and he's back before I finish filling it. "That was quick."

     
"It's cold in there." He slips under the blanket, accepts the wine gratefully and takes a few healthy swigs. Setting it aside, his cooled hands stroke my waist. "Now where was I?"

     
"Examining me, if I recall."

     
"Mmm, yes, I was about to take more invasive measures."

     
His hands trace my breasts, his lips following behind with moist murmurs of appreciation. Darting thumbs brush the tips of my nipples and his delicate ministrations turn them into ceramic conductors of pleasure. Although I'm easily wet enough to go straight to the point—I've been wet just thinking about him for most of the afternoon, in fact—I'm in no hurry. Tonight I will take my time and revel in his body next to mine, relish his love nestled deeper inside my heart than any surgeon's tool could reach.

     
His radiating heat warms me more than the fire and I tickle down his spine, goosed-flesh rippling in the wake of my fingers as they slip into the deepening cleft created by his clenched ass. His hairy torso rubbing against my body's fine-spun down is a gratifying reminder of how much I rely on his masculinity to complement my femininity. As unliberated as it might be to believe it, together we form a whole and without him, I would be so much less.

     
Gems of happiness seep from the corners of my eyes—tears of thanks for my man, my love, my world—and quickly evaporate as Cole's sweet foreplay ramps up a notch. Gently plucking one hard-budded nipple, he tests the readiness of my circuits. My responding groan earns a grunt of satisfaction from my perceptive mate, and his lips swiftly seize the prize.

     
He holds my aching nipple captive for his taunting, lashing tongue, which seems intent on sending me to paradise. Turning his attention to the other peak, he enslaves it as well, and my breath catches as the soldering current courses from his mouth, streaks through my belly, transforms my clit into a burning filament that sheds its glow into my deepest recesses—recesses that gush with moisture, ready to embrace the coming flames.

     
His engorged cock, passion-swollen and undoubtedly aching with a greed of its own, imprints itself into my hip. I twist, try to make enough room to give his ignored rod solace, only to have him hastily push my hands away.

     
He is close already.

     
There
is
a special and unique power in this comfort of ours. With sure knowledge stemming from years of study, I know each and every unspoken signal. I know when to stroke him soft and when to stroke him hard. Whether by vision, touch, smell or sound, I know when he is a simple act away from finishing. I know each and every hot spot—and every last little thing that will drive him over the edge.

     
Denied the satisfaction of playing with him in return, in a passion-colored blur of senses, I trace his ear with my tongue, travel its hills and valleys as if I never visited its mystical hollows before. The insidiousness of my expertise invokes a growl of delight and Cole shudders, shrugs my tongue away. But rebuff only spurs me to giggle and, by deliberate design, a nip of his earlobe ignites further expansion. He butts his rampant erection insistently into my thigh.

     
I laugh into his ear, breathy and proud.

     
In defense, he returns his mouth to mine with bruising fervor and our tongues wrestle for dominance. Sweat springs from my pores, its sheen evidence of the height of my arousal. He spreads my lower wings and circles my throbbing clit with pure preponderance of purpose—proof he knows the location of every last one of my buttons, too.

     
I buck against his hand, whimper as his fingers enter me. Ever-appreciative of how he can double my pleasure, the heel of his palm applies matching rhythmic pressure to my clitoris.

     
Writhing under his petting, I burn for release and know I can't take much more of his decadent indulgence without exploding—but before I do, I want to make him the center of my attention, just like he is making me the heart of his.

     
I want his succulent hardness in my mouth. I want to feel the tensile iron façade of his cock twitch under my tongue's rasping, while I please him in a way that's just for him.

     
But divining my intent, Cole keeps me from moving downward and rolls me to my back instead. I look into his eyes and know there will be no more prolonging the journey to what we truly desire.

     
My legs part around his hips without a thought. Poised, with his cock a hot pulse against my hungry need, he hesitates.

     
Panting, I yearn for his prodding, anticipate the gloriousness of our union. Yet he gives me only the tip of his readiness and again hesitates, gazing into my eyes with serious contemplation. His cockhead is barely stretching my starving entrance, a tease of momentous proportions that strums my taut body and my heartstrings. I moan, craving his entire length like I have never craved it before.

     
"You," he murmurs as he slips scant inches into my famished sheath, "are my life."

     
Before I can say he is mine, too, he claims me with a thrust, adamantine phallus driven into my soul without further warning. I cry out, sheer rapture in being impaled on the staff of his enduring adoration.

     
"God, Cole, it's been—I love—"

     
His lips stop my voice as he moves, the center of my yearning empty and full by turns. I want to scream: You are all I want! You are all I need! But something lost has been found and I can only whimper as we engage in warm joy instead of cold sex. He is half of me and I am half of him, and when we are joined in pleasure instead of habit, I know we will never be anything less.

     
"God, baby," he groans, "I can't—" Thrusting harder, faster, he bathes my insides with exquisite release while the climax strips him of speech.