"In your dreams."
"Not my dreams," he said sincerely. "Believe me. I've discovered this latent desire for skinny women. In fact, it's starting to stir right now."
"Is that so?" She didn't object when his hands moved around her back and down to cup her bottom.
"I'm afraid it is. Hmm." His fingers roamed, clutched. "This reminds me. Tomorrow we work on the lower body."
"I hate those squats."
"That's because you don't have my vantage point." His gaze shifted to the mirror behind her, and he watched his hands take possession, watched her move against him, saw her shiver when he lowered his mouth to that wonderful curve of neck and shoulder.
It was almost ridiculous the way he wanted her, the way the need would rise up time after time, again and again. Like breathing, he thought, nibbling his way up to her ear. Like life.
"I think we should finish off your morning routine with a little aerobics."
She managed a sound between a groan and a sigh. "Not the NordicTrack, Byron. I'm begging you."
"I had something else in mind." His busy mouth skimmed over her cheek. "I think you'll like it."
"Oh." She got the idea when his hand moved up to palm her breast. "You did say that for overall training aerobics is essential."
"Just put yourself in my hands."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
She gave so easily, he thought. So eagerly. The way her mouth moved on his, the mating of tongues, the press of bodies. All of his old fantasies about the woman of his dreams had faded and shifted and reemerged as her. Only her.
An image of her flickered into his mind. The way she'd looked the night before in that slim, shoulder-baring dress. All that smooth skin, those surprising curves. That wide, wet mouth.
And beneath the dress had been a wanton fantasy of black lace. The sight of her had been staggering, and
so unexpected, so impractical for his practical Kate. It was a side of her he had loved exploring. Knowing she had been exploring it as well had been brutally erotic.
She was just as appealing to him now, in damp workout gear that he could hastily peel off.
Both of them were naked to the waist when they tumbled to the mat.
She laughed, rolling with him as they tugged at those last barriers. It was wonderful, wasn't it, to feel so… unbound. So completely liberated. She'd stopped questioning how it was he knew just where, just how to touch her. As if he'd always known. And his body was so strong, so hard. It was like making love with a dream. Rolling on top of him, she poured the sheer joy of it into a kiss.
Yes, touch me, she thought. And taste. Here. And here. Let me. Again. Always again, she thought as her heart pounded and her blood swam. Over and over, moment to moment, he could fill her with so many clashing sensations. The wave of heat, the chill of anticipation, a shiver of greed, the warmth of giving.
She wanted to hold him forever, to steep herself in him. Lose herself. And so she took him inside here, trembling to a gasp at that bright instant of joining. She arched back, savoring, tormenting herself with the power, groaning at the texture of his hands that slicked up her to torture her aching breasts.
She held them there, her tensed fingers gripping as she began to move.
It staggered him, the look of her. The dark cap of hair framed her glowing face. Breath heaved and hitched through her parted lips. That long swan's neck was bowed back, the doe's eyes closed. Sunlight poured in over her, so bright, so full, they might have been outdoors in some verdant meadow. He could see her there, a hot-blooded Titania, lusty and sleek.
He wanted her to feed herself, feed herself to satiation. But she increased her rhythm, driving him with her. Her moans and cries swarmed into his blood until they were thrust for desperate thrust.
He exploded beneath her, into her. With one long, glorying sigh, she slid down and crushed her mouth to his.
She sang in the shower. This was unusual even when she was alone. Kate was well aware that she did not have a voice like a bell. As they lathered and soaped he joined in for a miserably off-key, if heartfelt, version of "Proud Mary."
"Ike and Tina had nothing on us," she decided as she toweled her hair.
"Not a thing. Except maybe talent." Byron wrapped a towel around his hips, rubbed his face, and prepared to shave. "You're the first woman I've showered with who sings as badly as I do."
She straightened, watched him lather up. "Oh, really? Just how many women might that be?"