“I want you,” Molly whispered, her eyes shut tight against her headlong plunge into ecstasy.
“I can tell,” Carey softly replied, stroking the satiny flesh inside her thighs.
“Hurry.”
“No.”
“Please…” Her breathing was accelerated, her cheeks flushed.
“I don't like to hurry.” And he smoothed his pudding-dipped fingers over her hot, throbbing dampness. As the striking coolness covered her heated flesh, as his fingers stroked and gently stretched to fill her sweetness with his dessert, nothing mattered but feeling. The entire focus of the world was beneath his hands, and she rose into his manipulating fingers, greedy and burning. When he replaced his fingers a moment later with his tongue, she trembled violently, as though she were a celibate nun who'd never been touched.
He reached up to soothe her tremors, his warm palms gliding over her arms first, then tenderly over the fullness of her swollen breasts. They drifted downward long moments later, across the smoothness of her stomach, to reach finally the torrid center of her longing. And he used his long fingers gently, massaging, guiding the direction of his mouth and tongue until he'd appeased his appetite for creamy pudding and deprived Molly completely of reason. She was floating in a nirvana of the senses, her entire body attuned to the progress of Carey's lips and tongue, her only conception, a flooding, intense pleasure beyond conceivable words. She had forgotten in her eagerness how he could maintain the intensity just short of the extreme limit that would take you over the edge. She'd forgotten, but he never did.
And moments later, when he moved from his languorous ease, adjusted himself above her, and entered her with a gliding force that drove in to touch the very center of her being, she dissolved around him in blissful release.
He smiled. In so many ways she was practical or contemplative, but never in bed. Making love, she exposed herself spontaneously to feeling as though it was pointless to settle for less. He'd always adored her hedonistic, unreserved intemperance.
And she his. “Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her hands through his scented hair and sighing a small blissful rush of air. “I owe you.”
“I'll be collecting in the next few minutes,” he replied with a smile, his rigid arousal buried deep inside her. “Rest for a second or so.”
“That long?” Her half-lidded gaze was amused.
She stretched luxuriously then, a sensual, sybaritic movement he felt tighten around his erection. When he groaned in pleasure, she murmured, “Ready?”
Once, late that night, she sensed his shock, although his expression was hidden in the shadowed room.
“Where did you learn that?” he growled, territorial prerogatives obvious in the bite of his voice.
“I read,” Molly sweetly replied. “Everyone can't visit the plush red-light districts.”
“And if I don't believe you?”
“Can I help it if I'm a liberated woman?” she teased, savoring both his shock and possessiveness. It would never do to let a man like Carey Fersten take her for granted. She rather preferred keeping him on his toes.
“Not anymore,” he snapped.
“We'll see now, won't we?” she replied, moving beneath him in a unique and tantalizing way.
Absorbing the shimmering, exquisite sensations for long, distracted moments, Carey swallowed hard before he muttered, “Damn you.”
“And I love you, too,” Molly purred.
He demonstrated then, moody and fevered, who exactly could do what to whom, but the delirium encompassed them both and through the night they pledged themselves to each other in a flaming passion that had survived separation and loss, intact and whole and glorious.
CHAPTER 48
L ater, twined in each other's arms amidst the shambles of the satin and velvet bedclothes, Molly smiled up at Carey. “You're marvelous at suppressing evening sickness,” she said.
“I'd be happy,” he murmured, a lazy smile on his face, “to serve all your medicinal needs. Consider me on twenty-four-hour call. And since I caused this nausea in the first place, it's only fair I do my duty to alleviate it.”
“I've never considered you as particularly dutiful,” Molly replied, her grin mischievous.
“Fatherhood has startled me into a reappraisal of priorities. Duty first from now on. I'm yours to command,” he finished facetiously.
“Don't go to Australia.”
His smile flickered for a moment, and then was placidly restored. “Let's talk about it later. I'm still basking in the pleasure of this prenuptial evening romp. The loss of several million dollars requires a discussion of some length, and I'm not up to the task at the moment. Hit me with something easier.”
“How much are you up to?” Molly queried, only half-teasing. Moving away, she sat up cross-legged, her back straight and her eyes intent.
Carey's hands went out to stop her. Then, changing his mind, he let his hands drop back onto the sheet. Reclining against the lace-trimmed pillows like a golden surfer, he said, “Anything under ten mil, I'm braced and ready.” His smile was the enchanting one he saved only for her.
“I don't want you to see Sylvie again.”
“I don't intend to.”
“You sound sure.”
“Sure as the sun comes up over the Leonidas mine and sets over the ballpark. For you, Honeybear.”
“That's pretty sure. How do you know she won't appear on our doorstep again? And she's still with Egon.”
“Wrong.”
“Oh?” It was a soft inquiry potent with ruffled feelings.
“I talked to Egon this afternoon. His surgery is scheduled for Monday, if all goes well… and the doctors are extremely optimistic. One hot-shot young turk is betting him he'll be skiing by Christmas. On that happy news, Sylvie excused herself from his bedside and flew back to Nice. It seems some gala in Monaco was determined to go on without her. I expect she's dancing under an enormous chandelier at this very moment, exchanging banalities with some man who's suggesting they share breakfast together.”
“How can you be so flip about her?” Molly still retained a modicum of suspicion after watching them at the Trauma Center. They'd been more than casual friends, and it showed.
“I'm not. It's the simple truth. La Dolce Vita, Monaco style. Sylvie thrives on it.”
“As you once did.”
“Did is the operative word, I believe,” Carey replied, his dark eyes grave.
“Did you ever love her?” Molly asked the old question answered so many times before, but never with the finality that would shut the door on that period in his life.
Carey gazed at her for a long moment, wishing he could find the words that would make her understand how little Sylvie meant to him. He shook his head, no, finally, and shrugged, remembering those years. “Sylvie felt it was time I got married,” he said, as if trying to find the answer himself. “I wasn't conscious of much of anything in those days, so I said, why not? A combination of circumstances which proved disastrous. It was a stupid mistake.”
When he saw the alarm on Molly's face, a terrible dawning of uncertainty and fear, he added in an even tone, “Don't be afraid. It's different with us. We're different. I didn't love Sylvie. You didn't love Bart.”
Molly's expression registered shock.
“You didn't love him,” Carey repeated. “You loved me.”
And she knew it had always been true, though she'd locked away the truth all those years ago. Locked it away behind the wedding arrangements and the impossibility of leaving Bart and their families and friends in limbo at the church. And then she'd thrown away the key when she discovered she was pregnant. One loved one's husband, that's the way things were. You especially loved your husband when you carried his child.