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Epilogue - Love
A throaty sound escaped my lips as Blake trailed his up my neck to nibble on my ear. The man was insatiable. It seemed as if, having lived twenty-eight years without someone to love, he was making up for lost time - trying to be loved too much! Then again, I grinned, running my hands down his bare chest, I was much the same.
He tensed beneath my touch. I never knew how responsive men could be to so little a touch. “Witch,” he murmured, his hot breath in my ear making me shudder delicately.
“And don’t you love it?” I whispered. After three weeks of wedded honeymoon bliss, our passion for each other hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. Perhaps that would become a problem in a week when we returned…but to be honest, I really didn’t care!
My hands wrapped around his waist, my thumbs rubbing back and forth in a sensuous movement. “Yes!” he groaned, snatching my hands away from his front before I got any lower. His eyes dark pools of desire, he questioned gruffly, “You do know you’re playing with fire, right?” I smiled up at him angelically. “And,” he lowered his voice, “little girls who play with fire often get…burnt.”
The last word was barely a whisper as his lips crushed to mine, sweet and drugging as they demanded a response I was powerless to withhold. Not, I admitted on a sigh, that I wanted to!
When he broke the kiss minutes or hours later, I struggled to catch my breath enough to get out, “Not on my birthday…”
Blake grinned devilishly down at me as he rolled us over in a lightning move. His effortless motions were still a source of confusion to me, but as that breathtaking smile took over his face I ceased to wonder how a man who worked behind a desk all day had muscles, the likes of which I’d never seen!
“It’s not your birthday just yet, darling!” he teased.
I looked up at his laughing, passion-filled eyes. How different they were than the ice-cold stones of that man I’d seen so long ago.
“What’s the matter, Daph?” The endearing nickname had carried over, and I rather liked it when he spoke in that soft, sexy accent of his.
“Nothing. I was just thinking how much happier you seem now, than when I first met you.” I brought my hand up to his cheek, blue eyes clashing with brown. He leaned down on top of me, holding his delicious weight from me with his forearm, as he buried his face in my dark curls.
“I am happier,” he admitted softly as I tried to ignore the feel of his skin on mine. God, how I loved this man.
“But why?” I was still confused over this. What on earth made me special? I wasn’t as pretty as Tiff, or as clever as some others.
“Because you, my dear,” he placed a light kiss on my lips as he spoke against them, “are the antithesis of me.”
I was confused. “You said that before. What does it mean?”
He smiled indulgently and I felt my lips curl against his as well. “It means you’re everything I’m not: soft, warm, loving, kind.”
“Well,” I whispered, “I don’t know about warm and loving…” I laughed softly. “It seems to me,” I raised an eyebrow, “you’re pretty loving.”
He threw his head back in genuine laughter. “Only with you!”
“I should hope so, now that we’re married!” I laughed. And then I noticed something.
I strained to see under his right forearm to the bottom of his arm, but the light comforter – a concession to the tropical weather of Rio de Janeiro – obstructed my view.