He took a deep breath, and suggested as casually as he could, "Let me walk you to your car."

She shrugged bare shoulders into her lightweight jacket, and glanced at the neon clock across the room.

His eyes followed the smooth pale skin of her shoulders down to the V where her red sweetheart neckline met white cleavage, and for a moment he flashed on the glazed snowy mountain he had skiied alone last weekend. He had plunged recklessly, thoughtlessly down those slopes, so intent on conquering them that he hadn't noticed how icy they were. And somehow, he had made it to the bottom in one piece.

"I always make it somehow, by the seat of my pants most of the time," he mused, reflecting on his foolhardiness.

"What?" she frowned, bewildered and slightly distracted by the noisy crowd surrounding them.

"Oh, I was just thinking about some skiing I did last week," he mumbled, pulling his attention back to the present. He extended his right arm.

"Shall we?" he asked.

She took his arm with a polite smile, and they wound their way through the crowd to the exit door.

She breathed deeply of the cold, clear December air as they stepped out of the stale smoky barroom. She exhaled and sighed.

"I love the air outside when the sky is dark and the stars are out."

She paused, tilting her head back so that her medium length brown hair brushed down her back as she looked at the stars directly above her.

"You know," she continued, "I hate to be cold outside, but whenever I stop and look up at the stars, I don't feel cold any more."

His eyes inventoried the brown waves of her hair as she tossed it back; the pearlescence of her earlobe beneath it; the golden glow on her upturned face from the fluorescent lights on the building above them; the taut whiteness of her neck as she strained to glimpse the tiny points of light.

She looked at him and said with surprise, "Don't you want to look at them? Look. They're beautiful up there." And she turned her face upward again.

"I rather like the view down here at the moment," he said.

She smiled slowly and continued to gaze upward. She liked that he was watching her, and she stood in the moment, savoring it.

How long had it been since she had been regarded as a work of art?

--Too long, but she hoped he hadn't guessed that.

A warmth began to creep slowly up her body, and it collided with the cold chill on her shoulders, producing a shudder she couldn't contain.

He slid his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward her car.

"Mind if I climb in for a minute?" he asked when they reached it.

"No," she replied, "but you'll have to go around. It's a stick shift."

She slid into the driver's seat and leaned over to unlock his door. He jumped in, rubbing his hands briskly.

"Start the damn thing," he shivered. "I'm cold!"

She turned the key and slid the heater knobs on.

"This car has a great heater," she commented. "It gets hot almost instantly."

She turned to look at him, and suddenly his face was inches away from hers. "So do I," he confessed.

He clasped her neck and pulled her to him, leaning awkwardly over the gear shift. His eyes closed and his lips took hers, and they were warm and wet and hungry.

She closed her eyes, breathing into his face and his mouth, and into the sensation coming from the ground floor of her own body.

His hand slid slowly beneath the collar of her jacket, kneading the flesh of her neck and shoulder.

His tongue pushed against her lips with a question. She answered, sweeping him in like an ocean wave at high tide. The current pulled them deeper, as its source sent shock waves through their bodies in widening circles.

"May day! May day!" the alarm sounded in her brain. But the pounding of her heart drowned it out, and she pressed her torso closer to him.

"I'm sorry," he offered, just in case. "I promised myself I'd take it slow, but you put me in overdrive tonight: that tight little shirt of yours; the way that wisp of a skirt whirled up to your waist every time I turned you, showing those black stockings, that go all the way down those legs to your little red heels..."

He paused, giving her a look that explained better than words the effect she was having on him.

She felt confused. Her mind had a million reasons not to do this, but her body had none.

He slid his hand up her torso and closed it over her breast.

She jumped. "Oh, God, please don't do that. It sends shock waves all the way to my clit," she pleaded.

He grinned. "Now you know how I'm feeling--how I've felt ever since the night I spotted you across the dance floor and knew I had to dance with you; how I've felt every time I put my hands on your hips in the middle of a chacha or turned you in a twostep."

Her kisses were intoxicating. They were like a truth serum. Nothing came to his mind that didn't immediately roll off his tongue.

"God I want you," he continued recklessly. He kissed her again. "I want you. I want you. I want you." he alternately kissed and pleaded.

The words trailed off as he pulled her jacket aside and latched onto the skin over her collar bone. He sucked slowly and rhythmically, gently kneading her breast to the same rhythm.

Fire ignited within her, consuming her doubts and misgivings, and she could suddenly think of no reason on earth why she shouldn't give in to the craving she herself had entertained more than once.

"Not here," she breathed, and pulled away, trying to extricate her whirling head from the twister pulling it downward.

"My place," she offered, and jammed the car into gear.

He jerked back against his seat as the car lurched forward. She pressed the accelerator to the floor and sped up the street to her house.

He rested his hands on his tense thighs and rubbed them absentmindedly. She glanced over as a swath of light from a passing streetlight cut across his shrinking jeans.

"Uncomfortable?" she asked sympathetically. "I can't wait to get them off you."

He groaned and reached over to hide his restless fingertips in the hair at the nape of her neck. He leaned his face close to hers, breathing heavily against her ear and cheek. His tongue slid up her neck, as his hands closed over her thigh, gliding to the inside and rubbing her black nylons, wet with perspiration.

Impatiently, she drove on auto pilot. His every move produced intense pangs of pleasure, and she could feel him inside her already.

She pulled into her garage and they both stumbled into the den, diving to the floor as if it were an air raid.

His legs tangled with hers and he pressed his pelvis against her, moving her into hip motion with him.

"Dance with me," he rasped.

His mouth grew big, swallowing up her face, her neck, her shoulders, her smooth white chest. His hands kneaded, rubbed, pushed, pressed, demanded; while his hips worked hers, moving, thrusting, undulating and gyrating.

Flinging her skirt up, he pushed her lace panties aside and folded her silky black legs up and open, thrusting his head between them. She drew in her breath sharply as his mouth closed over her. His tongue vibrated, sending jolts of electricity from its point through hers.

Then he was sucking, pulling, drawing it out of her, devouring; and she cried out, her breaths coming in short, desperate staccato.

Then he was on top of her, with her arms flung up over her head and his mouth tasting like her juices and his fat cock pumping deeper and deeper.

He wanted to say something, to let her know he had never felt like this before, but somehow the words just degenerated into inarticulate, aching moans.

Her muscles cinched him, and spasms of heat and pleasure rocked her body. She could feel him in the ends of her fingers; in the roots of her hair; in the tip of her nose; in the soles of her feet. Her body had never felt so electrically alive in her entire life.

He shuddered convulsively as ecstatic bursts exploded in every cell of his body, and his throat uttered spasmodic notes of wordless measure.

"I knew it," she gasped. "I knew it would be like this with you. I knew it..."

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