“I didn't say I wouldn't try to manipulate the time frame somewhat,” he hedged. “But, yes, if necessary, I'll wait.”
Desdemona took a deep breath and prepared to walk out on stage. “How about tonight?”
T
he unpredictability of complexity was nothing compared to the gloriously unpredictable nature of Desdemona, Stark decided.
He'd told her to give him a time frame, and she had done just that. She'd said here. Now.
Tonight
.
She could hardly have chosen a more awkward moment if she had tried.
Stark surreptitiously glanced at his wristwatch and thought of Jason and Kyle waiting at home with Macbeth. His next thought concerned the small package of condoms he had tucked into the glove compartment of his car a few days ago. It was still there, right where he had put it, six floors below in the garage.
Desdemona had given him no warning that she was on the point of changing her mind about this aspect of the relationship. Hell, they'd had a blazing argument in the middle of a dance floor less than ninety minutes earlier. He'd had no way of guessing that she might be in a mood to make love by the time they got back here to her loft. She'd seemed downright distant, even cool, when she'd emerged from the rest room.
It was enough to drive a logical man a little crazy.
On the other hand, she'd just said yes.
Stark was not about to argue with a yes.
“Stark?” She raised her head from his shoulder. Her eyes were huge and mysterious, filled with questions, promises, and the mysteries that existed at the border between chaos and complexity.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have lousy timing?”
She smiled. “No Wainwright has lousy timing.”
Stark stared hungrily at her soft mouth and decided to ignore the awkward time frame. He was supposed to be very, very smart. He had a fistful of degrees in math and physics to prove it. He could work with any time frame.
“My God, Desdemona.” He caught her face between his hands. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
“No, but I'm hoping that you want me as much as I want you.”
He had never seen such sweet desire in a woman's eyes, at least not in the eyes of a woman who was looking right at him. He was lost.
He kissed her with all the pent-up need that had been simmering in him for the past few weeks.
Kissing Desdemona was akin to plunging headfirst into a spectacular piece of computer-generated fractal art. He was submerged in a universe of glowing colors and wildly intricate patterns.
Everything within him accelerated to the speed of light as he was swept into the dizzyingly complex design. He found himself in a dynamic creation that could have been produced by only the most exquisite of mathematical algorithms.
Desdemona's mouth was soft and damp and welcoming. The taste of her was indescribable. Stark wanted more. He wondered if he would ever be satisfied. Perhaps he was fated to search forever for the key to the shifting dynamics.
He tightened his hold on her, pulling her against him. He needed to feel every inch of her softness. The memory of how she had become wet and hot for him that night in his kitchen returned in a red-hot rush. It made his head spin.
Her arms slipped around his neck, and her head fell back beneath the onslaught of his kiss. He moved his mouth to her ear, her throat, her shoulder. She sighed and nestled closer.
Complex patterns shifted again, spreading outward to fill the void with light and energy.
Stark could feel Desdemona's breasts against his chest. Her dress and his shirt were in the way. He found the zipper of the black gown and tugged it downward. Desdemona lowered her arms, and the dress fell to her waist.
Her black slip and a small, lacy black bra were in the way now. Stark got rid of both in a few swift movements. All the clothing Desdemona wore except a tiny triangle of black lace and a pair of black thigh-high stockings pooled on the floor around her feet.
Stark looked down at her, riveted by the sight of her nearly nude body. He was so enthralled by her graceful breasts and the gentle flare of her thighs that he barely noticed when she went to work on the buttons of his shirt.
He ripped off his glasses and tossed them down on a nearby table.
Desdemona's fingertips brushed unsteadily across his chest and he realized that she was trembling. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth.
“It's all right,” he whispered. “Don't be frightened. I would never hurt you.”
She smiled tremulously. “I know. I trust you.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, spellbound. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his throat.
“This is going to sound stupid,” he said hoarsely, “but I have to get something from the car.”
She buried her face against his chest. “If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, you won't have to go downstairs. Kirsten gave me several packages. Assorted colors. They're in a box under the bed.”
Stark groaned, torn between relief and wry amusement. “I take back everything I said about the inadvisability of making loans to relatives.”
He scooped Desdemona up in his arms. Her soft gasp of excitement heated the blood in his veins.
“Am I as light as thistledown?” she asked demurely. “I've always wondered.”
He considered the question carefully. “No. But you don't weigh nearly as much as a mainframe computer.”
Her effervescent laughter cascaded over him like a crystal waterfall.
He carried her across the room to where the shoji screens concealed her bed. Stepping between the screens, he set Desdemona down on the white, down-filled comforter. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face in the shadows.
He braced one knee on the bed and reached out to free her hair from the gold clips that secured it. The vibrant red curls tumbled across the fluffy pillows in a glorious froth. He wound his hands deep in the soft stuff and leaned down to inhale the fragrance of it.
Desdemona reached inside his open shirt and splayed her fingers across his chest. “I love the feel of you.” She stroked upward to his shoulders. “So strong and beautiful.”
Stark didn't think he could take much more. He had always considered himself a man of self-control, and expert in the art of deferred gratification, but tonight he was caught up in the flow of uncontrollable forces.
He fell on top of Desdemona.
She reached for him with an eagerness that dazed him. He covered one of her breasts with his hand and felt the taut nipple push against his palm. Hungrily he took the fruit into his mouth.
Desdemona made a soft, half-strangled sound.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,
no
.” She gripped the back of his head and held him to her breast.
He filled his mouth with her once more and slid his hand across her soft belly. She arched her hips, straining against his fingers. He stroked her thigh. She bent her leg in response. The gesture conveyed passionate urgency. The silky feel of her stocking was incredibly erotic.
Stark touched the scrap of lace between her legs. It was already damp. The scent of her arousal was the most alluring perfume he had ever known. Satisfaction coursed through him as he realized that Desdemona was as wild for him as he was for her.
“Stark.” Desdemona's nails dug into his back beneath his shirt.
He eased one finger past the narrow crotch of the panties.
Desdemona shuddered.
Stark raised his head and looked at her. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. She was lost in the moment. Her eyes were tightly closed. The mere sight of the elegant, utterly abandoned lines of her stocking-clad legs was almost enough to trigger his climax.
He fought for the last remnants of his control. He was sweating. He freed one hand to grope beneath the bed. He found the carton of Exotica Erotica products. His hand closed over a box.
He lifted the package and realized that it was sealed in plastic wrap. There was just enough light filtering through the windows to read the words
Big Boy Vibrator
.
“What is it?” Desdemona asked quickly.
“Wrong box.” He reached under the bed again, and this time he found what he wanted.
His hands were shaking, but he managed to get his zipper down, managed to open a small foil packet, managed to do what needed to be done.
He did not manage to remove his pants or get his shoes off, however. He gave up on the attempt and fumbled briefly with Desdemona's lace panties.
“Please.” Desdemona clutched at him. “I can't wait. I've never felt anything like this in my life. Please, Stark. Hurry.”
Stark abandoned the effort to remove the black lace panties in the normal manner. He gripped the narrow strip of fabric and yanked it out of the way. The sheer lace tore in his hand.
Stark drove himself into Desdemona in a single, deep thrust.
She stiffened and sucked in her breath. “
Stark
.”
For an instant the flowing, shifting, impossibly intricate design stood still for Stark.
She was so small. Incredibly tight. He could feel himself stretching her. He knew that if she hadn't been so thoroughly damp with her own dew, it would never have worked.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sounded breathless. “Just give me a second. You know, I hadn't realized that weight-lifting impacted so many different parts of a man's body.”
“Christ, Desdemona, don't make me laugh. Not now.”
She clung to him for a moment longer and then slowly, cautiously, lifted herself, inviting him even deeper inside.
He moved his hand downward, searching out the small, sensitive bud that was the source of her excitement. He could feel the electricity that shot through her. He wondered that it did not set him ablaze. She cried out, an enchanting, half-swallowed sound of stunned surprise.
Stark felt her clench even more tightly around him, saw her lips part, felt her legs close around his waist.
Her climax shimmered through him, sending him into the heart of a spectacular, exceedingly complex whirlpool of colors and shapes. He was in the middle of a fractal. For an instant Stark saw and understood all the patterns in their entirety.
For that brief moment in time he was no longer alone.
Rain struck the bank of the windows that formed one wall of Desdemona's loft. The wind had shifted.
Desdemona lay happily crushed beneath Stark's large, warm frame. His head rested on her breast. His legs firmly lodged between hers. The fabric of his formal black trousers scraped lightly against the inside of her bare thighs.
“You didn't even take off your pants, cowboy,” she murmured.
“What?” Stark raised his head. He looked down at her with half-closed eyes. There was a distinct air of sleepy indulgence about him.
“I said, you didn't even take off your pants. Or your shoes.” She stretched languidly beneath his weight. “I suppose I should be grateful that you don't wear boots, hmm?”
“Damn. I'm sorry.”
“Forget it.” She grinned. “I was just teasing you.”
“Your sheets…”
“I can change them.”
He groaned and glanced at his watch. Desdemona saw that the numbers on the dial were glowing softly.
“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
“Howdy Doody time?”
“It's after midnight.”
She gave him a dreamy smile. “No kidding.”
“I've got to get out of here.” Stark rolled off the bed and stood. “Macbeth will be wondering where the hell I am.”
“He won't panic.” It was cold without Stark to warm her.
“No, but Jason and Kyle might.” Stark's gaze lingered wistfully on her black stockings and the scrap of torn black lace panties. His jaw tightened. He scooped his shirt off the floor and headed toward the bathroom. “I'll be right back.”
“Take your time.” Desdemona studied the high, shadowed ceiling of her loft and marveled at the interesting sensation between her legs. Not pain. Not quite an ache. More like the pleasantly used feeling that she experienced after brisk exercise. Her body had just done something it had been designed to do, and it felt good. It felt right. Satisfied with itself.
She got up and reached for the Kimono-style bathrobe that hung on the brick wall behind the bed.
Stark emerged from the bathroom, his big hands busy with the buttons on his white shirt. He had run his fingers through his dark hair. He crossed the room to retrieve his gold-framed glasses. His face was set in familiar lines of intent concentration.
“I don't suppose you have time for coffee?” Desdemona said as she tied the sash of her robe.
“No. Sorry.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slanted another quick glance at his watch. “I've got to get home. I'll call you in the morning.”
“Promises, promises.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Just mumbling. A bit of postcoital disorientation, I guess. Or maybe I've been reading too many warnings in women's magazines.”
He frowned. “Are you all right?”