DESIRE'S STORM

She held one hand out to him and, like a lamb being led to slaughter, he followed when she turned and walked from the beach into the thick jungle.

Greg was not a follower. He was not a man who went anywhere without knowing the exact consequences of his actions. For some reason, though, on this beach with all the problems of his business and being lost from civilization, he damned the consequences. He wondered briefly if he'd hit his head on something when his boat sank.

When he entered the jungle, he was immediately grabbed by a hand and pulled down.

"Umph. Wait," he began. He felt something incredibly soft and enveloping. His nose twitched momentarily. It's feathers, he thought. She had fashioned a feather bed in the middle of an untouched jungle. How amazing is that?

Then he couldn't think at all. The beautiful woman was straddling him and rubbing her lower body against his.

Greg knew the science of it. He knew there were certain physical reactions he couldn't stop. He also knew if a man couldn't control himself, he could be controlled by others. That hadn't been him since he'd reached puberty. He prided himself on not only knowing his lovers, but making certain they reached pleasure first. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Today, lying on a bed of feathers, in a jungle that seemed suspended in time, with a woman who was some kind of combination Wonder Woman and Jane of the Jungle, he just let his body take control. And his body loved every living minute.

It seemed his every base wish was granted, even as he thought it. He wished there were no barriers between their skin.

There were none.

He reveled in the ability to touch and taste where he wanted, when he wanted.

She tasted like a ripe passion fruit infused with sin. He knew he was rough as he took her lips, as he tweaked the hardening buds of her nipples. When he thought to apologize, she shook her head and took his hands, pushing them harder against her breasts.

"Don't back down," she ordered. "I want everything."

A haze of desire fogged his vision as if he had gone from bright early light of a summer day to the stroke of winter's midnight in a blink of an eye.

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