Postcards At Christmas. Cara Colter
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her eyes. And once again she was whirling up and up—and over the edge of the world into an explosion of light and sensation as she felt her body pulsing around him, felt him surge into her deeper, fuller, harder even than before.
And by then she could only hold on and keep sighing, “Yes, yes, yes,” as the pulsing faded down to a lovely glow of happy satisfaction.
* * *
At seven o’clock on Sunday morning, Dami gave her a robe to wear and led her to the kitchen, where he made her coffee and served her croissants from Justine’s café. She ate two. They were so good and she was hungry.
Then she returned to his bedroom and put on her clothes from the night before as he stood in the doorway, big arms across his broad chest, watching her, his expression unreadable.
Yeah, it was a little sad. A little strange. To be leaving him so soon after the complete fabulousness of last night.
But she remembered what she’d promised herself at his studio. Not to cling. Not to linger. She scooped up her evening clutch and went to him with a bright smile.
At the door to the outer hall, she kissed him. His mouth touched hers, tasting of coffee, making her long to lift her arms and pull him closer. It was early yet. They had time.
To share more kisses. To make love again in the morning light.
But no. That would only hurt more in the end. She was on her way now. Better to keep moving, go back to her room, get her things packed, call a cab....
She kept her arms at her sides and when he lifted his head, she said, “It was perfect, Dami.”
He framed her face between his hands and there was such an ache within her. The end had come way too soon. Already she missed the beauty and rightness of all they had shared. “Travel safe, Luce.”
She pressed her lips to his once more. “Have the best Christmas ever.”
“You, too.” His hands fell away.
She turned from him.
He reached around her and pushed open the door for her. She went out into the wide, beautiful hallway and started walking.
She didn’t glance back to find out if he watched her leaving him. She didn’t need the temptation of seeing him there staring after her—or worse, not seeing him.
Better not to look. Better not to know.
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