Sandstorm. Anne Mather

of his ears, the strong column of his neck where the hair grew down to his nape. She wanted to know every inch of him, and time and place were forgotten in the delights of exploration.

      Rachid’s mouth devoured hers as his hands searched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch aroused her to unknown heights of excitement and anticipation, and she was all yielding woman in his arms.

      She heard his muffled imprecation when her fingers found the buckle of his belt, but by then neither of them was capable of thinking beyond the moment, and the moment demanded surrender. With a groan of submission, Rachid lost what little control he had left, and his legs parted hers.

      The heat of him against her promoted its own consummation. What happened was as natural as the turning of the season, and Abby’s cry of pain was stifled beneath the probing hunger of his kiss. She was hardly aware of the moment when he started to move within her, or indeed of the moment when the pressure began to build. But it happened, and they climbed together, scaling the boundaries of human experience, reaching the peak of sensual fulfilment. It was an unbelievable sensation, and looking up into Rachid’s sweat-moistened features, Abby knew that he was feeling it too. They sank together through the veils of shimmering ecstasy, and it was she who sought his lips with hers in the glorious aftermath of their lovemaking.