Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,48

she’d known and not just the few she’d slept with. The strength in Brandt’s arms was so virile and protective; it had taken her more than half her life to come to the realization that it wasn’t love she sought from a man, but his protection.

Brandt eased back, angled his head and brushed his mouth over Ciara’s. Deepening the kiss, he took total possession of her mouth, his tongue moving in and out and simulating making love to her. He lifted her effortlessly with one arm, his free hand guiding her down on his erection. There was a slight resistance; Brandt lifted his hips off the bed as Ciara came down to meet his rigid flesh.

Bracing her feet on the mattress, her knees pressed against her chest, Ciara anchored her arms under Brandt’s massive shoulders. She wanted to close her eyes, but couldn’t as Brandt’s bore into hers. Passion had tightened the skin over his cheekbones, flared his nostrils and quickened his breathing.

The pleasure Brandt found in Ciara’s body was so exquisite he feared it would be over much too quickly. She wanted sex—he wanted love. She didn’t want drama—and neither did he. She wanted right now—and he wanted now, tomorrow and more tomorrows. His hands circled her narrow waist, fingers tightening on the tender flesh as she moved up and down over his sex like a well-oiled piston.

Heat, chills, waves of ecstasy overlapped and pulled Ciara down into an abyss of passion from which there was no escape. She closed her eyes, gasping when the first ripple of release gripped her.

“Oh, no!” she gasped.

“Let it go, baby.” Brandt felt the strong pulsing of her flesh squeezing his penis.

Ciara did let go, orgasms gripping, overlapping and shaking her until she threw back her head and cried an awesome moan of erotic pleasure as Brandt’s breath came in long, surrendering gasps.

Resting her cheek against his shoulder, she pressed a kiss to the damp, salty flesh. “Thank you.”

Chest heaving, eyes closed, Brandt, smiled. “Thank you!”

They lay together, joined and enjoying the sense of oneness. Ciara moaned. Her legs were cramping. “I have to get up.”

“What’s the matter, babe?”

“My calves are cramping.”

Brandt released her and she rolled off his body. They lay side by side, holding hands. Ciara’s breathing deepened until she slept the sleep of a sated lover. This time there were no erotic images to disturb her peaceful slumber.

Chapter 12

“I’ll take it from here,” Brandt told the orderly who’d pushed his chair up the ramp to the entrance to the hospital.

Automatic doors opened and the first thing he saw was the oversize poster resting on an easel. It was a photograph of him in uniform, hair falling to his shoulders, his helmet tucked under his left arm and a football under the right. A printed caption with the date, time and location had advertised his appearance. The photo was taken the day after he and his team had won the Super Bowl. Why, he mused, did it seem like a different place and lifetime?

Brandt stared straight ahead, ignoring the whispers and stares of people milling around the hospital entrance. He maneuvered the chair across the expansive lobby to a bank of elevators, where Aziza Fleming-Wainwright waited. A bright smile split his face with her approach. If marriage agreed with his cousin, it suited Jordan’s wife even more. She’d cut her hair into a becoming pixie style. Spending three weeks in French Polynesia had darkened her complexion to a rich mahogany brown. A white-and-black-striped linen coatdress and black patent-leather pumps flattered her tall, slender figure.

“Hey, beautiful,” he crooned, taking the hand she extended to him.

Aziza leaned down to kiss her client’s cheek, then wiped at the smudge of color with her thumb. “You look fantastic,” he continued.

“So do you. Jordan called just before you arrived. He said if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, we’ll stop by and visit.”

Brandt smiled. “I’d love to have you guys over. If the weather holds, we can hang out on the roof.”

“Have you spoken to my brother since the accident?”

A beat passed as Brandt and Aziza looked at each other in what had become a stare-down. “No. In fact I haven’t spoken to any of the guys on the team.”

“I’m not talking about the other guys, Brandt. I’m talking about Alex. You’re friends. Pick up the phone and let him know you’re okay.”

“Okay, I’ll call him.”

Standing straighter, Aziza glared down at Brandt. He was not just her client—now he was family. When her brother mentioned Brandt Wainwright