The tenderness in her breasts intensified with every jolt, and her bottom was sore. In fact—everything down there ached like the very devil after their rigorous lovemaking the night before. Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Andrew was an incredibly virile man with an insatiable lust. He was an excellent lover, conquering her body like an explorer in search of undiscovered treasures. The things he did to her—Dear God! A pool of warmth stirred in her belly. She'd never thought a man could make love with such uninhibited passion—entering her in many different ways; showing her the pleasure that could be derived from each erotic position—every titillating touch; driving her repeatedly to such climactic heights until she was wanton and boneless in his arms. "La petite mort," he whispered afterwards in that deep, sensual bass voice that never failed to make her knees weak, "the little death one experiences during sexual orgasm." And she did die—several times—only to be resuscitated once again by the persistent ravishment of his luscious mouth, sinfully carnal tongue, and impertinent fingers.
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