By Andrzej Boguslawski
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Additional info for A Note on Two Dogmas in Pragmatics
Rand forced her to come up from below to stand on deck for an hour with him, enduring her complaints until he could stand no more. "If you stop badgering long enough to take a breath of fresh air, you might begin to feel better," he pointed out with irritation, and Rosalie lifted her pale face to him to deliver a cold blue stare. She envied his perfect health and composure.
Quaking, she shrank from the taut pull of muscle across his waist and stomach, the resilient strength of the legs that eased hers apart. Most unfamiliar of all was the bold heat that branded her as his hips pressed into the cradle of hers. Fear spread through every pore like a delicate liquid, causing her pulse to rocket, her thoughts to crash against each other. "Don't do this to me. You could have anyone," Rosalie panted, trying to escape the heat of him between her legs. Rand responded by settling more deeply against her, hard and impatient for the softness of her body.
Herself, pale-skinned in the morning light, stretched out on the rumpled luxury of the bed, the man devoting his attention to the most private parts of her body as if he owned them. His dark amber hair gleaming immaculately, his large hands cupped around her, one of his legs insinuated between her tense and parted knees. She could barely hear through the labored rushing of her breathing and the drumming of her heart. "This is disgusting," she choked, and he dragged his mouth up to the fragile line of her jaw, careful not to disarrange the silk kerchief around her neck.