14 - J. T. Ellison [104]
A short hallway led to the living room, but they didn’t make it that far.
Taylor was on him before the door lock clicked to let them know they were safely ensconced in the womblike area.
Her ferocity astounded him. She took his collar in her hands and forced him back against the wall, her mouth hot on his, her hands traveling the length of his body. He was ready in an instant and it seemed to take forever to get her out of her clothes, though he knew that wasn’t the case—he heard something tear just before her smooth skin melted against his.
His clothes joined hers in a pile on the floor and they were wrapped around each other, fusing, sucking, touching. Baldwin lifted her by the buttocks and swung her around, forcing her back against the wall.
Taylor was like a wild woman, an animal, starved for attention, starved for food. Wrapping her long legs around his body, she demanded more. She bit into his neck and he thrust against her, her hips melding into his, her back scraping the expensive paper. A painting fell off a foot away, their hurried coupling shaking the very walls. A scream, deep and guttural, emanated from Taylor’s throat as she climaxed, then she was in tears. Baldwin followed suit, lost in her, lost in himself. He came back, realized he had Taylor pinned to the wall so tightly that every breath she took moved his own ribs.
He smiled at her then, desperate longing coupled with relief. She reflected his look, into his eyes, his soul, naked, hungry again. Lost. So very lost.
He lifted her, never taking his eyes off hers, navigating the steps through the sitting room, into the bedroom. Still joined, he laid her gently on the bed and moved slightly, the exquisite oneness of them nearly overwhelming him.
She took, and took, and he gave all he could, sensing somehow that it wouldn’t be enough to exorcise the demons from her soul. They moved in ways they never had, connected deeper than before. He tensed and Taylor urged him forward, deeper, faster, her hands grasping his hips and forcing them to drive harder. He cried out this time, but she was silent, taking. When he caught his breath, he rolled off of her, gathered her in his arms, and held her while she fought the tears.
The knock on the door started her awake. She was deep in the bed, covers pulled high on her neck, an arm lodged under Baldwin. He slept deeply, untroubled. She thought back to their frantic sex and smiled. That was a whole new level for them, the desperate clawing passion. She enjoyed it, felt a little guilty that a death had caused such furious excitement within her. Comfort, she thought. That’s what I wanted.
The discreet knocking came again. Baldwin didn’t stir. She slid her arm out from under his neck and stepped into the marble-tiled bathroom, pulling a thick terry-cloth robe off the hook behind the door and shrugging it on. She glanced at the clock—3:48 a.m. Who the hell was knocking on their door at this ungodly hour?
Picking up Baldwin’s .40, she went to the door, gun pointed down the length of her naked thigh.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, I have a package for you.”
“It’s nearly four in the morning. Can’t it wait?”
“No, ma’am. The concierge told me to deliver it personally. I’m looking for Lieutenant Taylor Jackson. That you?”
She didn’t answer. A communiqué in the middle of the night. She had a brief thought of her mother’s middle-of-the-night phone call, two months ago.
“Leave the package by the door.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am. I promised—”
“Leave it,” she barked. She heard a whispered thump, then footsteps retreating down the hall.
Opening the door, weapon up, she glanced right, then left. The hallway was appropriately deserted. She reached her left hand out, taking the package by the corner. It was an envelope, padded, one you’d find in any office supply store in the country. Only about the size of a CD. There was a bulky lump in the middle.
Against her better judgment, she pulled the package