New York to Dallas - J. D. Robb [125]
“That was the plan.”
She looked up at him; everything inside him yearned. “But apparently I missed a step,” he murmured, then laid his lips on hers.
“You never miss a step.”
So he deepened the kiss, let himself fall into the moment with her damp body pressed so eagerly to his, with the dreamy scent of the water clinging to her skin.
When he lifted her, the towel fell away.
No words now; they’d both had enough of them. Enough of storms and soothing. She stayed wrapped around him on the bed, holding on, holding on while her lips roamed his face. Already stirred, already lost, he took his hands over her.
Quick, quick, no time for thinking, he took her up, felt her body arch and shudder. Accept.
Strong mind, strong needs, he thought. He’d fill them, fill her and himself. For a little while the ugly stains of the day would be cleansed.
For a little while, pleasure and passion would smother pain.
His heart drummed against hers. It brought her a thrill, that hard, frantic beat. But more, it restored. His life, beating there against hers. Their lives.
Nothing could change that, no nightmare, no shame, no poison in the blood. She’d brought herself out of the dark, but she’d come to crave the light he’d flooded into her world.
That light shot through her like a thousand arrows when he pushed her to climax.
She cried out, and he heard the edge of triumph in the sound. And he understood. She could feel and want to reach and take, she could give, no matter what had been done to her. She could live and thrive. She could want him.
That she could, did, would, humbled him. Enraptured him.
She rolled, sliding over him, feeding and feasting until he was mad for her. When he dragged her up, she straddled him, took him deep. And rode, rode, rode him like a stallion under the whip.
He saw, before his vision blurred, the strong curve of her body, and the fierce joy on her face.
She collapsed on him, body limp, breath tearing.
“God,” she managed. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”
“I think I rate at least an ‘I appreciate it.’ ”
“I appreciate it.” She kept her face buried against his throat. “I thought I might clutch. You know, it’s been . . . a day. But it was just the way it should be.”
“Darling Eve.” Smiling, he stroked her back. “I was afraid I might clutch.”
“We didn’t. We’re just too damn good at it.” She shifted, tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder. “It was a really excellent step.”
“Quite possibly better than the spaghetti and meatballs.”
“It’s neck-and-neck.” She lay quiet for a moment. “I know you want me to sleep. I’m just not . . . we should watch some screen, finish all the steps.”
“All right, then. How about some porn?”
She laughed as he’d meant her to, then elbowed him. “Perv. Didn’t you just have porn?”
“It shows what you know about fine art and lowly pornography.”
“Then let’s leave that step on the high note. Feeney had the ball game on. The Mets could clinch the division tonight. They’ve got to have a replay, time delay, something.”
“Baseball it is.” He ordered the screen on, drew the throw at the foot of the bed over them.
She went under in the top of the fifth. He wondered how she’d held out that long.
He ordered the lights on low in case she woke, ordered the screen off. And holding her, let himself slip into sleep with her.
Closer than she knew, Isaac McQueen roamed his new spaces. It was, very precisely, what he’d wanted and arranged—the colors, fabrics, materials, layout.
And still he felt caged.
She’d put him in again, that bitch Dallas. Just another run of luck for her. And the total fucking stupidity of Sylvia.
At least she was dead. Her stupidity, her unending neediness wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She’d had her uses, but he’d find another when the time was right. One he could be more sure of, one he wouldn’t have to charm and train and instruct from prison.
That had been the problem. He hadn’t made a mistake with his choice. Because of Dallas he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to