Widow - Anne Stuart [90]
She was absolutely silent this time as the climax hit her, clenching around him, as wave after wave of release drained her body.
And he followed her, letting go, holding nothing back.
He couldn’t tell who came down first. She lay in his arms, covered in sweat, panting, heart racing, weeping. He always thought it was strange that some women wept when they climaxed. For the first time he began to understand why.
She wouldn’t want words and he knew it. Well, at least not the words he’d say. She’d want him to tell her he loved her. And he wasn’t going to lie.
Funny, though. He always told women he loved them. Never had a qualm about it if it would get him laid or get him a story.
But he didn’t want to use those easy words with Charlie.
He rolled over on his side, taking her with him, and they fit together perfectly. No awkward arranging of arms and legs and tickling hair. She simply went into his embrace and fell asleep.
Leaving him lying there wondering what the hell he was going to do.
21
Maguire was in a thoroughly lousy mood. Charlie slept like a baby in his arms, completely trusting, a fact that annoyed him. Didn’t she realize what a jerk he was? What a fraud, what a user? How stupid could she be, to go to bed with him and then fall asleep as if she was in the safest place in the world? No wonder her life was so messed up.
No wonder his life was so messed up, as well. He wanted to sleep, too. He wanted to close his eyes, pull her even closer, breathe in the scent of her, and sleep.
But he hated sleeping with women. He liked sex just fine. Loved it, as a matter of fact. But afterward, once the required amount of snuggling and lies were finished with, he wanted his bed to himself. Which was why he seldom brought women to his apartment. Hard to kick a woman out when she was feeling all cozy and postcoital.
But the damnable thing about Charlie was that he didn’t want to kick her out. Didn’t want to leave her. He’d already slept with her for an entire night, and he didn’t even have the excuse of having sex with her. He’d simply wanted to hold her while she was so miserable, give her some kind of comfort. But he’d slept, wrapped around her.
He wasn’t going to make the mistake of doing that again, no matter how much his body cried out for it. He could sleep in a chair—he’d done it before. Or he could simply work all night, catching up on loose ends.
But damn it, he was not going to sleep with Charlie in his arms again. He didn’t dare.
He gently slid out of the bed. She reached for him, making a small, protesting sigh, but she didn’t wake up. He stood by the bed, staring down at her in the dim light. He’d thought she was beautiful before. That was nothing compared to what she looked like now. Well-loved.
Bad term. Well-fucked is what he meant. He’d given her the ride of her life, and she’d sleep for hours now, just to recuperate. And he could start work on rebuilding his own defenses.
He closed the doors to the bedroom so he wouldn’t disturb her. He took a fast, cold shower—she’d taken all the hot water earlier, and then dashed out to his car to get his computer and camera. He hadn’t had a chance to upload the digital pictures, and he was curious to see what sort of shots he’d gotten.
He sat for hours at the laptop, uploading the pictures, backing them up on his portable zip drive. He did it automatically—too many years in war zones had taught him the importance of backing up your material. He slid the zip disk into the desk drawer, then flicked back through the last group of pictures.
There was one photo that was nagging at him, and he wasn’t sure why. It was a shot of Madame Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso, and it was a picture full of emotion. Molly would have been proud of him.
Lauretta was doing her usual job of pleading with the old lady. Keeping the old lady in line must be a full-time job, Maguire thought. Lauretta must be run ragged trying to care for a full household, as well. There was something about her face, something that bothered him, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
And that wasn