Текст книги "Ghost Seer"
Автор книги: Robin D. Owens
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
TWENTY-TWO
SHE STIFFENED AND shuddered. “No!”
He stopped and sat in front of her with a shocked expression, the fur over his brow ridges wiggling. But you must consult.
“Must I?” she snapped. “And I will not talk about this right now. Not at all in the near future. Give me a little time, can’t you!”
The doggieness began to be replaced in his eyes, and she turned and walked away, striding across the patio and back into the house.
Arlene came toward her with a huge smile on her face, a smile that faded when she saw Clare’s expression. She swallowed and disappointment flitted across her features. “Ah, then, I’m sorry this didn’t work out—”
Clare guessed she was berating herself for not staying with the client and letting the sale go sour.
“No,” Clare said gently, yanking her emotions back on track, ignoring the silent presence of the dog when he strolled in. “I like this house very much, but the price is too high.”
“Let’s see what we can do,” Arlene said.
Clare and her real estate agent drove to a nearby restaurant and talked numbers. Since Clare wished to move in immediately, she finally decided to pay cash for the house. A huge amount of cash at a figure that caused a lump in her throat but wasn’t what the sellers were asking, so she thought she got a little deal at least. Arlene danced out of the café to push everyone around and get the closing done in three days counting today, which she thought would work. Clare figured she could get her old house ready for sale in a month.
The end of this month approached rapidly and she’d be making a trip to southern Wyoming. Maybe. Deep in the back of Clare’s mind was the niggling thought that maybe the specter of Jack Slade might not be able to find her if she moved. Particularly if it were to a place that was nothing but vacant plain when he’d lived.
On the other hand, the man had managed to set up stations across five hundred miles of open plains, so he was accustomed to the emptiness of the West.
She ate the last bit of croissant, leaving a fifteen percent tip because the place was mostly self-serve, and waited for the cab outside the restaurant. She’d like living in the area, though it would be faster to get around by bicycle than walking. They said you never forgot how to ride a bike, and maybe she would learn that firsthand. She’d like one with a good-sized basket.
As she waited, she realized she wasn’t as cold, and Enzo seemed to feel like he didn’t have to stay as close to her as he had. He hadn’t brought up the idea of consulting again.
Still, if she tried, she could feel his location in her mind, like a chill spot in a certain direction.
She’d accepted that she could see ghosts. Other people had that same gift. It had been described throughout history; she wasn’t alone.
The cab drove up and she got in. Enzo caught up and galloped into the backseat with her, grinning and panting. See, see! You are better now.
Clare had noticed that there seemed to be a lot fewer phantoms on the streets heading back into downtown.
Mostly you will see people you can help at this time, Enzo said.
Is a time element always involved? Clare asked, glad she’d also slipped one of Aunt Sandra’s journals into her briefcase so she could come up to speed on the rules of this new life of hers.
The dog nodded with no hint of that huge Otherness that sometimes spoke through him. The huge, weird, strange, awesome Otherness. She wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but did want to avoid whatever it was if at all possible.
When she left the cab at Civic Center Park, she enjoyed the simple green and yellow of the day—green trees and grass and yellow sun. All right, there was blue sky with huge white cumulus towering-castle clouds, and the gray of the flagstones, the multicolored library and the odd angles of the art museum. None of which she’d been able to appreciate much since she’d gotten onto this roller coaster of strange.
This time when she walked through the park to the library, no ghosts pressed around her. Nobody curtseyed or tipped a hat, sauntered or strolled with her. Except Enzo. He heeled like a real dog.
The ghost must also want to pass over, he said. Some are afraid. He sighed gustily, spraying droplets of vanishing, ectoplasmic goo all over. See, she was accepting this with so much grace she could make jokes. Ha. Ha.
Enzo accompanied her into the library for once, and for an instant she thought he’d abandoned his doggie ways, but he ran back and forth along the long entrance hallway barking his head off. It was interesting seeing who reacted to him. The security guard in the entryway had given him a squinty-eyed look.
Clare took the elevator to the Western History room accompanied by Enzo and nodded to the faces becoming familiar. Ted Mather smiled at her, and a bit of relief released from her. It was hard to work in a tense environment, so she was glad he’d agreed to disagree with her.
She zeroed in on finding Cold Springs, but despite her newfound skill with the materials, she couldn’t locate the place. When Arlene called to give her the appointment for closing on her new house, Clare decided to quit and went to a salad place near the library and art museum for lunch.
She was finishing up her sparkling water in the courtyard when she was approached by the ghost of a little girl. Clare choked. Feeling good for a few hours had lulled her mind into forgetting her new circumstances.
When the child, surely under ten years old, looked at Clare, her eyes were like silver fog, glints in mist.
All right. Clare could do this. She could help the little girl . . . move on. Pass over. Walk into the light, whatever.
You can DO this, enthused Enzo.
Clare sat straight and smiled at the apparition, hoping she didn’t look scary.
But the little girl bounced over to her. Not like any kind of walking. Clare swallowed. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, not moving her lips much. A lot of people had taken a break in the courtyard.
Nodding, dark curls bobbing, the girl said, Have you seen my hoop? I need my hoop before I can go.
Clare cleared her throat and thought of the one “rule” she knew about this whole strange mess. “Did you . . . um . . . die late in the summer one year?”
The girl’s eyes slid in Clare’s direction. Wasn’t she supposed to ask about death? Did that bother them? She didn’t recall that it had bothered Jack Slade, though it been a while back that she’d mentioned it.
“I’ll look for your hoop,” Clare said. She blinked and blinked again, trying to slip into that other “sight.” The girl was much more defined than anything else . . . buildings rose, wavered, vanished . . . and what happened when there was more than one set? Clare didn’t know what had been here when the girl had been here.
I lost my hoop and my life when the moon was nearly dark, the girl said suddenly and from right beside Clare’s knee. Clare started.
“Oh.” There was timekeeping and timekeeping. A monthly ghost? Who knew? And Clare suddenly wanted this over. With another big breath, keeping her own eyes narrowed to focus that other world, she scanned the area. Yes, a hoop! A wooden hoop, about half the size of the girl, who, Clare saw, held a small stick. All right. She could do this.
You can do this! Enzo cheered.
Getting up, focused on the light gray hoop, Clare scuttled through real people and ghostly shades. Those who weren’t ready for her help? Weren’t at a time when she could help? Later, she’d think about all that stuff later. She had a job to do right now.
The wooden hoop lay on the ground. Could she touch it? Clare didn’t know, but she curved a hand around it. . . . like closing her fingers around a searing dry icicle. She clenched her teeth and straightened, feeling like she was ripping the object away from sticky ground.
A loud squeal came: I can see it! I can see my hoop!
There came little pattering footsteps and the girl grabbed the hoop. More ripping, this time like a layer of flesh from Clare’s palm as she released it. Tears stung her eyes at the pain. Setting her hands on the top, the girl jumped through the hoop, feet first. And disappeared.
Hoop and girl rippled in a shocking burst of color in what had become a sepia beige-and-brown world, then vanished.
Clare stood panting, her mind spinning. “Enzo?” she croaked.
Yes, Clare?
Clare settled her mind to pluck words from the chaos. Are there other, um, beings than ghosts? She wasn’t sure where that idea came from. But she was trembling now.
Yes, Clare, Enzo said in that deeper-than-doggie voice he used sometimes.
“O-kay.” Like you, for instance?
Perhaps. And like the one your great-aunt Sandra called John Dillinger.
“Clare, are you all right?”
It was Ted Mather who’d put his arm around her shoulders . . . and that was when she realized she was swaying. Darn it!
He didn’t smell or feel right, so she made sure her feet were under her and drew away. Her right hand still curled against pain, she took the couple of paces back to the bench she’d been sitting on that still held her bag. No one else had taken the spot and it didn’t look as if anyone had stolen anything. How much time had passed? To her it seemed like just a few minutes, but it could have been any amount of time. Any at all.
Her heart thundered, pulse rushing in her ears.
Ted followed. “You haven’t been looking good lately.”
For sure a clammy sweat covered her, too. Would that always happen? She used a controlled fall to hit the bench, swung her body around more as if she were a puppeteer than by control from her brainpan. She put her feet on the ground, straightened her spine, made her face pleasant, and looked up at Ted.
Not for long, since he dropped down beside her on the bench and she bit the inside of her cheek not to protest.
“I think I might have a summer cold.” She tried a cough, and it came out far too easily, and racking.
He frowned. “You should be home.”
“I’m in the midst of moving.” To her delight, her offer had been accepted and Arlene had set up the closing rapidly . . . three days. Clare had checked in with her brother, who’d been packing up the moving trucks from Aunt Sandra’s house—had Clare only left there a week ago? And he would have the truck bring everything to the new place on the same day.
She should be working on the move. She should be sorting stuff in her old home—the sentimental and valuable to keep, everything else to go to one of the thrift stores. She hadn’t packed her house with items . . .
“Clare!” Ted demanded her attention.
She twitched up a smile. “Yes, you’re probably right. I should go home.” She stood, and even though it wasn’t ladylike or professional, she needed a good stretch. Since she was a weird ghost-seeing person with no job, she had little image left and really worked her muscles, reaching her arms toward the sky.
Maybe she’d take up yoga. Great-Aunt Sandra had loved yoga.
After shifting her shoulders and shaking out her feet, she did feel more like herself—her changing self. Still, she managed a sincere smile at Ted. “Thanks for your concern, Ted.”
He offered her a bottle of unopened mandarin orange fizzy water. “Here, I got you this.”
“Thank you.” She twisted the top off, and drank deeply. “Very good, thank you.”
Shrugging, he said, “I didn’t want you to think I was a loon about that stage robbery. You’re right, I have to check better sources.”
She was the loon. The taste of the water went flat and her eyes went beyond Civic Center to focus on the skyscraper that had held her old office. Right now she yearned for some nice books to balance. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. Quitting her job hadn’t been one. She feared she wouldn’t be able to function in an office environment anymore, and someone else had needed her job to survive. She didn’t.
She wasn’t quite sure what all she needed to survive, but money wasn’t an issue anymore.
“You’re quite welcome for the water,” Ted said, but he looked disgruntled, as if he didn’t like her daydreaming.
“I feel much better. I think I must have made a turn in this sickness.” Not a sickness, not a craziness, just an affliction for the rest of her life. And she’d break up the time packing boxes with genealogical research. Aunt Sandra had lived into her nineties; what of the others who accepted the gift?
Ted’s deepening scowl impinged on her. “Thanks again. Take care,” she said.
“Yeah. Will we see you in the Western History reading room soon?”
He was not hitting on her. No such vibes, and even the thought . . . ewwww.
She’d have given him another cough if she hadn’t just said she thought she was getting better, and all too easy to start coughing and not quit. Instead she shook her head. “No, I think I’ll rest at home. I left the desk in the Western History room tidy enough.” The librarians and docents preferred to reshelve books themselves.
“You always leave your space tidy,” Ted said mildly.
“I like tidy,” Clare said. “Good luck on your studies and with your job for the prof.” She couldn’t recall the prof’s name, though Ted had told her twice. Her brain now had holes in it for sure.
Sweeping up the detritus of her lunch, she hurried back into the restaurant and deposited her recyclables into one of their bins, then headed back out. Ted was entering the library doors, and that banished a little tingle along her spine—not a good tingle as if she were with Zach.
She hadn’t called him. No reason to.
Forty minutes later she was picking up boxes at a liquor store at a small strip mall close to her current neighborhood and stacking them in her car. Driving around her area of town was much easier. Though she did see the tall figure of a Native American standing on a rise, wrapped in a blanket and staring west toward the mountains.
Clare would have to learn more about the tribes here.
“Enzo?”
The dog appeared around another car in the parking lot, though he hadn’t accompanied her earlier. Clare puffed out a breath.
He sat in front of her and scratched his ear with his hind leg, grinning. Hello, Clare. Hello! Long time I haven’t seen you! Hopping to his feet, he ran toward her, through her with a chill, licking her hand along the way.
Whoops! Right THROUGH Clare! Hey, Clare!
“Hi, Enzo. I, uh, saw a Native American ghost. Can I . . . uh . . . help him?” Why hadn’t she researched the rules yet? “What about religion and stuff?” She flapped a hand.
All religions have spiritual people who help the dead move on, said Enzo, switching to that deeper voice of his.
“I guess that’s a yes.”
No answer. She shut the door, accepting the presence of Enzo on the passenger seat. “I’ll help him . . . soon.” Another thing to do: to continue to read her great-aunt’s journals, glean the rules from them. So far she hadn’t found much that she hadn’t discovered on her own.
Time to buckle down.
• • •
Zach lounged in one of Rickman’s client chairs. The man had called him in to talk about the robbery the day before. Apparently he was working on a “hot” case this Saturday morning. That he didn’t keep banker’s hours pleased Zach.
Behind his desk, Rickman leaned forward, hands clasped before him. “You aren’t telling me everything about the incident yesterday.”
Raising his brows, Zach gave a slight nod. “You mean that when I touched Clare Cermak, I could see the ghost of a cowboy waving his hat and yelling, ‘Bank robbery’? That what you want to hear?”
Rickman winced, spun his chair around so he could stare out the window. He looked like a brood had fallen right over him like a painter’s dropcloth. “No. I don’t want to hear that.” He cut the air with his right hand. “Absolutely not. Why do I get all the characters?”
Zach didn’t know whether that meant guys with attitude or people who interacted with those who—were touched by strangeness like Mrs. Flinton or Clare Cermak. “I could introduce you to Clare, if you want.” He offered just to bug the guy.
His boss glanced at him over his shoulder. “Not right now. Maybe later.”
All right, that surprised Zach. “That’s all I have for you.” He’d given the guy a written report on his lack of progress on Mrs. Flinton’s case, and his idea regarding tracing the financials.
“Fine. Here.” Rickman swung back to his desk, pulled out a drawer, and flipped a couple of cards onto his desk. One was a magnetic key to Rickman Security and Investigations’ workout rooms in the building. They were just a bulletproof door away from a fitness club that shared some of the facilities, though from what Rickman had said, some of his staff didn’t consider the arrangement very secure. Didn’t bother Zach. He also had a recommendation for a masseur who worked in the club next door.
The other white card had a dark blue drawing of two men in suits and flat hats fighting with canes and read, Bartitsu for You.
“Bartitsu?” Zach asked.
“Cane fighting.” Rickman’s mouth twitched. “I hear the studio caters to the steampunk crowd.”
“Steampunk,” Zach said flatly.
“Not much steampunk in Montana, huh? Some in Boulder.”
Zach grunted. “Some of everything in Boulder.”
“And our local Denver science fiction readers and writers community has a thriving steampunk group.”
“Right.”
Rickman laughed. “Hey, if Robert Downey Jr. playing Sherlock Holmes can do it, you can.”
“The original private investigator.” Zach tightened his grip on his cane.
“That’s so.”
“Any of your ex-military guys do this?” Zach flipped the card in his fingers. Just showed the name of the studio, phone, and an address in southwest Denver.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Now Rickman sighed. “Get on with your life as it is now, Zach.”
Zach turned and left.
He didn’t go to the gym like he’d thought he would; instead he gave the number for Bartitsu for You a call and found an instructor who was willing to meet with him.
TWENTY-THREE
THE SPARRING WITH the tall skinny white guy with a mustache waxed into points and fuzzy sideburns didn’t go as well as Zach would have liked. He couldn’t take the man down and that was solely because the dude was awesome with a damn cane. At least he didn’t go down himself and was sweating less in his shirt sleeves—ungartered—than the instructor.
Pretty much a draw.
Mr. Laverstock pulled a large white handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his face. “We can work one-on-one as we have now, or I have a schedule of classes.” He walked into the open doorway on the far end of the room and returned with a sheet of paper. Zach glanced at it and noticed it was the same as the one posted on the bulletin board. The class coming up in a half hour was called “Victorian Vixens.”
“Our rate sheet is on the back.” Laverstock looked Zach down and up. “You’re good. Even good with that cane when you don’t know much of what you’re doing. Get some sturdier orthopedic shoes and braces for your left foot and ankle. These are the best folks.” He handed the sheet to Zach along with a card. Then he patted his face again with the handkerchief. “Get a brace so you can move your foot better and get more aerobic exercise.”
“Thanks for the time.” Zach bit off the words.
“Welcome.” Laverstock scooped up a water bottle from the floor and arced a stream of it into his mouth.
Zach left the building that looked like a failed restaurant, a small standalone place in the lot of a big mall.
A woman wearing a long skirt, a fitted jacket, and a huge hat got out of a sports car. He stared. She raised her brows and winked at him, giving him the once-over and a flirtatious smile.
“I’m early,” she said, twirling her cane.
“I’m late,” he responded.
She pouted, noted his cane and how he leaned on it, which had his mouth flattening, then walked past him, her skirt swishing. All right, he turned and looked.
And she twitched her ass at him.
He could only think of how Clare might look in the getup. Woman must have had one of those . . . bustles? . . . on. Now that he thought of it, Clare’s ass looked good under a sundress, would look good augmented with that bustle thing, and, most especially, would be a fine sight bare.
Just that morning Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee had commented on how he walked carefully, no doubt from “hammering the bad guys.” Rickman had told him to get on with his life. The card Laverstock had pressed on Zach was in his jacket pocket; the woman—one from the Victorian Vixens class?—had coolly noted his cane and that he had to use it.
From the minute they’d met, Clare had treated him as if he . . . as if he didn’t have a cane . . . like she’d have treated him if they’d met before he’d made the stupid mistake that had gotten him crippled.
Last night he’d told her of the painful loss of his brother and gotten understanding, tenderness, sweet sympathy.
A bird called. Zach tensed, slid his gaze around. A woodpecker, not a crow.
So far he hadn’t seen any crows today, and no unfulfilled rhymes dangled. Not that he was thinking about that.
No, he was thinking about Clare. She had her problems, her vulnerabilities, too. He could easily call up her white and frantic face, her dull and blind-looking eyes, when they’d been in LoDo less than twenty-four hours ago.
Another vehicle, a minivan, drew up, and a lady in a white blouse and long skirt got out, pulling a cane she didn’t need to walk with from behind her seat. One of those standard wooden deals with a curved top, instead of his straight-handled cane. She smiled at him and hurried into the dojo—not a dojo, a studio.
Greetings and laughter came from the building behind him. Get a brace, Laverstock had said.
Clare Cermak had braced Zach last night, was bracing for his spirits. He’d go see her. She’d do him fine.
• • •
Clare had worked on the kitchen, emptying drawers, pretty much just moving into boxes the plastic containers in which she kept everything. The remembrance of the lonely melancholy of the Native American pulled at her, along with Enzo’s big dog eyes and huge expectations. So she nerved herself and returned to the ghost.
His passing took a very short time and was unnerving. He’d spoken oddly in her head with more images than language; she’d had to assure him that no one of his tribe remained for him to protect, that his horse was gone, too. Then he’d walked down the rise, sending a cold wind her way, and vanished.
Enzo had congratulated her, but with less enthusiasm than when she’d helped the little girl. By the time Clare got home, she’d recovered her warmth and eyed her house. Even with all the fans and cross-ventilation she could manage, it would remain hot. Not conducive to research.
Now that she knew she was home for the rest of the day, she changed into an old and shapeless faded blue cotton sundress—the coolest thing she had in her closet. She opened the place up and continued with the kitchen; most of that would have to move with her. Naturally her new kitchen was a gourmet one with about three times the amount of cabinet space Clare had here. Her low-cost dishes would fit in one of them. Though she’d been bequeathed one of Great-Aunt Sandra’s sets, that fine china wasn’t for every day. Not that she cared. Clare’s mother got a set and so did Clare’s sister-in-law.
The kitchen was done quickly. Clare left out only those dishes she might need over the next couple of nights—a single setting.
A couple of hours of work and Clare was wringing wet. Enzo kept her amused with comments, still strictly in his doggie state, running back and forth and through the box fans she’d set in the back and front doors. Apparently dodging the blades was great fun. The thought made Clare’s head hurt.
She had canceled her appointments with Dr. Barclay. Unfortunately, he kept Saturday hours and his receptionist had put on the man himself, who expressed extreme concern, but Clare had been so relieved she’d acted like her pre-curse-gift self and had laughed, saying she’d come to terms with herself. On impulse, she’d offered to take him out for lunch. To her surprise, he’d accepted, and for the next day. They made a date downtown at one of the fancier restaurants. She could afford it now, and the meal might be less than he charged for a session, and worth it to get rid of him. Could she ever forget the misery she’d felt in his office enough to enjoy the attractive man’s company?
No.
And with all his smoothly groomed, expensive looks, Barclay wasn’t nearly as sexy as Zach Slade. The doctor’s whole person didn’t affect her as much as one intense look from Zach. How great that Zach believed in her . . . or was willing, at least, to listen. Just thinking of him made her hotter than ever.
She moved on to her next task, discarding the shelf paper and cleaning the cupboards, and forgot about Barclay.
Soon she’d have to take a break and a shower. She glanced at the desk holding her powerful laptop and a stack of books. The genealogy program whispered to her; so much more fun than packing and cleaning. Ignoring it, she grabbed a portable music player, set the playlist for rock, and stuck in the earbuds, determined to finish the living room. Already she had a stack of stuff that wouldn’t be moving with her lined up against the far wall. The television monitor was only three years old, so she’d take it.
Zach’s here! Enzo zoomed from the backyard through the kitchen, probably through the fan in the front door and Zach, too.
“Clare!”
The second time a man had shouted at her that day, though with all the fans and her earbuds in, she didn’t blame him. She hurried to the living room and saw him on the other side of the screen door, staring down at Enzo, who hopped around and rubbed against him.
She’d gotten the idea that he could hear the dog, even without being in contact with her. But then Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog. He was also some sort of spirit that Clare didn’t think too hard about. Especially when a handsome and sexy guy scowled at her under shaggy hair. She pulled out her earbuds and plucked her music player from her dress pocket, setting it on the coffee table. Then she moved the box fan from the door and turned it off, and unlocked the screen door.
“Clare,” he said.
“Yes?” She backed up as he came in, darkly intense.
Two good paces in and he yanked her to him.
Wow, he was a solid wall of muscle and his strong arm went behind her back.
“Clare.” His other hand went to her chin and she let him tip it back for a kiss.
His eyes held stormy secrets.
She rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves of his fine white linen dress shirt. He’d left whatever jacket he might have been wearing in his car. “Zach.”
His mouth came down on hers and pressed once, his tongue probing along her lips for her to open to him.
She did. And closed her eyes, willowed against him—such a solid man. Tasted him as he rubbed his tongue against hers. Felt the tightening of her nipples in desire, and more, she felt his erection, as solid as the man. She’d been sweating while working, and now she dampened, all over and under and in between with the flush of arousal. She ached for him, for intimacy, for completion.
For release.
He’d been sweating, too, doing more than working inside and walking around outside. That should have turned her off. It didn’t. His smell went straight through her and had her sex clenching with need.
Yes, he smelled right.
She pulled away, still leaning against him. “Zach. I’m all sweaty. I mean, I’ve been packing.”
His gaze swept the room: the organized empty boxes against the wall, the half-filled ones just beyond the kitchen threshold. The arm around her back fell and his fingers touched her bare leg below the hem of her short dress, feathered along her skin. He grinned. “Nice.” Leaning close again, he dipped his head near her shoulder, kissed her neck up to her ear with a touch of tongue, tasting her.
When he raised his head his cheeks had flushed, giving him a ruddier look, accenting that hint of Native American blood. Oh, yes, sexy!
He smoldered. She’d never had a look like that aimed at her. Her knees weakened; her whole body loosened. “You taste like woman. You smell like Clare.”
She had to inhale deeply just to have enough control to take a tiny step away from him, blushing herself. His hand curved around her cheek, thumb caressing her. “Peachy, the pink under your golden skin.” He bent and kissed her quickly. “Redder, fuller lips, just for me.”
He shifted; his arm came around her again and he lifted her from her feet, took the couple of steps to the couch, and sank down with her, her on bottom, him on top. Though he’d done all the work, her heart thundered at being in a sexual position.
“Clare.” He swept kisses along her neck and her mind began buzzing, doing a slow swoop of rationality sinking and rising in a sea of red desire.
Pushing the straps of her dress down and the bodice to her midriff, he flicked the front clasp of her bra open.
His hands on her bare breasts felt wonderful, so fabulous that she moved under him, aligning her body so she could rub against him in just the right spot, just the right way. Was that whimpering and panting hers? Oh . . . yes!
She slid her hands inside his pants. Smooth linen shirt under her palms, heavier trousers against the backs of her hands, then cotton boxers . . . male skin, lightly haired along his thighs, smoother on his butt . . . she began to slide her hands toward his front when he groaned, stopped her, rolled them over on the couch with her on top.
Good, she could breathe. She found the clasp of his waistband. His shaft was so hard and strong and long and thick and she needed that in her now.
“Wait. Wait.” His fingers stopped hers.
“What?”
“Rubber.”
Her mind went blank, then, “Oh. Protection.”
He cracked a laugh. “In my wallet, bought them last night.”
She bent down and kissed his mouth, swiping her tongue along his lips. When he opened his mouth she rubbed her tongue against his as she rubbed her lower body against his and stopped only when her mind was sinking into the world of blazing lust. She dug the word she’d wanted to say from her brain. “Optimist.”
Another laugh. He lifted his head for a very brief kiss. “After last night, I knew we’d wind up in bed together. Realist.”
“Bed? This is the couch.”
“Great couch, you’re gonna take it with you, aren’t you?”
