by Gayle Wilson
Pleasure ran outward, like ripples across a pond, spreading from the epicenter of those sensations. Then gradually, so gradually that for a few heartbeats she wasn't sure what was happening, the feeling induced by his teeth and the pressure of his mouth changed, edging toward that fine line between enjoyment and pain.
Perhaps she made some sound. A gasp or a whimper. Maybe he simply sensed her tension. Or perhaps, and she was willing to concede the point, he was a master of the delicate cat-and-mouse game he was playing.
For whatever reason, he immediately deserted the small peak he'd aroused, turning his attention to the other breast. There he began the process all over again, as painstakingly as before.
His tongue circled the areola, causing the skin of her nipple to lift, seeking the caress of his lips. This time, when that was accompanied by the light pressure of his teeth, desire began to run molten through her veins, seeming to seep, like liquid fire, into every cell of her body.
Once more, just when she feared the sensation had grown too demanding, he moved again, his tongue drawing an arrow of wet heat between her breasts and then lower. He stopped briefly to explore her navel, delving inside its small concavity before circling the rim with an exquisite slowness.
Then his mouth, still trailing fire, trailed lower still.
His tongue grazed her belly, moving inexorably toward that secret, most intimate part of her anatomy.
She resisted an almost physiological urge to deny him. After all, he was a stranger, and it had been so long...
Then his body moved over hers, putting an end to any thought of protest. Hands on her ankles, he forced her knees up and apart, increasing her vulnerability.
And she, who had lost—or so she thought—all ability to trust, no longer considered refusal. Her hips arched upward with the first stroke of his tongue.
Her eyes opened to the ceiling of the darkened bedroom above them. Her lips parted, as one sighing breath escaped, followed quickly by another. The pressure inside her body now was vastly different from that which had gone before.
This was relentless. Undeniable. A force of nature, like a storm or a flood. Or a wildfire, out of control and threatening to burn everything in its path.
His mouth shifted, following the pattern of pleasure followed by demand that he had employed before. Despite her familiarity now with the concept, she was again unprepared for the consequences.
Like summer lightning, flickers sparked by the caress of his lips and tongue set fire to the rest of her body and then finally to her brain. Pleasure became a living entity, controlling and dominating.
This was what she had sought. This mindless fullness. Loss of control. The spiraling blackness, stealing from her the ability to think. To plan. To know.
The conflagration had begun, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Even if she had wanted to.
On some level she was aware when he shifted positions again, looming above her for a few seconds before he drove into the heart of the maelstrom he'd created. Becoming one with it, one with her.
Together they labored, unaware of the effort. Aware only of the fulfillment that lay just beyond their reach.
Then, suddenly, she was there. Her breathing was suspended as wave after wave of heat shimmered through her body.
Awareness of time and place disappeared. She welcomed its loss as he continued to move above her in the darkness.
After an eternity, she became aware again of his weight. Of the feel of his body, sweat-slick and heated above hers.
She waited until his breathing eased, and the hammering rhythm of his heart had slowed to something approaching normal. He shifted, easing the pressure against her breasts as he rolled to one side to prop above her.
He bent to touch her forehead with his lips before he straightened again. "Okay?"
She smiled to hear the concern in his voice. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"That was..." He hesitated and then shook his head.
She agreed that all the normal descriptions seemed trite. Overused. Silly.
"Good," she suggested.
His answering laughter was only a breath. Had he laughed because he had been as surprised by this as she had been?
"I expected good. What I didn't expect—"
"I know," she said quickly.
She didn't want to talk about what had just happened. She didn't want him to talk about it either.
All she had wanted was the physical release usually afforded by sex, whether it was great, good, or indifferent. But there was no denying this had been the first.
"Are you sure—"
"Shut up, Mac. Just shut the hell up and go to sleep."
"I thought you were supposed to get all pissed off if I did that."
"Only if I were looking for all of the things I'm not looking for."
"Care to list those?"
"Not particularly. It seems to me this could be to our mutual advantage."
"What does that mean?"
"You said it had been a long time."
"Yeah?"
"I'm just saying we've got nothing invested here. No relationship to maintain. We just happened to be occupying the same space at the same time. And apparently it has been a long time for both of us."
"Mutual advantage?"
"I'm using you, Donovan. I hated to have to spell that out, but everybody knows about cops."
He laughed again, a real one this time, the sound of it satisfying in the darkness. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this relaxed.
Because you can't remember the last time sex was this good? Or this uncomplicated? Now if she could only keep it this way....
"What does everyone know about cops?"
"You know you don't want to hear my opinion of cops. Present company excepted, of course."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
At some point he had eased his body down beside hers, no longer propped on his elbow above her. His right arm lay over her stomach, his hand wrapped around her forearm.
His thumb moved up and down against her skin, its motion hypnotic. Soothing.
So much so that she couldn't even remember the dream that had sent her into the shower enclosure. The details hadn't been all that clear, not even immediately after she'd awakened. Or maybe she had blocked those that had lingered in her consciousness. All she knew was there had been a feeling of loss. And of helplessness. And that it had involved Dwight.
Now, in the peaceful gloom of Mac Donovan's bedroom, the movement of his thumb lulling her into a sense of security, she allowed even those remnants to fade into the void that had swallowed the rest.
She turned her head, so that her cheek was against the softness of his hair. The scent of his shampoo was again in her nostrils. Familiar. Welcome. Safe.
Other thoughts drifted in and out of her consciousness as she lay beside him, sated and exhausted, from both her emotional meltdown and from their love making. None of those stayed in her head long enough to become worrisome.
After a long time, Mac's breathing settled into a rhythmic inhalation and release that represented sleep. She listened, allowing its regularity to lull her into a deeper relaxation.
There was nothing she needed to take care of tonight. Nothing to worry or wonder about.
All she needed to do was close her eyes and match her slow breaths to his. In and then out. Erase the thoughts as they occurred from the blackboard of her mind until it literally became a blank slate. And when she had...
When she had, there would be nothing there. Nothing but the forgetfulness she had sought when she'd begun this.
She had told Mac she had something to offer, but she knew that the memory she would carry in her heart from tonight was the gift he had given her. And the unexpected tenderness in which he'd wrapped it.
Sixteen
The last person Mac had wanted to see today was almost the first he saw as he helped Sarah out of the car at the Mt. Pilgrim Cemetery. He met Sonny's eyes, nodd
ing slightly to acknowledge his partner's presence.
Police presence, he amended. There was no doubt in his mind that Sonny was here because the department had wondered, just as he had. if Tate would be bold enough to show up for Dan Patterson's funeral.
"You want to sit with the family?" He bent so that the words were for Sarah's ear alone.
She glanced up at him to shake her head before she looked again toward the tent that had been set up over the newly dug grave. He took her arm, guiding her across the uneven ground to the small group of mourners gathered around it.
He recognized Louise Patterson, who was already seated in the middle of the row of folding chairs lined up under the awning. She was conferring with someone
Mac assumed to be either the funeral director or the minister. As the man finished the conversation and moved to stand at one end of the raw hole in the ground, Louise's eyes came up, spotting his and Sarah's approach. Her face changed, grief replaced by fury.
Sarah hesitated, seeming to literally shrink from that unspoken rage. Instinctively, Mac put his hand on the small of her back as a gesture of support.
He wondered if, in her dementia, Dan's mother would actually make a scene at her son's funeral. Then he wondered how he could protect the woman beside him if she did.
Something about Sarah Patterson had evoked his every protective instinct from the moment he'd noticed her on the courthouse steps. Now that their relationship had evolved into something very different from what it had been that day, those feelings had also evolved, becoming stronger. Fiercer.
"This is close enough." Sarah stopped on the edge of the small crowd, as far away from the casket and her former mother-in-law as she could manage and still hear the service.
Mac stopped, too, but his eyes continued to scan the area around the gravesite. Century-old oaks, their branches swathed with Spanish moss, dotted the churchyard. There were perhaps a hundred tombstones, some old enough that their inscriptions had virtually been obliterated by the thick growth of algae and erosion.
There was literally no place to hide here. If Tate intended to witness Dan Patterson's interment, he would have to be among those gathered at the edge of the artificial grass that surrounded the grave.
With that realization, Mac turned his attention to the crowd, his gaze moving consideringly from one to the other. Even though with some he could see only the backs of their heads, he was confident that Tate wasn't here.
He looked for Sonny again, finding him on the other end of the back row of mourners. His partner met his eyes and shrugged.
Long shot. They had both known that, but they had also understood that the possibility Tate might show up was something they couldn't afford to ignore.
Now all he had to do was listen to whatever the preacher wanted to say about Dan Patterson and then get Sarah away from there before the animosity he'd seen in Louise's eyes came roaring out.
A car door slammed out on the dirt road that skirted the cemetery, drawing his attention. Not a car, he realized. A van. A big white one with the call letters of the television station that had gotten him suspended blazoned on its side. Emerging from it were the same anchor and cameraman with whom he'd had the run-in over the tape.
Mac turned his face away from them and removed his hand from where it still rested against Sarah's back. He tried to think if there was anything he could do to prevent what he knew was about to happen.
He again caught Sonny's eye, giving a quick tilt of his head toward the road. His partner's gaze followed his direction.
Mac could tell by Sonny's face when he'd made the identification. Mac raised his brows, but his partner deliberately ignored him, looking back at the minister, who'd begun reading the 23rd Psalm.
As the words, familiar since childhood, washed over him, Mac tried to focus on the ceremony. He had known that the media would eventually make the connection between the woman who'd tried to kill Tate and Dan Patterson's murder. What he hadn't anticipated was that they'd choose what should be a private expression of grief to make that relationship public.
He glanced to his right, looking over Sarah's bowed head. Apparently she wasn't yet aware that the service was being filmed. He hoped for her sake that they could get through whatever eulogy had been prepared before she noticed the camera.
Then, as soon as all the tributes to her ex-husband had been made, he would get her out of here and past the reporters. And they'd damn well better not stick a microphone in her face.
Struggling for calm, Mac took a deep breath, once more attempting to concentrate on the scriptures rather than on the presence of the video crew.
After he had finished reading the psalm, the minister moved on to his prepared remarks. Unfortunately, he made reference to the death of Dan's son as well as to the fact that he had himself been murdered, eliciting another bout of sobbing from the front row.
Mac cut his eyes down toward Sarah, trying to gauge her reaction to that outpouring of grief. Her head was still bowed, the handkerchief she'd asked to borrow before they'd left the apartment clutched tightly in her hand.
He was aware again of how small she was. Fragile enough that it seemed a strong wind would blow her away.
And then the image of her standing on those steps, that big semiautomatic held out in both hands, was in his head. However vulnerable she looked, he needed to remember there was steel at her core.
Drawing in another breath, he released it between pursed lips in an attempt to ease his growing tension. Sarah looked up, her eyes questioning. He shook his head, the movement slight, and turned his gaze back to the preacher.
At a gesture from the minister, a young girl in a long black dress had stepped onto the carpet of artificial grass. A guitar that looked too heavy for her to hold, much less play, hung from a strap around her neck. She strummed a few chords and then, her voice clear as birdsong, she began to sing "The Old Rugged Cross." Mac hadn't heard the hymn since childhood Sundays spent in a country church, but the words were all there in his head before she sang them.
On some level he was aware that the cameraman from the television station filmed the performance. Aware also of the muffled crying of the female mourners.
The woman at his side remained stoically silent throughout it all, her head bowed until the last notes of the solo faded away into the cold afternoon air. As soon as they had, the preacher advanced toward the folding chairs, shaking hands with those seated there.
Mac put his hand under Sarah's elbow. "Let's go."
"Is it over?" she whispered back.
He nodded, urging her toward the road.
"I should say something to Louise."
Before he could stop her, she stepped forward, skirting the edge of the small crowd. Mac followed, trying to decide how to avert her arrival at her intended destination without causing a scene. Her mother-in-law was still talking to the minister, her eyes locked on his face.
"Let it go," he said, catching Sarah's elbow. "She isn't going to listen—"
She pulled her arm from his clasp, pushing her way between the casket, already in position above the grave, and the row of chairs. She moved into position at the minister's side, but Louise didn't look at her until he had gone on to speak to the next person in the row. At that point, Sarah either said something to her or her mother-in-law simply lifted her eyes, assuming she was someone else waiting to talk to her.
"Are you happy now that you finally got what you wanted?" Mrs. Patterson made no effort to lower her voice.
Since the others standing near the coffin were waiting in respectful silence until she could acknowledge their condolences, Louise's words seemed to ring out as loudly as the minister's. Her expression conveyed her disdain of her daughter-in-law in case anyone might have been in doubt of her meaning.
Sarah's reply was so soft even Mac couldn't hear it, although by now he was again reaching for her arm. Louise's was clearly intended to be heard by everyone within earshot.
"You blamed Dan for Danny'
s death, although you're the one who never had time to tend to your own son. I raised that baby because you were too busy. Then you blamed his daddy for what happened to him. Dan was finally making a new life for himself, with a woman who loved him. He was moving on, putting everything behind him, until you stirred it all up again by trying to take the law into your own hands. This is your fault, Sarah, All of it. You have no right to be here acting like you ever cared about him. No right at all."
Unable to listen to any more, Mac took Sarah's arm and physically turned her away from the tirade. He didn't look at her face, instead almost dragging her back to where he'd parked the car.
The TV crew had moved closer to the tent, perhaps in response to Mrs. Patterson's vitriol. Although they continued filming as he drew Sarah past them, Mac ignored them, his only consideration now to get her out of here. If those ghouls had nothing better to show on their broadcast tonight than the ravings of a demented old woman—
Once more Sarah pulled her elbow out of his hold. He stopped, unsure what was happening.
"Did you film that?" she demanded of the cameraman, who continued to hold the video cam on her face.
"Your mother-in-law seems to blame you for your ex-husband's murder, Mrs. Patterson. Would you care to comment about her accusations?"
"Would you like to know who I blame for my ex-husband's death?"
Sensing that she might be onto something that would make for a dramatic segment on the local news, the anchor nodded, holding the microphone out to catch every word.
"Sarah." Mac tried again to intervene, but was ignored.
"You might want to talk to the N.O.P.D. about screwing up the arrest of a serial killer. Or why don't you ask the judge who let him go on a technicality if she feels any responsibility for Dan's death? I seem to be the only person in New Orleans who's willing to say that Samuel Tate shouldn't be allowed to draw another breath—"
Mac put his arm around her body, physically forcing her to move forward and away from the camera. He was sure the crew continued to film as he took her to the car and pushed her inside.
He waited until they were back on the county two-lane before he looked over at Sarah, who was once more looking out the window on her side. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"