by Nora Roberts
He took his time, wanted time, to discover her, the angles and curves and dips, the simple clean scent of her skin, the way the muscles of her belly quivered when his lips brushed there.
Her response was just as simple, the give, the touch, the fluid rise of her legs and hips as he continued to undress her.
And then.
She erupted under him, jackknifing up, a whip of those long, firm legs, a twist of that compact body, and she was over him. Her mouth clamped down on his, ripped his dreamy languor to shreds and scorched the shreds to ashes. Her breath came on a tear as she scraped her teeth over his shoulder, slithered down, lithe and lethal as a snake, to nip at his chest while her hands tugged at his belt.
He levered up to drag her mouth back to his, to feed on the heat that radiated from her. Urgent now, urgent and hungry.
She arched back, limber as a bowstring, and pressed his face to her breast.
“I need.” He heard her moan it as she straddled him and rocked until he dug his fingers into her hips to keep from imploding. “I need.”
She was a madness of drive and movement. Caught in the storm of her, he let himself be blown, be battered, as they ravaged each other.
Too much, but not enough, she thought frantically as all those needs clawed and bit. She had to take, had to have, before this terrible pleasure broke her to pieces. His body, so strong, so tough, incited so many wants, his mouth and hands so many sensations. He could take her to that moment of relief and release.
Desperate, she grabbed the condom, ripped it open.
“Let me,” she whispered, stunned that her hands weren’t quite steady as she covered him.
She rose over him. In the soft bedroom light he could see the intensity of her eyes, the glow of her skin. Then she took him in. For one breathless moment, everything stopped. Sight, sound, movement. Those fierce eyes stayed locked on his as their bodies joined.
He thought, Eye of the storm, then she swept him away.
She rode him as if her life hung in the balance, with urgent, focused speed. He raced with her, beat for crazed beat, with his heart drumming those frenzied strokes.
When she broke on a half-sob, half-cry, those fascinating eyes closed, that dazzling body bowed, as her arms lifted to wrap around her head in a picture of utter, wanton pleasure.
Those eyes sprang open again when he yanked her down, rolled her under him. Her mouth yielded, soft and swollen when he captured it, when he swallowed her quick, surprised cry as he thrust into her.
Now he rode, driving her up again, pleasing himself ruthlessly as she quaked, as she clung. He felt the orgasm rip through her, felt her nails bite into his back. And let his own release rend him to tatters.
It took him a moment—or two—to realize he’d collapsed on her, his breath whooping out like a marathon runner’s after a dive across the finish line.
He rolled off, sprawled out on his back, hoping if he ended up having a heart attack she had it in her to do the CPR.
He managed one raw and reverent “Wow.”
Glancing over, he saw Bert had remained in his bed but stood and stared.
“I don’t know if your dog’s curious or just plain jealous, but you might want to let him know you’re okay.”
She gave Bert the command for rest. While he settled down, he kept his eyes on the bed.
“Are you okay?” Brooks asked when she said nothing more.
“Yes. It’s been several months since I had sex. I realized I rushed you.”
“From my point of view, I think we timed it just right. Jesus, you’ve got some body there, Abigail. About as perfect as they come.”
“I like yours very much. It’s very well proportioned, with excellent muscle tone.”
That just tickled the hell right out of him, so he shifted over to give her a kiss. His grin faded as he looked in those eyes. A man who’d grown up with a mother and two sisters knew when female tears were just below the surface.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The sex was excellent. Thank you.”
“Jesus Christ, Abigail.”
“I’m thirsty,” she said quickly. “Do you want some water?”
He laid a hand on her arm as she began to roll out of bed. “Abigail.”
“I need a moment, and some water.”
She walked out without putting a stitch on. That surprised him, as he’d pegged her as the shy type in that area. Then again, the woman was a puzzle through and through.
“You know the secrets,” he said to Bert. “Too bad you can’t talk.”
Though she had water stored on the second floor, she walked down to the kitchen. She did need that moment.
She understood that sex and the immediate aftermath comprised a very vulnerable time, for body and mind. She’d prided herself on being able to fully participate, and recover her control and faculties quickly. Immediately, really.
Why was she shaken and … she wasn’t entirely sure what she was experiencing. It might have been because she knew him on a more personal level than the others she’d chosen as bedmates. But all she could be certain of was the experience had been unlike anything she’d known.
Why did it make her weepy? If she’d been alone, she would have curled up in bed and cried this inexplicable feeling away.
She wasn’t being rational, or smart. The sex had been very, very good. He’d enjoyed it, too. She liked his company, and maybe that was part of the worry. But she was so damned tired of the worry.
“Just something I do,” she murmured, and got two bottles of cold water from the refrigerator.
She gnawed on it all the way back upstairs, where Brooks sat propped up in her bed, watching her.
“I don’t know how to behave.” She blurted it out—there!—and handed him a bottle of water.
“Is there some standard you’re reaching for?”
“Normal.”
“Normal.” He nodded, twisted off the cap, took a couple deep gulps. “Okay, I can help with that. Get back in bed.”
“I’d like to have sex with you again, but—”
“Do you want me to show you normal?”
“Yes.”
“Then get back in bed.”
“All right.”
She laid down beside him, tried not to stiffen when he pulled her to him. But instead of initiating sex, he tucked her in so her head rested on his shoulder and her body curled toward his.
“This is pretty normal, according to my standards. Or would be if you’d relax.”
“It’s nice.” She read books, she watched movies. She knew this sort of arrangement took place. But she’d never tried it before. Never wanted to. “It’s comfortable, and your body’s warm.”
“After the heat we generated, I don’t think I’ll cool off until I’m dead a week.”
“That’s a joke, and a compliment.” She tipped her head up to look at him, smiled. “So, ha, ha, thank you.”
“There you go, being funny again.” Taking her hand, he laid it on his heart. “And when I’m too weak to laugh. You turned me inside out, Abigail. That’s another compliment,” he added, when she didn’t respond.
“I need to think of one for you.”
“Well, if you’ve got to think about it.”
“I didn’t mean—” She looked up again, stricken, then caught that gleam in his eyes. “You were teasing me.”
“See, this is the part, on my scale of normal, where we tell each other how amazing we were. You especially tell me.”
“Because a man’s ego is often correlated with his sexual prowess.”
“That’s one way of putting it. Things like you saw God or the earth moved are clichés for a reason.”
“The earth is in constant motion, so it’s not a good compliment. A better one would be the earth stopped moving, even though that would be impossible, and a disaster if it were possible.”
“I’ll still take it as a compliment.”
His hand stroked up and down her back, the wa
y she sometimes stroked Bert. No wonder the dog loved it. Her heartbeat slowed to the rhythm, and everything inside her uncoiled.
Normal, she thought, was as lovely as she’d always imagined.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Just one thing about you. It doesn’t have to be important,” he added when she tensed. “It doesn’t have to be a secret. Just anything. It could be your favorite color.”
“I don’t have one, because there are too many. Unless you mean primary colors.”
“Okay, color’s too complicated. When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? I’ll go first. I wanted to be Wolverine.”
“You wanted to be a wolverine? That’s very strange.”
“Not a wolverine. Wolverine—X-Men.”
“Oh. I know who that is. The mutant superhero from the graphic novels and movies.”
“That’s the one.”
“But how could you be him when he already existed and his existence is fictional?”
“I was ten, Abigail.”
“Oh.”
“How about you?”
“I was supposed to be a doctor.”
“Supposed to be?” He waited a moment. “You didn’t want to be a doctor.”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t answer the question. What did you want to be?”
“I was supposed to be a doctor, and thought I’d have to be, so when I was ten, I didn’t think about being anything else. It’s not a good answer. Yours was better.”
“It’s not a competition. Anyway, you can be Storm. She’s hot.”
“Halle Berry’s character from the movies. She’s very beautiful. She controls the weather. But Wolverine doesn’t have sex with her. He has feelings for Jane, the doctor, and she in turn is torn between her feelings for Cyclops and Wolverine.”
“You know your X-Men relationship dynamics.”
“I saw the movie.”
“How many times?”
“Once, several years ago. It was interesting that Wolverine doesn’t remember his past, and his reluctant protective instincts for the girl Rogue added dimension. He’s a good character for a young boy to emulate. The writers seeded a difficult field for Rogue, as her mutation makes it impossible for her to safely touch another person, skin to skin. The scene with her boyfriend in the beginning was very sad.”
“You remember a lot of the details for seeing it once.”
“I have an eidetic memory. I sometimes read books or watch movies a second or third time, but not because I don’t remember them.”
He shifted to look down at her. “There, you told me something. So you keep everything stored up here.” He tapped her temple. “Why isn’t your head a lot bigger?”
She laughed, then stopped, uncertain. “That was a joke?”
“Yeah.” He brushed the hair away from her cheek, touched his lips there. “Have you ever made pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because you’d remember how to make them.”
“You’re hungry? You want pancakes?”
“In the morning.” He glided his hands up her body, in, grazing her nipples with his thumbs.
“You want to stay here, sleep here, tonight?”
“How else am I going to get those pancakes you’re making me?”
“I don’t sleep with people. I’ve never slept with a man overnight.”
His hands hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued their glide. “Then you don’t know if you snore.”
“I don’t snore!”
“I’ll let you know.”
There were so many reasons why she couldn’t—shouldn’t—allow it. But he was kissing her again, touching her again, stirring her again.
She’d tell him no. After.
SHE WOKE JUST BEFORE DAWN, lay very still. She could hear him breathing—slow, steady. A different, softer sound than Bert. Bert did snore. A little.
She’d fallen asleep, actually fallen to sleep, after they’d had sex a second time. She hadn’t told him to go, and she’d intended to. She hadn’t made her last check of the house and the monitors. She hadn’t put her weapon on the nightstand beside her.
She’d just gotten into that comfortable, normal position, and somehow slipped into sleep while he talked to her.
Not only rude, she decided, but frightening. How could she have let her guard down so completely with him? With anyone?
What did she do now? She had a routine, and one that didn’t include an overnight guest.
She had to let Bert out, feed him, check the monitors, her business e-mail and texts.
What did she do now?
She supposed she’d make pancakes.
When she eased out of bed, the dog’s breathing changed. She saw his eyes open in the half-light, and his tail give its customary morning thump.
She whispered the command for outside in German as she retrieved her robe and Bert stretched. Together, they padded quietly out of the room and downstairs.
When the door closed, Brooks opened his eyes, smiled. He should’ve figured her for an early riser. Himself, he wouldn’t have minded another hour, but considering the big picture, he could push himself out of bed.
And maybe he could talk her back into it once she’d let the dog out to do his morning thing. He rolled out, headed for the bathroom. On cue, the minute he emptied his bladder, he thought about coffee. Then he rubbed his tongue over his teeth.
He didn’t feel right about poking around to see if she had a spare toothbrush, but he couldn’t see the harm in digging out a squirt of toothpaste.
He opened the drawer of the little vanity, saw the neatly rolled tube of Crest, and her Sig.
Who the hell kept a semiauto in the drawer with the dental floss and toothpaste? A fully loaded one, he noted, when he checked.
She’d told him one thing the night before, he reminded himself. He’d just have to persuade her to tell him more.
He scrubbed Crest over his teeth with his finger, then went back in for his pants. When he got downstairs he smelled fresh coffee, heard the mutter of the morning news.
She stood at the counter, stirring what he hoped was pancake batter in a dark blue bowl.
“Morning.”
“Good morning. I made coffee.”
“I smelled it in my sleep. You don’t snore.”
“I told you I—” She broke off when his lips met hers.
“Just verifying,” he said, as he picked up one of the mugs she’d set out. “I borrowed a squirt of toothpaste.” He poured his coffee, and hers, watched her gaze lift to his. “Do you want to tell me why you have a Sig in your toothpaste drawer?”
“No. I have a license.”
“I know, I checked. You have several licenses. Got sugar? Oh, yeah, right here.” He dipped the spoon she’d put beside the mug in