”Indirectly,” John said. “She fell off the building. He killed her indirectly,” like the way you’re killing me. “Kim was the dishonest one. She was the one who pretended to be someone she wasn’t.”
Irony had really sharp teeth. “Oh, yes, I’m the great pretender,” Willa muttered. The one honest thing here was that she wanted him. There was no deception in that. She wanted John’s mouth and hands all over her, his fingers and tongue and hard length of him inside her. Once, this once, would be all right. Wouldn’t it? Once wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?
Uh-huh. That was like saying eating one potato chip was enough.
In love. She was in love after four—or was it five—days, with a man she barely knew. This wasn’t how love happened. Love grew from something solid, like friendship, and they weren’t even really friends. Love wasn’t supposed to happen at all, but love, that’s how this felt. This was love, ill-timed-stupid-you-are-so-screwed-now love, and Willa had no choice in how she felt about the matter. Feeling had returned, emotion had returned, she was suffused with feelings and emotions, and love. Maybe at this stage of life, experience, age, and—ha ha—wisdom meant one could cast aside certain things. At this point in the game of life, there was another sort of biological clock, one that had nothing to do with fertility and everything to do with the imperative of belonging, of finding happiness.
Happiness?
Feelings or not, this couldn’t be about her happiness. In order to save Dominic, she’d have to sacrifice happiness and her heart, the one that had only recently grown back. In order to save Dominic, she’d have to use John, and better John’s heart than Dominic’s life, right?
Right?
Not that any of her inner turmoil mattered. The room had gone quiet. John’s breathing was soft, even, and he was so very still. Plainly, he was one of those people who dropped off to sleep seconds after he lay down.
Was he possibly the kind of man who’d love to open his eyes to a woman straddling his hips? It was a blatant ‘do me’ move, but Miles had loved joining a show already in progress. On their honeymoon, he’d told her men lived for that sort of morning glory sex.
But John wasn’t Miles, stereotypes weren’t accurate, and it was hours ‘til sunrise.
Being awakened with a soft kiss would be less startling, and she’d be less likely to wind up on the floor on her ass on account of some kind of reflexive protection of testicles. A kiss wouldn’t be a threat to John’s manhood. She could tickle her mouth across his while her fingers tickled over a penis that would harden and…
No. No. No. No!
This was ill-timed and unprofessional. Falling in love with a man she’d known for a handful of days was nonsense. Having instant sex was nonsense. Later, when this investigation was over, she could entertain thoughts of sex and something more, but for right now, she and John had to stay friends. Chums. Buddies. Job first, fun later. Dominic’s safety had to come before she did.
Ha-ha-ha. Very funny.
While Willa argued with herself, thinking she’d set a blueprint for friendship into place, she rolled onto her back, which put her closer to her snoozing buddy.
John opened his eyes the moment her forehead bumped against his shoulder and the desire he’d carefully wound up unspooled in his belly. He turned his head to look at her. “Do you need a post-traumatic hair disaster cuddle, Queenie?”
”Do I need a cuddle?”
“It’s okay if you do, because if you need a cuddle, baby, I’m your man. I’m an excellent cuddler.”
“Did you just quote Wham at me?”
“No.”
“You did. You just quoted Wham.”
“Well, if you’re gonna do it right, do it with me.”
“Wham? Really?”
“So, are you telling me you don’t want a cuddle?”
She sat up. “I need to go home and go to bed.”
“Okay,” he said, but she made no move to get to her feet.
The reading lamp burning beside the bed made a very dim twenty-watt glow, like candlelight, and it cast their shadows onto the wall near the door. The silhouette of their bodies was seven feet tall. It wasn’t a far leap to imagine the sorts of shadow puppet shapes they could make together—like a beast with two backs or the four-armed Hindu God Shiva practicing Kama Sutra positions. John lay as still as he could.
Boy Scout. He always had to play the freakin’ boy scout, champion, white knight. Who the hell was going to rescue him?
He glanced at the red face of the digital clock beside the bed. It was twelve thirty-six.
Ishimaru, think about Ishimaru and the John Doe. The John Doe. It was a spur of the moment crime, not an accident. The rocks, the cliff—shoving him over the edge was the simplest thing to do. Barrancas Canyon fits in with opportunity, but where’s the motive? Where’s the why? What’s my motive here? I’m missing something. It’s got to be right in front of me.
No, man, motive is right beside you and Jesus, she smells good.
John looked at the clock again. It was twelve thirty-eight.
“John?”
“Yeah?” He tried to make himself sound half-asleep, tried to pretend he wasn’t a hard-on lying in wait.
“I thought you might have been sleeping.”
“Nope. I was just waiting for the slumber party conversation to begin. You know, when we talk about boys we like.” Somehow, all by itself, his hand had stolen down to the top of her head and his fingers had woven into cool, slightly damp hair.
“Great. You go first.”
“I know this guy,” he said. “He’s what you call regular—and I don’t mean he gets enough fiber in his diet. He’s not rich and isn’t interested in fancy things, one look at his car will tell you that, but he’s down-to-earth, homespun. I’d say he has a great sense of humor, and loves gardening, New Mexican food, and his mother. In terms of looks, well, to be honest, he’s certainly no Clive Owen or Daniel Craig. He could probably use a shave and a wardrobe update, but I like him. He’s a great guy.”
“How long have you had crush on Lab’s interim Director Donald Farley?”
The bed shook with a sniff-sniff-sniff. “That guy has quite the thing for you.”
Queenie groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“He has one hell of a goatee. Very Mephistopheles.”
“You’re a guy, right?”
“Last time I looked.”
A laugh vibrated though her body and his. Sparks shot up his chest. She was killing him with a low electric current. And it felt wonderful.
She said, “What’s the best way to say, very clearly, yet kindly, ‘back off’?”
He kept on playing with her hair, knowing he was about to hate himself. “Be blunt. Come right out and tell him you’re not interested.” Did his voice just crack?
“I did that. I told him I wasn’t interested.”
John sighed. “Then be honest again. Restate your total lack of interest and tell him you don’t have time for a boyfriend.”
She turned on her side, rose up on one elbow and her breath tickled his face as she exhaled, “Be honest? Okay. I’ll be honest. I lied. I lied to you.”
His fingers moved from her hair to her cheek. “No big deal. I’m still open to cuddling.”
“No. No. I can’t do this.”
Sniff-sniff-sniff. “I’ve got news for you. You’re already doing it, and it’s slumber party cuddle madness.”
Queenie pulled away and sat up, unable to meet his eyes. “You had it right. I’m Kim Novak in Vertigo, trying to be someone I’m not. I don’t know what I’m doing.” She stood. “I don’t know what I’m doing here with you. It’s wrong. God help me, it’s wrong.”
John hopped off the bed and switched on the big lamp. Well, there it was. Queenie was freaking out. She was scared as hell. He’d had a taste of her fear earlier tonight. He’d figured on the ‘widow’s blues’ cropping up again sometime, just not at this particular moment.
In a way it was good to g
et it out in the open now, to deal with it and find out how far down it stretched into her soul.
“Is it really wrong?” he asked calmly. He’d help her see logic, help her realize she could move on, and he’d help her understand he wanted to be the one she moved on with. “There’s no reason for you to be afraid. There’s no one to hurt. There’s no betrayal. You’re merely m—”
“No betrayal? Oh, God.” Willa raked her hair into two pigtails behind her ears and held them there. “What right do I have? I have no right. No right to ask you to make me feel better. Where do I get the gall? How can I ask you? It’s selfish. It’s manipulative. I can’t ask you…”
“Hey, now…” This was like talking down a suicidal jumper, and John was not going to let Queenie swan dive. He would not let her leave overwrought, confused, and blithering a blue streak. They could talk it through; he could explain that he’d take it slow, as slow as she wanted. “You didn’t ask, I offered. I invited…”
“…to make me forget.” She backed away from the bed, away from him, babbling. “I can’t ask you…”
He moved towards her as she headed for the doorway, “…and I’m here….”
“…to blot it all out for a little while…” she continued her rearward escape into the hallway and crept past the hot pink armchair and bookcase in the corner, “I can’t ask you…
He followed her to the top of the stairs, “…by my own free will…”
“…to make me come.”
“…because I want to be and— What?” John froze, mid-stride. He cocked his head. “What did you say?”
Willa ran her tongue over her bottom lip and let go of her hair. The too-long sleeves of the rugby jersey slipped down to cover her hands. “Nothing. Not a thing,” she whispered and took a step backwards.
Into a yawning void.
The last time John had moved so fast had been when Ruby Vigil tried to grill her daughter’s face over white-hot charcoal. He barely caught the knit cuff of the rugby jersey. The fabric stretched as Queenie’s arm disappeared inside the suddenly elongated sleeve. Momentum would have taken them both down the stairs if he hadn’t twisted and taken their combined weight sideways.
Together, they fell against the top end of the left handrail—or, rather, he hit it hard and scraped from his elbow all the way along the sensitive gash that ran to his shoulder. His hands tangled in her sleeve, her hair in his mouth, they slid down the wall beside the staircase and he bellowed in pain when they met the floor. For a moment, his four-letter expletive harmonized with her four-word oath.
John sucked air between his teeth. His left arm pulsated in time with his heartbeat, but the pain was trivial when he took into account what she had asked. “I can do that for you, Queenie. I can do that,” he breathed beside her ear.
She was sandwiched between his body and the wall, her mouth smushed up against the flat surface, but what she said was clear: “Then make me.”
A man ten years younger would have had her naked in a couple of seconds and taken her on the floor of the hallway. It would be a cavalcade of rug burn, groping, and entwined limbs, a pageant of teeth and tongues and lips, a festival of Fourth of July orgasmic firecrackers.
As easy as it was, as hard and ready as he was, John had more finesse than that. Her Majesty wanted to come, and he’d be damned sure she did. He’d lavish her with erotic, sensual gifts. He’d be an explorer like Magellan and Sir Walter Raleigh rolled into one. He’d discover new territory, chart out each little erogenous region, give her riches and treasure that would leave her gasping and quivering and fervent for more.
He shifted and drew her away from the ecru-painted wall, rolling her onto her back, and gazed down at her. Moonlight and the orange glow of a streetlamp streamed through the window on the landing and illuminated the hallway in a sepia radiance. She was beautiful. The fine and not so fine lines on her face told of her life and made her even lovelier. John’s insides did a funny little hop for a moment, and his penis did too, right against her hip.
Searching for an X to mark the spot where he’d begin, he took in the faint, purplish-gray hair stuck to her cheek, the red welt that glowed on her forehead, the way his oversized jersey had bunched up under her breasts and halfway down her shoulder. He saw skin, lots of it, and girly little pink bikini panties. Those panties, and what was hidden beneath, had to wait.
The treasure map was clear and the route he’d take was simple. His thumb traced the plumpness of her bottom lip and when he leaned on an elbow his head dipped, he brushed his mouth, feather soft, over the small bump that rose above her right eyebrow. She made a breathy noise when his chin rasped along her cheek, and his tongue darted out to lick the curve of her ear.
The soft, perfumed flesh threatened to turn him vampiric. His mouth sank into the sensitive curve of her neck and when he bit down gently, Queenie jerked, her fingers dug into his arm. It made his shoulder throb, but that was inconsequential. Her toes knocked into his shins, but that too, was inconsequential. Goosebumps rose beneath his lips as he nipped a path back to her earlobe and drew it, emerald stud and all, into his mouth.
“Jehoshaphat,” she murmured.
His chuckled into her ear, sniff-sniff-sniff, and she made a sound that turned up the flame beneath him. Desire had been steadily simmering in his blood, but now it began to boil, his erection went from warm and rousingly stiff to blazing and brutally hard. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself and lose it with messy, teenage inelegance.
“Sit up,” he whispered. When she did, he lifted her off the floor. His front to her back, arm around her bared waist, the jersey still twisted and bunched up, he walked backwards, blindly heading in the direction of the armchair, the one he’d moved out of the guest room because it was hideous and needed to be reupholstered. When the ragged edge of the chair’s hot pink dust ruffle tickled his calf, he took a seat and planted Queenie’s bottom in his lap.
“The window,” she breathed, “what about the window on the landing?”
“We can see out, but no one can see us inside unless the lights are on.” John shifted his legs and she sank in between his thighs. The small of her back grazed over his wildly aroused pajama-covered penis. “Hoo boy,” he muttered.
Willa tried to turn around so she could kiss him, but his quick hands held her still. His mouth left her skin for a moment when he lifted her arms. Heavy jersey material blinded her as it was tugged over her head. Then fingertips swept up over her ribs, tickling, circling around her breasts until the pads of his thumbs skated over nipples that had peaked into little crowns. The breath rushed from her lungs.
His lips, warm and soft, began to make a moist little trail of kisses along her spine. When he reached her hairline, he shifted his chin into the crook of her neck and leaned back in the chair, taking her along. This time when she turned her head, he kissed her. His tongue traced over her mouth and flicked inside.
Queenie smelled of honeysuckle and tasted of peaches, sunshine, and thunderstorms, everything that reminded John of summer. He was a huge fan of summer and was an even bigger fan of the woman in his arms. The air around them crackled with energy that was about to expand; he felt it sizzle and leap from his fingertips. His sparking left hand caressed over her breast, his right skated down over her cool waist and lower. He skimmed across her soft belly and curve of her hip, and lower still to travel along her thigh. His short nails slid upwards. The flesh beneath his touch jumped, and when his palm reached a sloping mound of thin, damp cotton that hid all the treasures of her world, she jumped. His fingers dipped beneath her panties and slid through the dark blonde hair he’d seen once before. She was slick and wet and flowing over his hand as he teased but didn’t touch.
Willa reached back for him, touched his stomach, his arms. He was hot and hard and all male, pressing into her back. She rocked against him, but she couldn’t turn all the way around or find a way to fill her fingers with him. He blocked her advances and went on kissing her while his hands roam
ed free. A tug to one side and then the other and her panties were pulled lower. He brushed across the inside of her thigh lightly and skimmed the heel of his hand over the center of her. Her breath quickened and then broke apart into soft moans.
He barely touched her. “Please,” she mumbled, “not this way.” Willa swallowed and shivered and tried to find him, to wedge a hand between their bodies and free him and touch him too. “Not alone. Not this way.”
”Yes. Just this way.” John pressed himself into her. “Exactly this way.” He ground against her as a thumbnail delicately scored over her nipple. Then he slid one long finger into wet heat and grazed over the jewel half-hidden by slick, satin flesh, over and over.
Her head fell back and rolled onto his shoulder. With a series of little whimpers on her lips, her bottom rocked in his lap.
John knew he was about to fry in this electric chair shortly after she did. Her rump dragged his pajamas down his hips and back up again, the knot he’d tied so tightly no match for her movements. Smooth skin and soft fabric stroked over his sweetly painful erection. Heat coursed through him, and the idea of sliding upwards into her tempted his thin control. “You alone,” he said on a ragged breath. “Only you. Just. Like. This.”
Queenie was about to trip a fuse. He could feel it. She was about to shimmer and fizz and scatter out into a billion tiny particles that floated on air. Lifting her head, her hips rose from his lap, her eyes widened and her body tensed as she drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, no! No, no! Don’t!” she said, shuddering differently than he’d expected, pushing his touch away. “Don’t do that! Don’t do that!”
Startled, concerned, John snatched back his hands. Before he could ask, or soothe, or say anything at all, Queenie tore from his lap. She yanked up her panties and grabbed the discarded rugby jersey. She pulled it on as she shot down the stairs, threw open his front door, and ran outside, barefoot.
He was suddenly alone, aroused, confused, and guilty about rushing things with a widow and the kind of guilt he imagined she felt when it came to sex with another man. What a fool he’d been.
For Your Eyes Only Page 27