Guarding Suzannah

by Norah Wilson

  ~*~

  Seven hours later, Suzannah woke to the certain knowledge that she was alone in her bed.

  She certainly hadn’t been alone three hours earlier. She smiled at the memory.

  John had fed her as promised, then left her in peace to work on the DeBoeuf files while he watched the Yankees and the Rays. As she worked, she caught the occasional muttering from the TV room, often about the dubious collective IQ of the umpiring crew. She’d worked until the idea of peeling his clothes off and making love to him on the couch in the flickering light cast by the television totally destroyed her concentration. It had taken another few minutes to work up her courage to actually do it.

  When she entered the room, something exciting was obviously happening on screen, because he barely looked up. She rounded up Bandy and secured him in the kitchen, giving him a new rawhide strip to keep him preoccupied. Heart pounding at her own audacity, she’d run upstairs to fetch a condom from his supply in the spare bedroom. Then she went back to the living room. He did tear his eyes from the action this time, specifically when she knelt in front of him, slid her hands under his t-shirt and instructed him to lift his arms so she could haul it off.

  He complied enthusiastically, then tried to reciprocate by removing her silk knit tank top, but she forestalled him, making it clear that it was her turn this time. He’d leaned back into the cushions readily enough, smiling in a wicked, sexy way that threatened to steal what remained of her breath.

  In the flickering bluish light, she knelt between his knees and explored his chest, his arms, his shoulders, the vee of fine hair arrowing down his abdomen to the waistband of his jeans. He protested not at all when she undid his belt and slowly, carefully, drew down his zipper. And when it came to getting the worn Levis off, he was downright helpful. When she ran her nails up and down his hair-roughened thighs, she had the satisfaction of seeing his erection leap. And when at last she laid hands on that supremely male part of his anatomy, he almost came out of his skin. But that reaction was nothing compared to the sounds he made when she replaced the caress of her hands with her mouth.

  Incredible. Never had she felt such feminine power, or such a deep arousal. Gasps of pleasure, broken words of praise, hoarse entreaties. When he warned he could stand no more, she handed him the condom. As he sheathed himself, she shed her own clothing and climbed onto his lap. He tried to stall her, insisting she needed attention to make her as ready as he was, but she wouldn’t be slowed. Gripping him between her thighs, she sank down on his thrusting hardness, impaling herself, dragging a sigh of delight from both of them. Pushing him back into the cushions, she rode him, lifting, sinking, gyrating, as he filled his hands with her breasts. Within minutes, she felt his climax coming in the harshness of his breathing and the tremor of tension rippling through him. Incredibly, it was enough to trigger her own orgasm. As her flesh contracted around his, he gripped her hips and surged into her to find his own release.

  Afterward, when their heartbeats had returned to normal, he’d killed the TV with the remote. He scooped her up, carried her to the kitchen long enough to liberate Bandy, then on up to her bedroom. With infinite gentleness, he laid her on the cool sheets and climbed into bed beside her. Blissfully exhausted, she’d fallen asleep cradled against his solid heat.

  Now, with her digital clock reading almost 1:00 a.m., his side of the bed had grown cold. Had he gone back to his room? Lots of people—including herself, normally—couldn’t stand to share a bed for actual sleeping. Curiosity getting the best of her, she threw the covers off and pulled on a silk wrap. Beside the bed Bandy raised his head briefly, sighed loudly, then went back to sleep. Suzannah stole down the hall to the spare bedroom. In the moonlight, she saw that his bed was empty, though he’d obviously remade it at some point. Unease prickled along her nape.

  Moving into the room, she checked the bathroom, which was also unoccupied. Had he gone downstairs in search of food? Probably. They’d eaten fairly lightly, especially considering their exertions.

  She made her way downstairs. At the first landing, she could see a faint glow of light, but it came from the direction of her study, not the kitchen. Frowning, she descended the rest of the steps and glided to the open doorway of her study. There he was, reclined in her chair, bare feet on her desk, reading.

  “Hey,” she called, her voice husky from sleep. “What are you doing up?”

  He started. “Whoa!” He swung his feet and stood. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “I missed you.” She moved into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading. Police stuff.” He dropped the material on the desk, almost furtively it seemed, then skirting the furniture to intercept her. “Best cure in the world for insomnia.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” He’d come so close she had to tip her head back to look at him. Even in the dim light cast by the banker’s lamp, she saw his eyes darken.

  “I won’t sleep easy until this bastard’s in a cage.”

  Her heart twisted in her chest. She’d been sleeping like a baby and he’d been down here worrying. About her. And once again, she’d slept like a baby because he was here, worrying about her.

  “He’ll screw up soon.” She slid her arms around him. “I can feel it.”

  He closed his arms around her, tucked her head under his chin. “You’re right. And the boys will be right there to pop him when he does.”

  She pulled back a few inches. “Think you can sleep now?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded surprised. “Yeah, I think I could.”