Beyond Heaving Bosoms

by Sarah Wendell

  The sound snaps him out of the sensual haze he has fallen into. He raises his head, eyes glittering and dark.

  “Fine, kitten. You win. I’ll be there at eight. Have dinner ready for me, won’t you? I still like my steak rare and my desserts…tart.”

  He lets go of your arms, strides to the door, and opens it.

  Turn to Option 12 (below).

  Option 12

  The jerk hasn’t shown up.

  The slab of rib eye lies in a puddle of semicongealed fat. The wine hasn’t just had time to breathe, it’s had enough time to sing a Verdi opera or two. The dessert, at least, isn’t languishing. You ate both servings when it became clear that he wasn’t showing up.

  He didn’t even have the decency to call. And it’s past your bedtime.

  Just as you’re brushing your teeth, you hear somebody hammering on the front door. Spitting hastily into the sink, you run downstairs, only to find it open and Hawking standing inside.

  “I thought I locked that thing,” you say.

  He holds up a thin, flat metal bar edged by a series of irregular teeth. “Never leave home without your lock-pick kit.”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “It’s not illegal to own a lock-pick set—in this state.”

  “It is to pick a lock to gain unauthorized entrance.”

  “You were going to open the door for me anyway.”

  “Nice. How does that kind of logic hold up for sex-assault victims?”

  “Awww, did I upset you, kitten?”

  You sputter and give him a glare that should’ve singed his skin off. Instead, he ruffles your hair and goes to the table. “Excellent, you haven’t put the food away yet. I’m starving. I didn’t even have time to get a goddamn sandwich.”

  You feel angry enough to break his head, but refrain, settling for asking him in a scathing voice, “Where were you?”

  “Work,” he says around a mouthful of room-temperature steak. You wait for more, but nothing is forthcoming.

  “Couldn’t you have at least called?” you finally ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t have the time.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me more?”

  “Nope. Can’t. Boss’s orders,” he replies, sounding positively cheerful, and takes a bite of meat.

  “Fine. I’m going to bed,” you say.

  “All right. I’ll join you there once I’m done,” he says.

  “No, you’re not. If you want to sleep, you can goddamn well take the loveseat in the bedroom.”

  His dark gaze is mocking, but there’s something more. Anger? Desire? Regret? It’s impossible to say with him.

  “Go to bed,” he says, tone no longer flip. “I’ll take the loveseat.”

  You lie down on your bed and attempt to settle down. For the first time in three years, you’ll be spending the night with Hawking. Memories of what bedtime with him used to be like are flooding you and making your body jumpy, sensitive. If there were one problem the two of you never had, it was sexual chemistry.

  Part of you hopes you’re asleep when he comes in; the other part—the stupid part—hopes you’re not.

  You finally fall asleep, with no sign of Hawking in your bedroom. As you sleep, you dream. Do you:

  See Hawking in your dream? Turn to Option 13.

  See your boss in your dream? Turn to Option 14.

  Option 13

  You don’t realize the dream is a dream at first. Hawking is in it; he’s talking to your boss in your living room, an intense look on his face. You strain your ears, but you can’t make out what they’re saying.

  You try to yell a warning to Hawking, but your mouth is leaden. As you attempt to speak, your boss puts a hand on Hawking’s chest, a questioning look on his face. Hawking takes his hand, and the two of them hug.

  Something is horribly wrong. You know somebody is going to die tonight, and it’s not going to be a child.

  When they finally pull back, the expression on Hawking’s face is familiar. It’s the look you’ve seen on his face in the past, when he was still in love with you. He leans down and kisses your boss, their hands grappling each other with hungry desperation, and you notice that Hawk’s sleeves are stained maroon.

  The dream shifts, and you see a dark figure entering your room. Hawking approaches your sleeping body, carrying your chef’s knife, the one you keep immaculately sharpened. He reaches your bed and caresses your face; you nuzzle his hand in your sleep, completely unsuspecting.

  You scream at yourself to wake up, to do something. He gently smoothes the hair back from your forehead, and you arch your neck in response. You curse yourself for a fool; you weep and shout, but still you sleep.

  He places the blade right against your carotid artery.

  The force of your snapping awake actually presses the knife deeper into your neck. Oddly enough, it doesn’t hurt.

  You attempt to gasp something to Hawking, but your lips are numb and you feel tired. You try again. There’s something he needs to know. Danger. There’s danger everywhere. You still love him, and there’s danger everywhere. But he’s here now. Maybe it doesn’t matter, after all. Maybe you can go back to sleep. You close your eyes.

  The last thing you feel is Hawking kissing you on the lips. He whispers something. It might have been “I’m sorry.”

  Option 14

  In your dream, your boss isn’t torturing a small child, like he has in all your previous dreams. Instead, he’s standing still, wreathed in darkness. A chill runs down your spine: he’s standing under a tree across the street, and he’s watching your house.

  The question is: Does he know Hawk is here?

  The dream jumps forward, and you see your boss approaching your door slowly and silently, like a fat tarantula stalking its prey. He tries the door, gently, gently, and it swings open on soundless hinges.

  Goddammit, you’d forgotten to lock the door after Hawk picked the lock.

  You wake up with a gasp, your heart almost leaping out of your chest. Just then, the bedroom door opens and a dark figure steps through.

  You yell and throw a pillow at him and scramble off the bed, determined to get to the window and escape. A hard body lands on top of you, and you struggle like a possessed woman; a harsh curse rips the air when you hit an especially tender spot. Despite your efforts, he pins you down so thoroughly, you can barely blink.

  “What in the fuck are you trying to do?” an all-too-familiar voice rasps in your ear, and you realize that it’s Hawk.

  “Hawk,” you gasp. “The front door. I forgot to lock it after you came in.”

  Hawk freezes. “Oh?”

  You gulp in air, trying to talk coherently. “I dreamed,” you whisper. “My boss. He’s outside. I think he’s—”

  The gunshot rips through the air, hitting the bed right where your head had been moments before.

  Hawk rolls off you with a curse; he whips out his gun from his holster, lightning fast, aims, and fires back.

  A grunt of pain indicates that he hit something. Hawk squeezes off a few more shots, three or four in a row, and is rewarded with another gargling cry.

  Hawk slumps down against the bed and pants. From the other side of the bed, you can hear harsh, tearing sobs.

  You touch Hawk with a shaky hand, trying to see if he’s okay. He takes it in a crushing grip, brings it to his mouth, and kisses it, then leaps to a crouch, all animal grace, and works his way around the bed, gun at the ready.

  The rest of the night is a fever dream; Hawk calls for backup, and your house fills with a swarm of policemen and paramedics; dawn is breaking when the last of them leave your house. You’re on the couch, desperately wanting to sleep, but too wired actually to do so. Hawking collapses next to you and gathers you into a hug, tucking your head against his chest.

  For a long time, you’re content to stay in his arms, listening to his heart thud steadily. When he shifts, it’s to tip your chin up so he can give you
a soft, sweet kiss. Before you know it, you’re sitting on his lap, hands tangled in his hair, each of you devouring the other’s mouth like you’ll die if you stop for breath; you’re grinding yourself down against his rigid arousal even as he groans and thrusts himself up to meet you.

  When he pulls back and pushes you gently but firmly away, your painfully aroused body screeches in protest.

  “Wait,” he says. “Wait. I need to talk to you first.”

  Talking is the last thing you want to do; you have much better ideas for his mouth and tongue. You slump against his chest and say, “What?”

  “I didn’t believe you before. About…that woo-woo crap. The…the dreams.”

  You snort gently. “Thanks, Hawk. Woo-woo crap, indeed.”

  He sighs. “That’s not how I wanted that to come out.” He pauses. “I want to apologize. For being such a dick to you. For not believing in you. It’s just that…I love you, kitten, and I wanted to believe you so much that I overcompensated and acted like an asshole.”

  You sit up abruptly, and his eyes drop to note the jiggle of your breasts as you do so. “You what?” you say, incredulity lending a sharpness to your voice.

  “I love you,” he says. “Every time I see you, I get a blue-steel boner hard enough to drive spikes through concrete. I’ve tried dating other women, but they never look right, smell right, or feel right, because they’re not you.” He snorts and shakes his head. “Shit, why do you think I was so eager to work with you on your feature story? I felt like a motherfucking dog, following you around so you’d drop some kind of scrap for me so I can beg for more.”

  You stare. You couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d stood up and proclaimed he was Elvis.

  “You had good reasons for breaking up with me last time,” he says. “It’s not easy dating a workaholic homicide detective, and I hated losing you that first time, but losing you a second time will kill me.”

  “Hawk,” you start to say, but he puts a finger to your lips.

  “What I’m trying to say is, if we’re going to fuck, you better damn well understand that it’s not just going to be a good fuck—and God knows we’ve always been able to get the job done with each other—it’ll be making love.” His mouth quirks up. “I refuse to be your meaningless fling. We’re growing old together. I’m dragging you off to City Hall, we’re goddamn getting married, we’re going to buy a goddamn house together, have a bunch of goddamn kids, and they’ll give us a bunch of goddamn grandkids, and we’re going to spoil all of them goddamn rotten. And if you can’t agree to my terms, then I’d rather get up and leave, just walk out right now, and never see you again. Something’s got to give.”

  He looks down ruefully and grimaces. “And I have a feeling it might be my cock.”

  You take his hand away from your mouth. “Hawk,” you say, “I love you, too, you fool. You goddamn fool. You…Yes. I want it all. You fool.”

  You lean down and kiss him, and he kisses you back, groaning with relief and love and lust and gratitude. And suddenly, you’re struck with the certainty that you’ll never fear your dreams again, because you’ve found…The Man of Your Dreams.

  Option 15

  Your maid comes in, tea tray laden with breakfast. As you nibble away at toast and sip your tea, she begins to prepare your outfit for the day. What is it?

  A velvet riding habit with a tailored jacket that hugs your supple, sensual curves before sweeping into a long, full skirt made of shocking scarlet, its daring tempered only by the pale lemon yellow collar of softest silk, which the modiste insisted was the first stare of fashion. Accompanying it is a hat, a four-foot work of millinery art replete with six feathers, four rosettes, and a miniature partridge in a small fruit tree with a teeny sateen orangutan. Today is the first day of your father’s house party, and it is always inaugurated with a foxhunt. Turn to Option 16 (below).

  A fashionable traveling dress sewn of kerseymere trimmed with rouleaux of deep blue crepe, with a pale blue collar, complete with a capelet of the softest fox fur with a matching muff, because while you are to sail to your father’s plantation in the Bahamas, you must keep up appearances on the way to the ship. Turn to Option 19.

  Option 16

  After your maid dresses you, you go down the stairs, looking forward to the opportunity to dazzle the eligible bachelors. Your sunny mood is dimmed, however, when you notice the dark figure towering at the bottom of the stairs. Beowulf Winthrop, the Duke of Merkinshire, beholds you with a dark and unfathomable expression on his lean, harsh face. Rumored to have killed his wife to secure her fortune, he has never remarried.

  He bids you good morning with an insolent gleam in his eye and an even more insolent appraising look at your body. You reply coolly and sweep by him.

  At the stables, your groom is saddling your new mare, a spirited chestnut bought only yesterday. You can’t wait to test her mettle.

  “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh you have there, but she needs a firm hand—perhaps a firmer hand than an eighteen-year-old chit can provide,” a deep voice says from behind you.

  You whirl around and see the Duke of Merkinshire lingering by the doorway. “Your opinion is appreciated, Your Grace, but I think I know how to handle my cattle,” you answer, before deliberately turning your back on him.

  A hard hand grasps your chin and wrenches your face around. You gasp in indignation, but it is muffled by his mouth, which descends on yours and starts kissing you with punishing sensuality. You struggle at first, but find yourself overwhelmed by heat and a strange lassitude as the kiss goes on. Just as you begin to enjoy it, he withdraws.

  “I hope for your sake that you don’t bite off more than you can chew, mon enfant,” he says, then turns and walks away.

  The hunt begins, and your mare proves to be every bit as fast and every bit as difficult as you expected. You quickly outstrip all of the riders, except the duke, which is exceedingly provoking; you’d hoped to leave him behind, a mere speck of dust in your trail.

  You approach an impossibly tall hedge at breakneck speed, and your horse sails over the top with so much ease and grace, you could have whooped with joy—which is why, when she stumbles as she lands, you’re completely and utterly shocked. The jar shakes you free, and the world goes black as all the air is knocked out of you; you choke for breath, to no avail.

  Suddenly, assured hands are holding you up, and the buttons on your dress are undone with fearsome efficiency, followed by the laces of your stays. A warm hand rubs your back, and your breath returns in a painful rush.

  “You little fool!”

  It’s the duke, you realize with a mixture of excitement and fear. You turn your limpid sapphire gaze at him. His face is dark with fury.

  “You deserve to be beaten for that stunt,” he bites out, and gives you a little shake.

  “The devil with you. I…hate…you,” you manage to croak out.

  “You do, eh, little girl?” he growls. “Well, allow me to give you a reason for that hate, then.”

  Before you quite know what happens, he flips you over and begins spanking you. You struggle and pummel at him, seething with rage at the indignity, but it does no good; the blows land on your already-bruised bottom with punishing regularity. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to cry out.

  Over the roar of the blood in your ears, you hear people approaching.

  A scandalized hush falls over the party once they realize what they’re seeing. You scramble off the duke’s lap, face flaming with humiliation, attempting to keep your dress up. He shrugs off his coat and throws it over you. As he does, the world turns black at the edges, and before you realize what is happening, a velvety darkness embraces you.

  When you come back to consciousness, you’re back in your bedroom, and your maid is watching you with an anxious eye. “Oh, miss, you’re awake again!” she cries out. “What a blessing. We were so very worried, we were. Let me tell his lordship that you’re awake.”

  Soon enough, the word co
mes back: your father has summoned you to the library. When you get there, Merkinshire is next to him, looking even grimmer than usual.

  “I always knew you were impossible,” says your father, disappointment lacing his voice, “But I did not credit you with such recklessness. Luckily, Merkinshire here is willing to do the right thing.”

  Your mouth falls agape. Surely he couldn’t mean…

  “I’m obtaining a special license. The two of you should be able to marry by the end of the week,” says your father, voice implacable.

  “But…Father…” you sputter.

  “Not another word from you!” he barks. “I always knew I should’ve used a firmer hand with you, or married again after your mother died; at least Merkinshire will take you off my hands now and have the joy of dealing with you.”

  After this announcement, you spend the rest of the day in a daze. Merkinshire makes himself scarce—he surely wasn’t looking to be trapped in another loveless marriage when he accepted the invitation to the party. Still, the proof of his lack of regard stings you more than you would like to admit, as do the speculative whispers and knowing glances that accompany you wherever you go.

  When the next day dawns and there is still no evidence of Merkinshire, your peevishness begins to transform into restlessness and anger. By the afternoon, your agitation is driving you to distraction, so you decide to indulge in one of your favorite forbidden activities: you don boy’s clothing and sneak off to a ruined tower that lies on the boundary of your father’s property. You know the ruins well, and you enjoy the challenge of clambering over the tumbled stone walls.

  You are scrambling up a familiar but tricky wall when you hear a shout from below. You look down, and to your surprise, it is Merkinshire, looking travel-stained and utterly furious.