by Norah Wilson
I realized then that my own hands were doing nothing but clutching his shirt. I skimmed them down his sides to find the hem of his shirt, then slipped them under to glide up his back, feeling the heat and texture of skin and the muscle beneath.
That broke both of us. It was a race then to unbutton and push each other’s shirts off. As mine fell at my feet, I took a moment to thank God for having shed that too-small, boob-compressing sports bra with the rest of that ill-fated costume. Dylan seemed content to just look at me for a moment, but I was having none of that. He still wore the black T-shirt he’d had on beneath his shirt. I grabbed a handful and pushed it up his chest. Taking the hint, he yanked it over his head and dropped it on the floor. A part of my brain noted—gratefully—that he could be as messy as me in the heat of passion. But the rest of my brain was still stuck on the picture he’d made doing that peel-off-the-T-shirt thing, the way his muscles bunched, the glimpse of armpit hair when he—
Oh, shit. Hair! On my legs! “Wait! I have to shower.”
“No, you don’t.” He put his hands on either side of my neck and started sliding them south over my collar bone... “You smell great.”
I clapped a hand over one of his to stop him from reaching his destination. “No, I definitely need a shower.” Did I have a disposable razor in my purse? Surely I must. I had everything else in there.
“You can shave your legs afterward, Dix.”
I closed my eyes, suppressing a groan. I should have known he’d know what the trouble was.
“Seriously. I don’t care. And there’s not much I can do down there anyway until I’ve had a shave myself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If you’re walking funny tomorrow morning, it won’t be because you’ve got stubble burn on your thighs.”
My brain hazed over with lust and my haven’t-been-shaved-since-Tuesday legs were forgotten. This time, I didn’t resist when he slid his hands down to shape my breasts. Their already hardened nipples budded still tighter.
Then it was fingers undoing belts and sliding zippers, jeans being shoved down, until we were both naked. Part of me wished I could slow things down, take the time to savor the magnificence of his six-foot-four frame, from the top of that glossy brown head to his big, well-shaped feet (sockless, darn it!), and everything in between. But I knew it wasn’t going to be like that. He backed me up until the back of my legs hit the bed. I sank down on it then scuttled backwards. He followed me down, his weight pressing me into the duvet-covered mattress. Then his head was at my breast and all I could do was writhe. (Well, once. I saw what he meant about the beard stubble. The growth wasn’t long enough to lie down and it rasped my skin.)
I grasped his head with both hands. “Beard.”
“Sorry.”
I felt the fullness of his erection against my thigh. This wasn’t going to take long. “Condom?” I asked.
He rolled away and pulled the drawer of his night table open to retrieve one. For a moment, I pictured the other women—no doubt younger women—he’d entertained here. But then he was sheathing himself and I let it go.
It was amazingly easy. I thought it might be awkward because it was Dylan, but it turned out to be easy precisely because it was him. We’d already built a foundation of trust between us. On a different level, sure, but it was there. Between that and the fact that I’d been anticipating this for so long, I knew it wouldn’t take much.
It didn’t.
He moved to lie beside me. I drew him onto me, thrilling to feel his hair-roughened skin on mine. He touched me intimately, and groaned to find me wet and ready. I guided him home, and then he was inside me, stretching me, invading me. Oh, God, his strong arms on either side of my body caging me. That’s all I needed to think to put me on the knife’s edge. I lifted my hips to meet his every thrust, seeking more of that thrilling friction. My excitement coiled tighter and tighter until orgasm took me. Dylan followed shortly thereafter, his breath harsh in my ear.
Afterward, as he dealt with the condom, I lay there looking at the ceiling. I must have been smiling, because when Dylan came back to bed, he laughed softly.
“Geez, Dix. Usually I have to work a lot harder to put a smile like that on a woman’s face.”
I jabbed him with my elbow, drawing an oof from him.
“You will have to work harder next time, Mr. Foreman.” I scowled at him. “Much harder. I was just... primed.” I could have added that the whole trust thing was a big part of that. Also, that for women of a certain age, it just came easier for us (pun intended), but somehow I didn’t feel like reminding him of the age difference.
He grinned wickedly. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I let him pull me into his arms. We lay there for a moment, his arm draped loosely over me while my hand rested over his heart. His fingers traced slow circles on my back, soothing now rather than arousing.
“So,” he said, “who’s going to shave first?”
This time when I jabbed him, it was more of a definite “Ow!”
Chapter 20
REALITY CHECK: I was naked under the covers with Dylan Foreman.
Omi-freakin’-God! I had to pull those covers back to look at the two of us all over again. Yup, there we were, the two of us, in all our naked glory.
I got laid!
Twice!
The second time wasn’t quite as fast as the first, mainly because Dylan kept distracting me by exploring areas that heretofore I would have said were not especially erogenous. His newly shaved face (and luscious, luscious lips) made acquaintance not just with my newly shaved parts, but also with the inside of my wrist, the crook of my elbow, the point of my shoulder. And I’d explored right back.
“Want me to get the flashlight, Dix?” Dylan asked with a chuckle.
Ah, as tempting as that idea was, I declined. And I lowered the covers once more. “I should get going.”
“You don’t have to go yet.” Dylan said it like he meant it.
“Well, okay... maybe a few minutes longer.” It was more symbolic than anything. More, okay, I’m not just doing the screw-your-brains-out-for-a-few-hours-and-running thing. But I wasn’t foolish enough—nor was Dylan, I’m sure—to think this wasn’t going to complicate things. I snuggled back into his arms again. “We do have lots to do, though.”
“I know, but what are we gonna do in the middle of the night? Everyone’s sleeping.”
(Ohhh, frig! Where I could go with that!)
“By the way, mind if I take my socks off now?” He was already looping the big toe of his right foot into the rim of his left sport sock.
“Of course.” I blushed at the reminder that I’d asked him to put the socks on after his shower. Rushing a guy into bed before he could take his socks off was one thing; asking him to put them back on again was quite another. Naturally, he’d razzed me about it, but being Dylan, he took it in stride. More than in stride. He’d turned it to his advantage...
Okay, Earth to Dix. Come in, Dix Dodd. (Or should that be come again?)
Oh boy. We’d done it.
Everything changes now, I thought, and felt a pang.
All change didn’t have to be bad change, though. I angled my head on his chest just enough so I could peer at him through my lashes. He was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Not in a troubled way, but definitely lost in thought. I lowered my gaze again, tracing a finger through the light patch of hair on his chest.
What had I expected? That he’d be freaking out? Was it better that he wasn’t freaking out? Or maybe he was, but was just doing it quietly. Maybe he’d suddenly say something about having to get up early in the morning and would I mind locking the door on the way out?
Oh, God, had I looked up at his handsome face and expected to see—
“Regrets, Dix?”
Did I? A dozen thoughts flitted through my mind, but with the weight of Dylan’s eyes on me, I shook my head. “No. No regrets.”
He looked at me steadily, those brown eyes unreadable. Damn that pause betwee
n his question and my answer. He’d caught it. “What about you?” I asked.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Not a one.”
And I believed him. So yeah, I had places to go. People that I definitely had to talk to. But, maybe, just maybe, I could spare a few more minutes wrapped up in Dylan’s arms. But just a few. This investigation was still under way.
We were getting closer, though. On that thought, my mind started churning again, worrying at the “facts” as we knew them. I know I tensed. I know I tightened and clenched my fists as I began sifting through the details—every single one of them. Mentally, I lined them up. Turned them around. Bumped them up against each other. Then a couple of them bumped back.
Oh, I love when things bump-bump back.
I’d run everything I’d learned tonight by Dylan earlier, of course. Filled him in on the blackmail scenario.
But what was I missing? Who was Albert Valentine having an affair with? How did Telly, and Faynelle for that matter, fit into the whole thing?
Did they, in fact, fit into it?
And when I sighed, Dylan did too. Then we both were sitting up in bed. And then... I clutched my chest and groaned experimentally.
“Jesus, Dix! What is it? Are you okay?”
“I need to go to the hospital, Dylan. Now!”
“So do you want to run this by me again?” Dylan said. “Just what do you hope to accomplish here?”
No, the guy wasn’t slow by any means. And though he wasn’t agreeing with me wholeheartedly on this excursion, he wasn’t exactly protesting.
I was currently flat on my back on a narrow, not-too-comfy hospital bed in the ER exam room, sprouting wires from beneath my johnny shirt, with one hand on my chest, a grimace on my face.
Dylan poked his head out from behind the sliding beige curtain, then returned his attention to me. “Safe to answer.”
I dropped the grimace, then looked at the little johnny shirt the emergency nurse had insisted I put on. My white, white legs (yeah, the ones I’d shaved just hours ago) looked practically scraped under the blinding white lights, all the way down to my grey sport socks.
Wow, that really was sexy. I crossed my legs at the ankles, waggled the upper sock-covered foot in that attractive way.
“Dix...” Dylan was getting impatient as he waited for my answer.
“I’m having chest pains.” I said with a smile.
“No, you’re not.”
I shrugged. “You know that and I know that. But Dr. Lincoln Crotty doesn’t know that. I want to talk to the man.”
“He’ll know you’re faking it.”
“Maybe I’m having an anxiety attack too,” I said calmly.
“Lincoln Crotty surely is not the only doctor on duty tonight.”
“True, but chances are he’s the only cardiologist on duty tonight.”
“What if his shift’s ended?”
Okay, now Dylan was just trying to burst my bubble. “Always have to have a cardiologist covering. I’m betting they do 12-hour stints. We brought Gaetan in about six hours ago, and he was attended by Crotty, so—”
“Would you care to make a wager about that?” A slow grin was starting to spread on Dylan’s face, like a pat of butter melting on a griddle. “Want to bet Lincoln Crotty is gone for the day?”
Oh, I knew that smile! That was his competitive grin. He already thought he was the winner.
Yeah, well, I had a grin of my own. “Twenty bucks,” I said. “No, fifty!” Didn’t want to sound too confident.
Dylan pffted. “Don’t be such a wuss, Dix. Money’s boring. Make it an interesting bet. Something worth our while.”
“Okay, here’s an idea,” I said. “If you win, and the good doctor has departed, then I clean your apartment. If I win and he’s still here, you clean my condo.”
Dylan looked at me, slightly horrified. “Are you crazy? That’s hardly a fair bet.”
“What?”
“Where do I begin? The last time I asked, you were still dusting with your hair dryer.”
“Hey on high, that sucker will blow the dust off anything.”
Dylan leaned close. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Oral sex.”
I was going to make a comment to the effect that he’d already blown the dust off something else, but I left that alone.
“Dylan, do you really think you should say things like that to a woman who’s having a heart attack?” Well, the old ticker must be hammering like that for some reason! I’d just finished making love with Dylan not an hour ago, and yet that stirring in the belly was, well, stirring, again.
What was it with this guy? Oh, yeah. Lean, fit body, great kisser, sure hands and a really big—
“You are most definitely not having a heart attack,” he said dryly. “But hey, if you’re too chicken to make that bet, I totally under—”
“You’re on.”
His smile was smarmy. Ah, but mine was just a tad smarmier as Dr. Lincoln Crotty walked into the room, and pulled the beige curtain aside.
“You again!”
I feigned surprise to hide my delight (I’d just won a bet with Dylan! For oral sex!). “Why, Doctor Crotty, I’m amazed you’re still here! Would you have bet that Dylan?”
Being an obnoxious winner—yet another thing that’s underrated.
“What are you doing here, Ms. Dodd?”
Yes, Dodd. I’d had to give my real name when I registered. It’s on my OHIP card.
“My chest hurts.” Shit! In my bet-winning delight, I’d forgotten the whole grimacing, chest clenching thing. “The pain’s right about—”
“Horse shit.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t a technical term. Wow, this guy’s bedside manner really sucked.
Crotty pulled a rolling stool over beside the bed. (Jesus, I had one of those slide down pap smear flashbacks—from the 90s! Yeah, seriously overdue.) I clenched my knees as he sat.
“Why are you really here, Dix Dodd, PI?”
He left the extraordinaire part off my moniker, but I let it go—this time.
Then he glanced at Dylan. “And I see you’ve brought your young assistant, Mr. Foreman,” he said, his tone completely condescending.
Dylan tensed. “No need to talk over me, Doc. I’m right here. Can handle the really big words myself and everything.”
“Oh, really? Well, here are some words for you both: I should have the two of you ejected. Gaetan Gough didn’t say so, but I know damned well it was you, Dodd, dressed up like that priest earlier in the evening. I should call—”
“But I’m betting you won’t.”
His eyebrows soared. “Oh? And what do you want to bet?”
Dylan guffawed.
And at that reminder of the bet I’d just won with Dylan, my heart started tripping faster. I could tell because we could all hear it, thanks to the monitor I was plugged into. I saw Dr. Crotty’s attention zoom to it.
“Sure you don’t want to check out my heart, Doc?” I asked.
“I guess I’d better,” he muttered, clearly not pleased at the prospect but also not wanting to risk the very slight possibility that I might have a real, actual problem.
Dylan turned discreetly as Dr. Crotty opened the hospital gown and applied the business end of his stethoscope to my chest. But already my pulse rate was slowing. I knew it, and so did the tattletale monitor.
“Are you aware you have a heart murmur?” Crotty asked.
Dylan turned then, surprised.
“Yes. But it’s nothing. I’ve had it since I was a teenager. Probably longer.” Crotty straightened and I pulled my gown closed. “My doctor says it’s functional.”
Dr. Crotty slung the stethoscope around his neck again. “And he would know this from imaging your valves?”
“’scuse me?”
“Did he send you for a cardiac ultrasound?”
“No, nothing like that.” Why were we talking about my itty-bitty murmur?
&nb
sp; “Then how can he know it’s functional?”
“I don’t know—because I’ve never been pre-medicated for dental work and haven’t dropped dead?”
“That could be proof of nothing more than the fact that you’re damned lucky.” His brows drew together sternly and he picked up my chart. “I’m going to send you down the hall for cardiac imaging so we can see what those valves are doing.”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present. I mean, that’s what you came in for, right? Your heart condition?”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean, maybe I could come back?”
“Fine.” Crotty scribbled something on my chart. “Central Scheduling will be in touch, and follow up will be through your family physician. Hopefully that’ll be the end of it.” What he really meant was hopefully he’d never see me again. He tucked the pen back in his pocket. “Well, then, I’ve checked your heart. OHIP will be happy. Now, how about you tell me what the hell you’re really doing here?”
Ah, straight to the point. Maybe I did like his bedside manner after all. “Why do you hate the cuddle club so much?” I asked.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I shrugged. “Humor me.”
Crotty wasn’t hooked up to any monitors, but I could definitely tell his blood pressure was rising. “Where do I begin? They take money from unsuspecting souls, manipulate them, addict them to that damned club. Kids like my Brandy... sweet, innocent young people get hooked and then—”
He cut his words off before his head exploded. Yep, it was that red. “Brandy spends a lot of money at the club,” he continued. “And no, money’s not the issue. That daughter of mine is just too damned smart to get mixed up in a foolish thing like that. She’s going to follow in the family footsteps and become an MD. Or an MD/PhD researcher, if her mother has her way.”
