While She Was Sleeping

by Diane Pershing

  Like a wild stallion breaking free of its reins, Nick thrust up into her. After her initial shock passed, she found herself meeting his thrusts with equal force and equal enthusiasm. Soon they were joining and separating, joining and separating with such wild abandon that moans of joy keened out of her mouth.

  As Carly felt herself climbing, climbing, climbing toward the pinnacle of release, she knew what she wanted her final move to be—to give and give and give some more, to present Nick with all the pleasure he could withstand.

  She clenched the muscles deep inside her womb, felt Nick quicken the pace, heard him groan. Then he exploded with a sound so primitive, so filled with agony and triumph, that she reared back, opened her arms wide and joined him in free fall.

  Afterward, their positions got somehow reversed so that now Nick lay half sprawled on top of Carly. He hoped he wasn’t crushing her, but he was way too drained to move. It wasn’t just his flesh and bones that felt drained. What he’d pumped into her was more than the product of physical release; he’d given her his very soul. He was vaguely aware of inner stirrings, of all kinds of strange new emotions. This wasn’t what usually happened to him during sex.

  In his experience, making love with a woman was entertaining, acrobatic, physically pleasing. Titillating, but not...deep, the way this had been. A sudden tightening at the back of his throat warned him that if he kept dwelling on this, he would cry. He never cried.

  With enormous effort, he rolled off Carly, turned onto his side and pulled her to him so they lay curled together, spoon-fashion.

  “Carly?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You okay?”

  She chuckled softly. “Do you have to ask?”

  He smiled, felt himself drifting off to sleep. But didn’t.

  “Carly?”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s going on...between us, I mean?”

  There was a pause before she said, “Do I have to answer that?”

  “No.” Coward, he called himself. Out of some sort of self-protection, he’d wanted her to go first. “The thing is, I...feel things for you, all kinds of things.”

  Hell, Nick thought. There was probably a better way to say this, to do this, but he’d never been good at sentimentality. Besides, even in the grip of this strong emotion he felt with Carly, his head was in the way, doing handstands to get his attention.

  He forced himself to go on. “So, here I am with all these feelings. But isn’t it crazy? We’ve known each other—what?—forty-eight hours?”

  “I know.”

  “But you feel it, too.” It wasn’t a question, and he held his breath until she answered.

  “Yes,” she whispered softly.

  He smiled, kissed her neck and felt better. Now he had confirmation: they were both in it, whatever it was and whatever the outcome, so there was no rush. No need to talk it to death.

  A few moments later, when he thought she’d fallen asleep, Carly spoke again. “Maybe this is the kind of thing they say happens during a war. You know, with the heightened sense of danger and urgency going on all around us, all kinds of emotions are being set off. They may not be real.”

  “Oh.” Something previously warm and filled with hope shriveled inside him. “I see.”

  Quickly, she turned over and gazed at him, her eyes clouded with confusion. “I don’t know if what I just said is the truth, or if I just...said something to be saying anything.”

  Reaching up, she smoothed some hair off his forehead, then set her palm on his cheek. “Everything in the past two days has been crazy. I witnessed a man having his head blown off, I’ve been drugged against my will. My ex-husband has been shot to death, and I just found out my sister is dead.” Her gaze softened and she smiled. “But all I can think of is being in your arms, touching you, talking with you, even cooking for you, for heaven’s sake. You’re right. It is crazy.”

  Relief was Nick’s primary emotion. Grateful to hear what he was feeling echoed by Carly, he covered her hand with his, slid it over his mouth and kissed the palm. “Are you scared?” “Terrified.”

  They smiled at each other.

  He did not use the word love, nor did she. And that was as it should be, he thought. Love? After two days? Utter insanity.

  But the thought of the word revived his depleted condition to such an extent that he found himself reaching for her again. He wanted to express with his body what he could not yet say out loud.

  He would make sure it was slow this time. This time he wanted to explore her, all of her, and so he did, starting from the bottom up.

  Carly had been on the verge of dropping off to sleep, but Nick changed her mind in a heartbeat. She let out a huge sigh as Nick’s hands stroked her shins and knees. She luxuriated in the velvet touch of his tongue playing gently with the toes of one foot, sucking them into the moist warmth of his mouth. She squirmed a little as he laved her instep, then the heel; a deep thrumming pulse coursed through her bloodstream, even as he moved over to the other foot and rewarded it in the same, deliberate way.

  He was loving her, she thought dreamily, without the need for words; a steady heat throbbed in her veins. Again, her breath caught on a long sigh.

  He uttered a pleased chuckle, then moved his mouth up to where his hands had been, on her legs, licking and kissing her flesh with a languid, teasing, tantalizing thoroughness.

  If his intention was to be unhurried, her response was lightning quick—it always would be, she knew. Like a match held to dry timber, his touch set her on fire. Clutching the side of the mattress with one hand, she buried the fingers of the other in the thick, wavy black hair on his head, kneading his scalp and trying to urge him farther up her body, to the already-pulsing, wet center of her femininity.

  He chuckled again. “Soon,” he said. “Let me take my time. It’s my turn.”

  His fingertips feathered up and down her shins and around to her calves. Groaning, she felt her hips rotating with need, but she tried to be patient. Raising both arms, she gripped the brass headboard with all her might and let him do whatever he wanted to. For what felt like an eternity, he played and licked and stroked her, finally lifting one leg to reach the tender skin on the back of her knees with his tongue. She nearly rose off the bed at her body’s swift reaction. He dislodged her hands from the headboard and eased her onto her stomach. Now he had easier access to the flesh of the back of her thighs.

  She felt so hot. When his tongue reached the top of her thighs, when his fingertips stroked along the curve of her buttocks, she tried to turn over again, onto her back—she craved having him inside her as he had been before, driving, thrusting, filling all emptiness till there was no more room for anything but the feel of him.

  But he whispered, “No. Stay that way.”

  “Please,” she said. “You’re making me crazy.”

  “Soon,” he soothed. “Soon.”

  She had no strength to fight him. The thought of simply doing as she was told sounded lovely right now. She felt him shifting on the bed so that his legs straddled her thighs. He stroked and teased her buttocks and hips, tracing circles on the skin with his fingertips and raising goose bumps wherever they touched. She was aware of his hard, thick manhood pushing into her back and she squirmed restlessly. Her inner muscles clenched with wanting him; she felt another gush of moisture there....

  But he wanted it slow, and that’s how it would be. He was calling the shots this time. He was telling her, showing her, in fact, that if she had controlled their earlier encounter, he would do the same to her now—but better. A little show of male dominance, she thought wryly. But it was all right with her; he had so much to teach her. If a power play was going on here, it didn’t matter. They were both winners.

  His featherlight touches set fire to her skin. Oh, Lord, his touch was driving her crazy. She turned her head to the side and groaned, “I don’t know how much longer I can—”

  “Ssh,” he said softly, licking her ear. Then his thumbs trace
d down the cleft that led to the source of her womanhood, finding and stroking the wet folds between her legs until she shivered with ecstasy. Her breathing grew more labored as she felt herself climbing, climbing... Again? she wondered. Had anything ever felt this erotic? No, not possible.

  She pushed herself onto her knees, opening her legs to her lover. Soon she was swept up in more touches and moans, sensations in new places that made her shiver all over again, till he finally eased himself into her and began the firm, insistent, rhythmic journey which would take them both over the edge of the world and into oblivion.

  Tuesday morning

  There was a murmur of conversation way in the background, so she buried her head under a pillow. No, Carly thought, wanting to swat the sound away so she could remain asleep. She didn’t want to wake up, not yet.

  She knew where she was—in Nick’s bed. Two mornings ago, she’d awakened in this very same bed, but this time there was no terror, no need to bound out of it and lock herself in the bathroom. So much had happened, so much had changed in these two days. Then she’d wanted to run away; now she wanted to stay. In bed. With Nick.

  She reached over to touch him, but her hand patted empty cold sheets. Dragging her head out from under the pillow, she opened one eye. She was alone. Nick must be the one talking in the background, on the phone probably, given that it was only his voice she heard, and no one was answering.

  Turning onto her back and stretching her arms above her head, she smiled with womanly satisfaction. The pillow felt so soft. More memories of that first morning with him—good old goose-down and feathers, not the sensible, inexpensive pillow she slept on back home. This was Nick’s place, not hers. And she felt wonderful.

  There had been no dreams. For the first time since she’d awakened here two days before, she’d been able to sleep soundly and in peace.

  When she slept, of course. When Nick and she had allowed each other to sleep. Carly crossed her arms behind her head and mused on the fact that, all her childhood, Nina had been the wild, spontaneous one; she’d been sensible, reasonable Carly.

  But she must have had this side of her hidden—from the world and from herself—the whole time. She’d been waiting for the right person to bring it out, and now she’d met him. A tough cop with a midlife crisis who played her like a virtuoso.

  She smiled again, feeling like Brunhilde, a pet cat she’d had as a child, all leisurely stretching and purring, waiting for her tummy to be scratched, for her ears to be tugged at and stroked.

  Carly wanted more stroking. Hadn’t she had enough last night? she asked herself with wonder. But there would never be enough. Nick seemed to have more stamina than she’d thought possible. And the foolish man had claimed that, between his knee and his hip and his hand, he wasn’t as physically fit as he used to be. Dear God, what must he have been like then?

  Still, she was glad she’d met him now, when he was older, when he’d learned to handle both his fists and his temper. Well, his fists anyway. She frowned. His temper still set off memories of her father, even though she knew they weren’t alike in any other way. It was why, from the time she’d started dating, until she’d married Richard, she’d always gravitated toward safe—boring—men.

  Nick wasn’t safe and he wasn’t boring, and still they’d met and been attracted. It almost felt like fate, to have run into the bar that night, seeking shelter, and to have had Nick be the one who offered it. Fate, yes, she thought, even though she’d never particularly believed in the concept. It had to be fate that had swept her up in a strange, bizarre murder adventure which, in turn, had enabled her to meet the man who would change her life, would bring her happiness and acceptance and love.

  Yes, love. The word had been hanging in the air between them all night.

  She let out a happy sigh before reality intervened. It was morning now, and she needed to get out of bed, find out if there was any more news about Eddie Monk. She should shower, get started on her day. But, oh, she didn’t want to. She wanted to just stay here in the bed that smelled of Nick and think about him.

  “Oh, good, you’re up.”

  Nick stood in the bedroom doorway, imposing as always, but blurry. Still sleepy, Carly reached for her glasses and put them on. His form sharpened; she could see now that he, at least, was wide-awake. He’d shaved and showered and was dressed more formally than she was used to seeing him, in dark gray pants and a pale gray long-sleeved shirt open at the collar. His eyes shone with excitement.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Good news.” He rubbed his hands together.

  She yawned and covered her mouth. “Tell me.”

  “One of Demeter’s bodyguards from the yacht, the guy who was in a coma—”

  “Sam ‘the Shift-Man’ O’Connell,” she said, but it came out slurred. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth; it would be a while before her body woke up.

  “You remembered.” He sat down next to her on the bed. She could sense that cop-on-the-prowl excitement about him. He held her hand while he told her the rest. “Anyway, Sam’s conscious now and is spilling his guts. He’s positively ID’d Eddie Monk, says Monk attacked both him and Frankie, took them by surprise with the butt of a gun. So, even without your testimony, there’s an APB on Monk.”

  “Oh, good.” What a relief! They didn’t need her to start the ball rolling.

  “This morning, just to make sure, Dom went back to Monk’s place and busted the lock on his door. He’s not there. In fact, it looks like he’s cleared out. But the wheels have been set in motion—East Coast and here. That cop from Boyle Heights? The one I couldn’t reach last night? He has a snitch who knows Monk real well, he’s ready to tell us all about him. We’ll get him. We should have everything tied up soon.”

  “I’ll relax completely when they have Eddie Monk in custody.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly one more time, then let it go. “It’s a matter of time, Carly. So, come on.”

  He stood and tore the blankets off her, then stopped and stared at her nude body. Masculine appreciation gleamed from his eyes. “I wish I could get back into bed with you.” Leaning over, he gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. “But there’ll be other days.”

  “Why do I have to get up?” she complained.

  “Because you need to get dressed.” He grabbed her hands and pulled her up to a sitting position. Her legs dangled over the side, while she groaned her protest.

  “You’re not a nice man.”

  “Come on, Carly,” he persisted. “Dom’s on his way over.” He smiled. “The kid, Miguel, wanted to be in on it, wanted to see how it’s done. But Dom told him it’s crunch time. Pros only. Now, are you going to get out of there, or would you rather I picked you up and threw you into the shower?”

  Holding up a restraining hand, she nodded reluctantly. “No need. I’ll be ready to move in a minute.” She yawned, then scratched her head and glanced at him sleepily. “Where are we going?”

  Her brain wasn’t quite functioning yet, or she’d have known the answer to her question before she asked it.

  “Down to the station, of course. I’m bringing you in.”

  Chapter 11

  “You’re what?” All her remaining morning-after glow vanished in an instant. “Why do I have to go in?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  Gripping the brass headboard with one hand, Nick frowned while he stared at her. “Carly, Eddie Monk has been ID’d as being on the yacht and knocking out the guards. You can peg him as the man at the airport who threatened you, and I can back it up with him tailing us yesterday. They’re working on a match between the bullet that killed Richard and the bullets that killed Demeter. They have an eyewitness who saw you running away from the yacht, another who saw someone dressed in a raincoat running in the same direction a minute later. Everything’s coming together now. You asked for twenty-four hours, you got it. Time’s up.”

  It made sense, she told herself. What he was s
aying was true. She’d promised, in fact, that if Nick said she had to go in by today, she would. She knew with the functioning part of her mind that Nick was right.

  But in a deeper, more primitive area of her brain, where reason and logic played no role, something rebelled. Old fears died hard, and this particular fear wasn’t ready to be buried, not yet.

  But she would not fall apart on Nick again, she would not turn into that quaking, panicked woman she’d been for so much of the short time they’d known each other. Not after last night.

  Carefully folding her hands on her lap, she locked gazes with him. “Nick? If they already have someone who can identify Eddie Monk, and can place him on the yacht at the time of the murder, why do they need me? I didn’t actually see him kill Demeter, you know.”

  “Because you’re the linchpin, Carly. You were there at the start in Boston, up to and through the murder.”

  “Yes, I see.” Carly looked down at her hands.

  Nick frowned with confusion. Now what? Maybe his own tension was getting to her. He flexed his fists a couple of times to relieve his pent-up energy. Then he sat down next to her on the bed. “Okay,” he said as evenly as he could. “What is it?”

  She didn’t respond. Then, slowly, she turned to him and said, “Suppose...just suppose it doesn’t go the way you think it will.”

  “Carly—”

  “Humor me, Nick,” she interrupted him with a strained smile. “If I go with you now, and tell them I was on the boat when Demeter was killed, here’s another way it could be interpreted-they’ ll have me, and my fingerprints, I assume. Nina was my sister, and Pete Demeter drove the car that killed her. Don’t you think the death of my sister might look like a motive for me to have pulled the trigger?”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair impatiently. “If you want to turn it into—”

  “What if they never find Eddie Monk? Who else is going to back up my story? Richard is dead.” Her agitation and the fear behind it was more apparent now. She gripped and knotted the bedsheets, as if she could keep herself together by holding them.