Dream Man

The rhythmic tightening of her inner muscles on him blasted the last shred of his control to smithereens. With a harsh, explosive growl he released his death grip on the sheet and grabbed her surging hips, forcing her downward as his own hips slammed upward, pushing his full length into her. He came with the first stroke, his orgasm bursting from him in a powerful stream as he convulsed beneath her, clamping her to him with ruthless, implacable hands, until it was over for both of them and she lay limply on his chest. Their heartbeats pounded together, shaking them from within.

He felt as if he would never have the strength to move again. She felt as if she were warm wax, melted and poured over him. Neither of them could bear to separate their bodies.

He trailed his hand up the slender length of her spine, feeling the way she was put together. He didn’t know how many women he had made love to in his lifetime, but he did know that the way he had felt then was nothing compared to how he felt now. There had been no other woman like Marlie; everything about her was new. He had never before been so fascinated by the details of a woman’s body, soft and fragrantly feminine. He had never before concentrated so intensely on a woman, so that he saw every flicker of expression and read every nuance of emotion. From the very beginning he had been aware of her slightest move, his body and senses attuned to her. He couldn’t even remember the name of his last lover; there was only Marlie.

But as much as he wanted to spend the rest of the day right where he was, the red digital numbers of the clock beside the bed continued to chronicle the silent, relentless stream of time. It was eight-fifteen. He had to shower and shave, eat breakfast, and be downtown at ten.

“I have to go,” he murmured.

She didn’t lift her head from his chest. He continued to stroke her spine. “Where?”

“To the station. We have a meeting with the lieutenant at ten.”

She didn’t tense, but he felt the stillness that came over her. “About last night?”

“Yeah. It was him, all right.”

“I know.” She paused. “What happens now?”

“We put together all the details we have from both cases, try to find what the victims had in common. Set up a task force to concentrate on this guy. Maybe call in the FBI.”

She said steadily, “If you need me to go over it again, I will.”

He knew what that offer could cost her, and he knew she had already braced herself to pay it. She would be met with ridicule, disbelief, and suspicion; that was what she had gotten from him, even though he had been so attracted to her, he could barely think straight. She knew what she was letting herself in for, and was willing to do it anyway.

He squeezed her. “I don’t want to put you through that.”

“But you will if you have to.”

“Yes.”

To his relief, her feelings weren’t hurt. She accepted the necessity. He smoothed her hair. “There’s something \need to tell you,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t want you to read about it in the papers, or see it on the news.”

She waited, knowing that it was going to be bad. Dane wished that he didn’t have to tell her, but he’d put it off as long as possible. Yesterday she hadn’t been in any shape to watch the news, but today was a different story. He didn’t want her to be alone when she found out.

“Ansel Vinick killed himself Friday night.”

The breath she had been holding leaked out in a sigh. So much pain, she thought sadly.

“That’s three,” she said. “In one week, he’s killed three people.”

“We’ll catch him,” Dane assured her, though they both knew it was far from a sure thing. He looked at the clock again. Eight-twenty.

He rolled with her until he was on top, then gently disconnected their bodies. “Want to shower with me?”

She looked at the clock, too. “No, I’ll cook breakfast. It’ll be ready when you’re finished.”

“Okay. Thanks, honey.”

Amused at how quickly he had accepted her offer to cook for him, she dressed and went into the kitchen. She usually ate simply, cereal and fruit, but a man his size would probably need more than that. She put on a pot of coffee, then hauled out her seldom-used waffle iron. While it was heating she stirred up the batter from a package mix. How much would he eat? She couldn’t finish one, but suspected he could put two or even three away with no trouble.

She could hear the shower running, hear him whistling. The coffee maker was hissing and popping in the manner peculiar to coffee makers. She was cooking his breakfast. The domesticity of it stunned her, and her arms dropped to her sides. She had never cooked breakfast, cooked any meal, for another person in her life.

For six years she had worked to build a safe, secure, ordinary, and solitary life. In one week, though, her life had been totally changed, and she was still struggling to find her balance. Safe, secure, and ordinary had gone by the wayside; now, evidently, her solitude was also gone. It wasn’t something she had chafed against; she had enjoyed being able to do things at her own pace, to sit up all night reading if she chose, to eat whatever she desired at the moment. Before Gleen, she had very much wanted a relationship, marriage, children. After Gleen, however, she had wanted only to be left in peace.

Instead, there was a man in her shower. Not just any man, but Dane Hollister: grim, rough, frighteningly intense, a police detective who never went anywhere unarmed—and who was the most generous man she’d ever met. He gave of himself in a way she’d never expected, given the hostility of their first few encounters. He had come to her without hesitation, after her despairing cry for help on Friday night, and since then she had seen only tenderness in him. She had been attracted to him before, but had fallen in love with him because of his unhesitating generosity. She had needed him, so he had been there. It was as simple as that.