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"Untrue. It's been—" He glanced at the wall clock. "—fifty-two minutes since I made love to you. I think that shows commendable restraint on my part."
"I stand corrected." Smiling, Sabrina nuzzled closer to Dylan, as eager as he to resume where they'd left off before their growling stomachs had compelled them to eat. "I tell you what. We'll just finish making plans. The dishes can wait."
"Good. Because I can't. So talk fast." He was already exploring the contours of her body, his palm cupping her breast, his thumb teasing the hardening nipple.
"You're the one who insisted we make plans," Sabrina reminded him breathlessly, wriggling closer and reveling in his touch.
"That was when I could still think. Now I can't. My libido eclipsed my brain. So, like I said, talk fast." He was already tearing open a foil packet, dealing effectively with the condom.
A soft laugh. "Yes, sir. You asked about meeting my mother. She's dying to meet you. I can hear it in her voice every time she doesn't mention your name but wants to. So we can arrange that ASAP. Carson we can tell tomorrow. He'll probably host an engagement party on Eleven West the minute they move him there. Did I talk fast enough for you?"
"Sounds good. And no. Now, come here." Dylan gripped her waist and pulled her over him. Nudging her thighs apart, he set her astride him, lowering her slowly onto his erection.
"Dylan?" Sabrina splayed her hands across his chest, needing one more serious, sane moment before she lost herself in their lovemaking.
He heard the solemn note in her voice and paused, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
"You asked about the timing of the wedding. I wish it could be right away. But it can't. We have to be realistic. If Carson needs a transplant, it'll be a while before he's himself again.
A few months at least. And until he is, I want to wait. I know you do, too."
"Absolutely." Dylan's response was emphatic, his gaze intense as it held hers. "You're also forgetting something else. Carson's not the only one who'd be involved in this transplant. You'd be the donor. Both of you would need recuperation time."
"I guess you're right. I didn't think of that."
"Well, I did. I want you to be a hundred percent when we walk down that aisle." Dylan's hands slid to her hips, his thumbs making lazy circles on her skin. "So you see? I'm way ahead of you in the planning department. We're getting married. Soon. We'll know in a month if the transplant's happening. If it is, we'll wait—for however long it's necessary. And after that, we'll have the rest of our lives together. That's enough planning for tonight. Okay?"
Sabrina nodded. "Very okay."
"You're sure now?" he teased. "There's nothing else you want to discuss?" He eased her down a fraction, gliding the tiniest bit farther inside her. "The flowers?" Another fraction downward, teasing her body and his own. "The food?" A little more. "The invitations?" He arched upward, stopping when he was halfway there, making Sabrina twist and cry out in frustration. "The guest list?" he rasped, driving himself as crazy as he was driving her. "The—"
"No," Sabrina gasped. She grabbed his hands, yanking them away so he could no longer hold her immobile. Then, she sank down on him—hard—forcing him all the way inside her. "I don't want to discuss anything." She raised herself upward, then sank down on him again. "I just want this."
A harsh groan escaped Dylan and he dragged her mouth down to his, his hips lifting to keep him as deep inside her as possible. "God, so do I."
"Good," Sabrina managed, as their bodies took over. "Because if I don't get it, you're fired."
Tuesday, September 20th, 3:05 A.M.
It was in the deepest part of night that he made his way to Dylan's apartment building. He stood outside, scouted the area.
He was alone.
They were in there. He knew that much.
He assessed the vertical bars that protected the ground floor windows. Protected. That was a joke. There was more than enough space between bars for what he had in mind. He selected the window closest to the door. That way, their means of escape would be blocked off.
By now they were probably upstairs, fast asleep in the bedroom. Well, guess what, guys, he thought. It's wake-up time. Wake up and die.
He was just about to reach into his knapsack, when he heard the crunch of tires on the street. He whipped around. Shit. Some cops patrolling the area.
He sauntered off, keeping his steps slow and even, just a kid with a knapsack trotting along West 76th. Then, he ducked down an alley and held his breath.
The patrol car passed by, neither cop even glancing in his direction.
Gotcha suckers, he thought smugly.
Then, he turned back to go do his job.
