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Piggybacking on the surveillance in place on her car, phone, and electronics wasn’t enough, not now. He had to know where she was at all times; he couldn’t take the chance that she’d shake her tail, ditch the car, leave behind this house and everything she’d known for the past three years. Even if she only partially recovered her memory, she was capable of doing just that; she’d be frightened, and not understand exactly what was going on.
If she ran, she’d take the backpack; why else would she buy it? It wasn’t as if she were going to school or taking up hiking. Shit, he was going to have to make some noise if he took the backpack out of the plastic bag. He could tell which bag it was in, just as he could tell, now that he knew what she’d bought, that the receipt was stapled to the bag that held the pepper spray.
He needed to get to that backpack. He had other options, but he wanted to cover as many possibilities as he could.
Maybe he could work his hand inside the bag without making more than a rustle. Having full access to the backpack would be the best option, but circumstances weren’t in his favor.
Reaching into a pocket, he removed a small pouch that contained three small, almost undetectable trackers. There were smaller ones; some were microdots, but they were more difficult to place, and he wanted to keep his time in here to a minimum. He removed one of the trackers. He’d put each of them into an individual resealable plastic bag, and marked each bag with a different number so he’d know which tracker he was putting on what. Removing one, he turned the plastic bag toward the dim light coming through the closed blinds, and could just make out the number 2. Okay, 2 was going on the backpack.
Working carefully in the darkness, because he didn’t want to drop the little fucker, he eased his hand into the bag. The plastic rustled, but he moved in slow increments and the sound was faint, nothing more than a scratch. He felt straps. Not good enough. Easing his hand deeper, he brushed against a flap, which would probably cover a zippered pocket. Good enough, even though he couldn’t see what he was doing. Carefully turning his hand, he attached the tracker to the underside of the flap.
Then he just as slowly pulled his hand out of the bag.
One down, two to go.
He took the towel back to the kitchen and looped it back over the ring, carefully adjusting it so both ends hung evenly.
Now things got tricky.
* * *
She didn’t hesitate, simply walked forward, undressing as she approached him. There were no second thoughts, no thoughts at all, just instinct and need. Skin to skin; she needed it. Him inside her; she needed it. She wanted to feel her climax building and building until she screamed when she came, and she would. In this room she could scream if she wanted to. She could take what she wanted, live with abandon. Here she could live.
X folded his arms across his chest and stood there waiting, not undressing himself, just waiting for her. Always waiting. She pushed her underwear down her legs, stepped out of them without hesitation, without embarrassment or fear. She reached him, smiled up into his dark eyes, and began to undress him. When she removed his shirt, she took a moment to bury her face against the warmth of his bare chest and deeply inhale. He smelled so g
ood, so real, and she could feel the heat of his skin against her cheek, the way the hair on his chest tickled her nose.
Even though she knew this was a dream, it was the best dream ever.
But as great as this was, she wanted more than just the smell of him—much more.
Tugging at his belt, she unbuckled it, then unzipped his jeans and slipped her hand inside, wrapping her fingers around him and feeling him harden, push against her fingers. He made a deep sound in his throat, more than a hum, not quite a growl.
She pushed his jeans down and off. In real life they’d have had to deal with his boots, but this was her dream, and she didn’t want boots slowing her down. She was already wet, ready, empty without him. She wanted to push him down and straddle him, taking him hard and deep, but then she’d come and it would be over. She’d wake up, trembling and gasping for air. Not yet! She didn’t want to wake up just yet. It was too soon. She wanted to feel him, smell him, savor every inch.
His hands wound in her hair, holding her close, making sure she didn’t slip away. She loved his hands. They were big hands, powerful hands that could kill or pleasure, hurt or heal. Some people were afraid of those hands, but not her.
X lifted her off her feet and walked toward the bed. This was how she liked him best: naked, hard, impatient. When X was impatient, when she was rocking his world the way he rocked hers, he could make her feel … ravaged, and treasured, and loved.
Lizette’s feet dangled inches from the floor. She soared. She wanted him so much, and he was right there, he was with her, she could wrap her arms around his neck and hold on even as she flew, really flew. And because this was a dream, maybe she could fly. She laughed a little, dangling there in his arms as he moved to the bed … and then she looked to the side and saw her face in the mirror. Her laughter died away as she stared at herself. That was her old face, the one that had been taken from her. She closed her eyes, tight, and when she opened them again her face was the new one, the one that she knew wasn’t her.
Or was it?
Which one was the real her? Which one did X want?
Which face did he love?
A bigger question: Did he love her at all? After what she’d done?
Then he laid her on the bed and she couldn’t see her face in the mirror any longer, and that was just as well. She didn’t want to look; she wanted to feel. She didn’t want to wonder; she just wanted to hold X and follow her body’s lead.
For a moment they just lay there on the big bed, chest to chest, legs intertwined, hearts pounding. They were eye to eye, and for a moment Lizette felt her breath catch. Good God, he was beautiful! Not pretty, there was nothing pretty about him, but seen with her heart he was … beautiful.
And whatever face she wore, he didn’t care. Behind this face she was still her, and that was all that mattered to him. Yes, he loved her. He still loved her.
He kissed her throat as if they had all the time in the world, but Lizette was suddenly certain that they didn’t. They had no time at all, not together. She would live in her world and he would live in his and there would be no more this. Maybe there would be the occasional dream, if she was lucky. No more dreams of him at all, if she was not lucky.
“Now,” she whispered.
