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He lay heavily on her, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, his heart thundering against her own. He felt damp with sweat through his clothes, but a slight, cooling breeze wafted through the open French doors, bringing with it the freshness of the rain. Karen turned her face into his neck, breathing in the hot odor of his skin, and felt herself sink toward sleep.
She roused a little when he withdrew, instinctively protesting the loss of his weight, the comfort of his animal warmth in the rain-cooled night. "Shh," he murmured, soothing her.
Enough light came through the windows and open doors that she could sleepily watch him remove and discard a condom, and she was alert just enough to ask, "When did you put that on?" She would swear his hands had never left her after they had entered the bedroom.
"When I put on the music." He turned back to her, still kneeling between her spread thighs. His eyes were heavy-lidded with concentration as he began removing her clothes. Karen let him unzip her dress, his hands working under her; her sluggish thoughts still centered on the condom. He had planned this, then. Even before they had begun dancing, he had intended to make love to her.
The significance of this seemed important, but why eluded her. He tugged her dress off over her head and tossed it aside, then deftly undipped her bra and removed it, too. Her attention was caught by her nudity, which, despite the intimacy of the act they had just shared, made her feel far too vulnerable. She shocked herself, lying there naked and spread in front of a man who was still clothed, even though his jeans were down around his thighs. He should have been soft, but his swollen penis jutted out from under his shirt, twitching with arousal.
Her hands moved; perhaps he sensed her intention to cover herself, for he caught her wrists and pinned them to the pillow beside her head, and took his time looking her over. Her nipples drew into tight little points under his inspection, and he smiled. Leaning over her, he licked her left nipple, circling the point with his tongue before gently catching it between his teeth and applying delicate pressure.
Prickles of heat shot through her. She gasped, fruitlessly wrenching her arms in an effort to free them—not to push him away but to hold him close. He sucked at her, pressing the nipple hard against the roof of his mouth while his tongue worked at it, and she writhed helplessly. She hadn't known her breasts were so sensitive, but the way he was sucking her aroused her so sharply she felt herself, impossibly, building toward another climax.
Bending forward as he was, the tip of his penis nudged at her swollen folds, prodding her opening. Her breath snagged, caught. Her hips arched.
He swore softly, his breath ragged, and reared back from her. He fought his way out of the shirt, tossing it aside, and quickly sheathed himself with another condom. Leaning over her again, he caught her wrists in one hand and stretched her arms over her head, arching her breasts upward in tender offering. He took full advantage of her position, sucking both nipples, gentle and ruthless at once.
His free hand moved over her belly, down between her spread legs. She was swollen and sensitive from their lovemaking, barely able to take the two big fingers he worked up inside her. She quivered, gasping, and her head tossed restlessly back and forth within the frame of her upstretched arms.
A shudder of arousal rippled over him. "You're tight," he murmured, kissing her throat. "Am I hurting you?"
"N-no." She could barely speak. His fingers reached deep inside her, pressing upward. His thumb rasped over her clitoris, circled it enticingly. "Oh, my God." She cried the words, arching tautly. Heat poured through her, drawing her upward like a bow. She could feel another climax building, even stronger than the last. Her shaking thighs were spread achingly wide again as he shifted close to her, taking his fingers out of her and replacing them with the long stroke of his shaft.
The spasms boiled swiftly upward. He felt them begin and pressed himself deep. Rhythmic cries shook from her, and her body convulsed. He controlled his own urges and slowly, carefully, rebuilt her desire until she climaxed yet again, and only then did he let himself come.
She slept, and woke to his hands on her again.
Night had completely fallen, and he had removed his jeans. Rain still pattered down outside, and the French doors were still open, letting in the damp air. Nothing else in the universe existed but the confines of the bed and man who held her close to his heat and hardness. She didn't think, simply was, for the first time in her life, lost to pure physical pleasure. He could have done anything to her, and she wouldn't have protested.
He slid down her body and pressed his mouth to her, the caress so tender and intimate she almost wept, would have if desire hadn't risen again, throbbing insistently in her loins. He mounted her, said, "I'm going to do you hard this time," and did, ruthlessly driving for his own pleasure and making her come, too. She thought she would faint this time, the spasms were so intense. She clutched his sweaty sides and completely gave herself up to him. This savage lovemaking in the dark, rainy New Orleans night was more intensely carnal than anything she could have imagined doing, and she didn't want it to end.
This time, he slept, too, holding her so close that sweat formed between their bodies, sealing them together.
The night felt endless. She woke to the same rain and darkness, the hot damp air, the contrasting coolness of the rain-laden breezes. She couldn't see a clock anywhere, wouldn't have looked at it in any case. She kissed her way down his body. By the time she reached his groin, he was awake, erect, groaning. She kissed his shaft, licked the length of it, and felt it grow even more, then she took him fully in her mouth. Torment was a two-way street, and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she had.
She didn't know how many times they made love that night. Her mind was in a fog, her body completely turned over to him. When she was so exhausted she simply couldn't respond again, he cradled her in his arms and brushed a tender kiss across her eyes. "Sleep, darlin'," he whispered in that black magic voice, and it was as if she only needed to hear the words before she let go of consciousness.
* * *
Chapter 10
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Hayes was a careful man. He hired competent people, but when someone told him a job was done, he didn't necessarily take it for granted that the job had been done to his satisfaction.
He made it a point to double-check everything. His caution paid off, letting him catc
h and deal with irritants before they became major problems. The people who worked for him considered him a major pain in the ass, but the people for whom he worked were eternally grateful for his attention to detail.
When Clancy called and reported he had taken care of his assignment, Hayes believed him; Clancy was damn good at what he did. But he still contacted another source to have a copy of the police report on the house fire, as well as the newspaper account, faxed to him on a private, untraceable line. He was competent with computers but more comfortable with older technology; he thought the security was better. With computers, who knew what little puke in Hoboken or somewhere was taking a peek at everything he sent or received?
His source called back the next day. "I can't find anything about a Karen Whitlaw's house burning," he said. "There was a house fire, but the house belonged to a couple named Hoerske."
Hayes cursed. It wasn't like Clancy to burn the wrong house. "Do me a favor," he said. "Look in the phone book, and see what Karen Whitlaw's address is."
"Okay. Just a minute." The sound of riffling pages came through the phone line. "Whitfield… Whitfield… Whitlaw. There's no Karen Whitlaw listed, but there is a K. S. Whitlaw."
"Hold on." Hayes checked the file he had on Dexter Whitlaw's wife and daughter. The daughter's middle name was Simone. "That would be her."
