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“It’s not enough,” he blurted out, harshly. “I want more.”
She just gazed up at him, looking confused. He gave her an impatient little shake. “I want more,” he repeated, louder.
She looked bewildered, but willing. “Ah…OK,” she offered, timidly. “Take it, then. You can have it all. It’s yours. Everything.”
All. Everything. That was good. He could work with that.
Then they were kissing, dying for more of that magical whatever it was that they made together, out of nothing, out of nowhere. A mystery, made of energy and heat, out of ache and want.
He pushed her down onto the bed, lips locked, fitting his body to hers. Feeling her silent welcome as she arched and spread, wiggling against him until his cock could find its way in, then the long clinging slide. Arms clutching, legs twining as they rocked and plunged, sighing, gasping. No technique or style, just raw emotion. The bite of her nails in his back were points of light in the heaving turbulence. They thundered over the top and down, into the heart of a violent climax.
Reality crept back, with relentless marching steps. His sweat cooled, trickled down his back, into his ear. The first few times they’d had sex, he’d managed somehow to keep from coming inside her.
Well, hell. He’d warned her. And he still felt like an opportunistic asshole. He pulled away, rolled onto his side. She glowed, in the dim light of the kerosene lamp he’d left burning. So beautiful, he could start up and make this same mistake again, right now.
“I’m sorry.” The words rasped out. Hoarse from all the sobbing.
She just nodded, as if it were no big deal. Too used to danger. Her threshold was high. It took a lot of juice to be constantly terrified. There was nothing to say. She touched his cheek. She didn’t say “no problem.” They had nothing but problems. She didn’t say, it’s OK. It wasn’t.
You’re my champion.
That scared him to his bones. He’d always avoided responsibility.
Now he knew why he’d steered clear. It was a ten ton weight of cold, hard rock. Stark fear, of failing her, losing her. Fear that could break him. But all he could do was keep fighting. Hell, he had lots of practice.
* * *
This was ridiculously easy.Zoe was irritated. She could have sent that brain-dead sow Melanie after all. Petrie didn’t even have an alarm. There was a tree that would allow an intruder with no technique at all to clamber onto the kitchen roof and steal over to the bathroom window. Evidently, Samuel Petrie was not as paranoid as a normal cop.
Zoe felt practically insulted.
She slid the window open, and slithered in like a slim shadow. She realized that he just hadn’t gotten around to putting his paranoia into practice. Boxes were piled everywhere. The rooms were empty.
Research had revealed that Petrie was twenty-nine, unmarried. Wealthy family. Ivy League school. He’d decided after graduating to go into police work, to his family’s distress. He’d recently bought his first home in a middling shabby North Portland neighborhood.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Light and chatter of the TV came out, even at 3 AM. She’d waited to the last minute to creep in, but soon she had to rendezvous with the team following McCloud down from Seattle. If he was still awake, she would melt away the way she came. Lots of cops had trouble sleeping. Tomorrow was another day. She angled a tiny mirror around the door, and peeked.
Ah, yes. He was sprawled on the bed, a sheet wound around his hips. Mouth open. Fast asleep, as the TV gabbled. She drifted towards the bed, smiling behind her mask, silent as a whorl of smoke.
She angled the bottle close to his face, admiring the jutting angle of his stubble shadowed jaw, andsquirt—squirt—squirt.
He murmured, but the stuff worked instantly. He wouldn’t stir for hours. In fact, with such a heavy dose, he was liable to sleep through his alarm and wake with a nasty headache tomorrow. Poor baby.
Zoe sat down on the bed next to him. The large bed and low dresser were the only articles of furniture in the room, and they stank of newness. No mirror. Dead giveaway that there was no woman in his life. Only a man could make do with just the mirror above a bathroom sink.
Boxes of clothes were stacked against the wall. A Glock sat on the bedside table, well within reach. So he wasn’t so fearless after all.
His smart phone sat next to the gun. She took it, hooked it up to her own, connecting Hobart’s superfast password cracking program.
It only took about ten minutes before the program sifted out his code, and she was in, downloading the remote spy program. Copying the contents of his device to her own phone, to pore over at her leisure. Hacking was not her specialty. That was how eggheads like Hobart justified their existence. Even so, her level of expertise was higher than that of a normal cyber-criminal. She checked the time. There were a few minutes to kill, so she got into his chats for that day. She formed a grid, plugged the times and messages into it in her head, and found a series that warranted interest, an exchange with a colleague named Trish.
Petrie:did u take any extra dna swabs from the diner
and bifid zigomaticus
Trish:why
Petrie:can’t w8 4 the lab queue my head will pop
