through the bedroom into the hall and slanted across the hard muscles in her back. She hung the T-shirt on the doorknob and turned to look at me, her arms crossed over her bare breasts. “You’re not moving,” she said.
“I’m enjoying the view,” I said.
She uncrossed her arms and ran both hands through her hair, arching her back, her ribcage pressing against her skin. She met my eyes again as she kicked off her tennis shoes, then peeled off her socks. She ran her hands over her abdomen and pulled the drawstring on her scrub pants. They fell to her ankles and she stepped out of them.
“Coming out of your stupor yet?” she said.
“Oh, yeah.”
She leaned against the doorjamb, hooked her thumbs in the elastic band of her black panties. She raised an eyebrow as I walked toward her, her smile a wicked thing.
“Oh, would you like to help me remove these, Detective?”
I helped. I helped a lot. I’m swell at helping.
It occurred to me as Grace and I made love in my shower that whenever I think of her, I think of water. We met during the wettest week of a cold and drizzly summer, and her green eyes were so pale they reminded me of winter rain, and the first time we made love, it was in the sea with the night rain bathing our bodies.
After the shower, we lay in bed, still damp, her auburn hair dark against my chest, the sounds of our lovemaking still echoing in my ears.
She had a scar the size of a thumbtack on her collarbone, the price she had paid for playing in her uncle’s barn near exposed nails when she was a kid. I leaned over and kissed it.
“Mmm,” she said. “Do that again.”
I ran my tongue over the scar.
She hooked her leg over mine, ran the edge of her foot against my ankle. “Can a scar be erogenous?”
“I think anything can be erogenous.”
Her warm palm found my abdomen, ran over the hard rubber scar tissue in the shape of a jellyfish. “What about this one?”
“Nothing erogenous about that, Grace.”
“You keep evading me about it. It’s obviously a burn of some sort.”
“What’re you—a doctor?”
She chuckled. “Allegedly.” She ran her palm up between my thighs. “Tell me where it hurts, Detective.”
I smiled, but I doubt it was much of one.
She rose up on her elbow and looked at me for a long time. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly.
I raised my left hand, used the backs of my fingers to brush a strand of hair off her forehead, then allowed the fingers to drop slowly down the edge of her face, along the soft warmth of her throat, and then the small, firm curve of her right breast. I grazed the nipple with my palmas I turned the hand, moved it back up to her face and pulled her down on top of me. I held her so tightly for a moment that I could hear our hearts drumming through our chests like hail falling into a bucket of water.
“My father,” I said, “burned me with an iron to teach me a lesson.”
“Teach you what?” she said.
“Not to play with fire.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “Maybe just that he could. He was the father, I was the son. He wanted to burn me, he could burn me.”
She raised her head and her eyes filled. Her fingers dug into my hair and her eyes widened and reddened as they searched mine. When she kissed me, it was hard, bruising, as if she were trying to suck my pain out.
When she pulled back, her face was wet.
“He’s dead, right?”
“My father?”
She nodded.
“Oh, yeah. He’s dead, Grace.”
“Good,” she said.
When we made love again a few minutes later, it was one of the most exquisite and disconcerting experiences of my life. Our palms flattened against each other and our forearms followed suit and at every point along my body, my flesh and bone pressed against hers. Then her thighs rose up my hips and she took me inside of her as her legs slid down the backs of mine and her heels clamped just below my knees and I felt utterly enveloped, as if I’d melted through her flesh, and our blood had
“I’m enjoying the view,” I said.
She uncrossed her arms and ran both hands through her hair, arching her back, her ribcage pressing against her skin. She met my eyes again as she kicked off her tennis shoes, then peeled off her socks. She ran her hands over her abdomen and pulled the drawstring on her scrub pants. They fell to her ankles and she stepped out of them.
“Coming out of your stupor yet?” she said.
“Oh, yeah.”
She leaned against the doorjamb, hooked her thumbs in the elastic band of her black panties. She raised an eyebrow as I walked toward her, her smile a wicked thing.
“Oh, would you like to help me remove these, Detective?”
I helped. I helped a lot. I’m swell at helping.
It occurred to me as Grace and I made love in my shower that whenever I think of her, I think of water. We met during the wettest week of a cold and drizzly summer, and her green eyes were so pale they reminded me of winter rain, and the first time we made love, it was in the sea with the night rain bathing our bodies.
After the shower, we lay in bed, still damp, her auburn hair dark against my chest, the sounds of our lovemaking still echoing in my ears.
She had a scar the size of a thumbtack on her collarbone, the price she had paid for playing in her uncle’s barn near exposed nails when she was a kid. I leaned over and kissed it.
“Mmm,” she said. “Do that again.”
I ran my tongue over the scar.
She hooked her leg over mine, ran the edge of her foot against my ankle. “Can a scar be erogenous?”
“I think anything can be erogenous.”
Her warm palm found my abdomen, ran over the hard rubber scar tissue in the shape of a jellyfish. “What about this one?”
“Nothing erogenous about that, Grace.”
“You keep evading me about it. It’s obviously a burn of some sort.”
“What’re you—a doctor?”
She chuckled. “Allegedly.” She ran her palm up between my thighs. “Tell me where it hurts, Detective.”
I smiled, but I doubt it was much of one.
She rose up on her elbow and looked at me for a long time. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly.
I raised my left hand, used the backs of my fingers to brush a strand of hair off her forehead, then allowed the fingers to drop slowly down the edge of her face, along the soft warmth of her throat, and then the small, firm curve of her right breast. I grazed the nipple with my palmas I turned the hand, moved it back up to her face and pulled her down on top of me. I held her so tightly for a moment that I could hear our hearts drumming through our chests like hail falling into a bucket of water.
“My father,” I said, “burned me with an iron to teach me a lesson.”
“Teach you what?” she said.
“Not to play with fire.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “Maybe just that he could. He was the father, I was the son. He wanted to burn me, he could burn me.”
She raised her head and her eyes filled. Her fingers dug into my hair and her eyes widened and reddened as they searched mine. When she kissed me, it was hard, bruising, as if she were trying to suck my pain out.
When she pulled back, her face was wet.
“He’s dead, right?”
“My father?”
She nodded.
“Oh, yeah. He’s dead, Grace.”
“Good,” she said.
When we made love again a few minutes later, it was one of the most exquisite and disconcerting experiences of my life. Our palms flattened against each other and our forearms followed suit and at every point along my body, my flesh and bone pressed against hers. Then her thighs rose up my hips and she took me inside of her as her legs slid down the backs of mine and her heels clamped just below my knees and I felt utterly enveloped, as if I’d melted through her flesh, and our blood had
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