stroking hands, enticing her until her inner muscles eased and began to clasp his rigid length, until her breath came in rhythmic gasps and her hips began to move. “Now,” she said in a choked tone, clinging to him and closing her mind to everything else except him.
For tonight, for now, there was nothing else, just the man and the night, and that was all she needed.
Chapter Four
JACLYN SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning and, bemused, stood there listening to the slight snoring sound Eric was making: not really a snore, but more than just breathing. It sounded almost like a soft growl rumbling, barely audible, in his throat: a subconscious warning to any nearby predators maybe?
She silently picked up her pajamas, guided by the faint glow of the night-light in the bathroom, and tiptoed out of the room—not just to let him sleep, but because she didn’t want to startle him awake. Last night when she’d let him in she’d been so focused on the feel and smell and taste of him, on satisfying that incredibly strong sexual urge, that she hadn’t noticed anything else. After their second bout of lovemaking, though, she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and spied the big black pistol lying on the bedside table. How could she have missed that when they were fighting to get each other out of their clothes? She felt as if she’d stepped over a rattlesnake without seeing it, or something like that.
She was uneasy with guns; she didn’t know anything about them, and didn’t want to learn. Never mind that she was a born-and-bred Southerner; she didn’t go hunting, she went to the theater and shopping, which perhaps was a different kind of hunting but so far hadn’t required any weapon other than a credit card.
Her father wasn’t an outdoorsman, and neither was her ex-husband. In fact, the closest her ex came to the outdoors was when he went to a football game and actually sat in a stadium, drinking beer and feeling manly even though he didn’t particularly care for football, and did it only because it enhanced his image as a lawyerly good old boy. His saving grace, Jaclyn remembered, was that he’d had a sense of humor about it. Steve wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t the guy for her.
The fact was, she’d never been around guns, had never slept with a man who came to bed armed. What would happen if she shook him awake? Would he grab for the gun? She didn’t want to find out, so she was extra careful not to make any noise as she eased the bedroom door closed.
Now what?
That was a question with as many layers as an onion. The first and most obvious answer was to go to the second bathroom. After relieving herself—and noting that sex was evidently like exercise, that unless you did it regularly an energetic bout made you sore—she put on her pajamas, got a drink of water, and combed her fingers through her hair because her brush was in her bedroom.
Next up: coffee.
She put on the coffee, and while it was brewing she stood in the kitchen with a hundred things running through her mind. Thinking about Eric made her uneasy, so she focused on work. She had a lot to do today, which meant she had to get an early start. Getting an early start meant she had to dislodge the cop from her bed and send him on his way so she could get ready. Dislodging him meant she had to wake him up. Waking him up meant she might be taking her life in her hands, depending on how jumpy he was, though probably he didn’t go for his gun first thing. After all, if cops regularly shot the women they slept with, it would be all over the news.
Well, that was a comforting thought. Not.
Too late, she realized that she should have awakened Eric before she ever got out of bed, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t wanted him to see her with bed head, or maybe try to kiss her while she had morning breath, or, God forbid, hear her peeing. None of that ever seemed to bother men, but it sure as hell bothered her.
For tonight, for now, there was nothing else, just the man and the night, and that was all she needed.
Chapter Four
JACLYN SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning and, bemused, stood there listening to the slight snoring sound Eric was making: not really a snore, but more than just breathing. It sounded almost like a soft growl rumbling, barely audible, in his throat: a subconscious warning to any nearby predators maybe?
She silently picked up her pajamas, guided by the faint glow of the night-light in the bathroom, and tiptoed out of the room—not just to let him sleep, but because she didn’t want to startle him awake. Last night when she’d let him in she’d been so focused on the feel and smell and taste of him, on satisfying that incredibly strong sexual urge, that she hadn’t noticed anything else. After their second bout of lovemaking, though, she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and spied the big black pistol lying on the bedside table. How could she have missed that when they were fighting to get each other out of their clothes? She felt as if she’d stepped over a rattlesnake without seeing it, or something like that.
She was uneasy with guns; she didn’t know anything about them, and didn’t want to learn. Never mind that she was a born-and-bred Southerner; she didn’t go hunting, she went to the theater and shopping, which perhaps was a different kind of hunting but so far hadn’t required any weapon other than a credit card.
Her father wasn’t an outdoorsman, and neither was her ex-husband. In fact, the closest her ex came to the outdoors was when he went to a football game and actually sat in a stadium, drinking beer and feeling manly even though he didn’t particularly care for football, and did it only because it enhanced his image as a lawyerly good old boy. His saving grace, Jaclyn remembered, was that he’d had a sense of humor about it. Steve wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t the guy for her.
The fact was, she’d never been around guns, had never slept with a man who came to bed armed. What would happen if she shook him awake? Would he grab for the gun? She didn’t want to find out, so she was extra careful not to make any noise as she eased the bedroom door closed.
Now what?
That was a question with as many layers as an onion. The first and most obvious answer was to go to the second bathroom. After relieving herself—and noting that sex was evidently like exercise, that unless you did it regularly an energetic bout made you sore—she put on her pajamas, got a drink of water, and combed her fingers through her hair because her brush was in her bedroom.
Next up: coffee.
She put on the coffee, and while it was brewing she stood in the kitchen with a hundred things running through her mind. Thinking about Eric made her uneasy, so she focused on work. She had a lot to do today, which meant she had to get an early start. Getting an early start meant she had to dislodge the cop from her bed and send him on his way so she could get ready. Dislodging him meant she had to wake him up. Waking him up meant she might be taking her life in her hands, depending on how jumpy he was, though probably he didn’t go for his gun first thing. After all, if cops regularly shot the women they slept with, it would be all over the news.
Well, that was a comforting thought. Not.
Too late, she realized that she should have awakened Eric before she ever got out of bed, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t wanted him to see her with bed head, or maybe try to kiss her while she had morning breath, or, God forbid, hear her peeing. None of that ever seemed to bother men, but it sure as hell bothered her.
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