Imola (28 page)

He half rolled away from her and worked his shirt up from his waist. With an awkward arm cross, he managed to get the garment over his head, but his left arm caught in the fabric. The bed shook with his efforts to get it free.

She leaned over and helped free the shackled arm, and it took him a full second to realize that her bare breasts were pressed against his chest and side. His armsfolded around her and pulled her close. They settled together against the single bare pillow.

Her lips reached for his, and the meeting was gentle. She pushed her torso into him, but her kiss was still delicate.

He returned it, just as gently, and felt her lips part and her tongue touch the inside of his upper lip. His tongue met hers.

She pressed firmly into the kiss and emitted what sounded to him like a contented hum. Her nasal exhalations increased in frequency and force, and he detected in them a scent exceeding attractiveness. It was alluring, irresistible. Not a perfumed, artificial odor, but a natural one, a woman one. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get enough of it.

She terminated the kiss and pushed her face into his neck and kissed it before snuggling into a hug. A soft moan let out another flume of her aroma.

He wanted to hold her like that forever. This tenderness, this peaceful embrace, was what he had felt with only one other woman. And he knew that whatever happened next would be ratcheted up way beyond wonderful because of it.

Then it happened. The male brain is a joker, and it presses its gags at the most inopportune times. It spun one more challenge to interfere with his tenderness, derailing the immediacy of his actions without changing their direction. Was she wearing anything below the waist? He had to know. Right then.

The joker had control of his movements, and it commanded his right hand to slowly draw a line down her back, to her hip and her right buttock.

But the joke was turned back. Her hands were on the waistband of his boxers, tugging them downward. Her efforts met resistance, and when she ran her lefthand down to confront the snag, she whispered with a laugh, “Oh, my.”

He helped free the boxers and worked them off each foot with the other. She pressed into him, and their total skin contact spun them into another kiss, this one more forceful and impatient. He heard two long, low moans, one his.

Despite the immediacy of their embrace and kiss, she didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Was she like him? He needed to enjoy the intimacy, explore it, find out what made her enjoy their mutual sensations. Find out what made her feel good. There was plenty of time for the ultimate act of closeness, and he felt a stronger bond was formed by building toward it together, slowly, sharing smaller pleasures along the way. Investigating each other for a better understanding, for a better closeness. Most women he’d been with had totally missed it. They wanted to jump to the grand finale. For him, the abbreviated program didn’t warrant curtain calls.

His hands moved on her, caressing, while his brain took mental notes of each response. He dwelled on the positive ones, reveling in his ability to give her pleasure. To his surprise, her hands were equally busy and equally adept. Was she making entries in a mental data book of her own?

His right hand slid down the mesa of her stomach, and her legs spread to accept it. It didn’t seem like a reflex act, but rather a conscious movement. And it wasn’t a jerky twitch of want, but a smooth slide of expectation. He touched her gently, and her response was immediate. No mental notes were needed.

Her lips were next to his ear now, and her breathing was fast and rhythmic. The smell of her filled the room.

Her hips fell into motion, mirroring that of hishand. He kept his touch light, steady.

The joker elbowed in. Don’t make her wait any longer, it said. You’ll lose her. Get on with it.

The joke was a wedge of uncertainty. Was he doing the right thing?

He resisted a change, but brought his mouth near her ear. “Do you want me to keep doing this?”

She exhaled her response, “Yes, please.”

And that was the punch line, because her words tickled his ear and enveloped him in her pheromone-laden odor. It made him want her more than ever. And it took all of his self-control to keep her pleasure at the forefront of his intent.

His newfound concentration brought her to within reach of the summit, her rhythmic, openmouthed vocalizations ascending the musical scale. As she reached the top, he felt muscles throughout her body tense. He gently entered her and synchronized his movements with hers, initially keeping pace but then struggling to do so. Her voice filled the room, and her second whole-body contraction vibrated in and out of tetany.

Her arms gripped him tight to constrict his movement, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Wait. Let me get my breath.” She finished off a dozen quick breaths with a delicate kiss on his neck. Her hands ran down his back, barely touching it. “Thank you.”

He scaled his own mountain in brag-unworthy time and fell against her, trying to catch what little oxygen was left in the room.

He enjoyed their closeness for minutes that seemed like hours. From her steady, calm breathing and her caresses, he assumed she felt the same.

She kissed him gently and pulled her head back a couple of inches, interrupting the mood. “I want to tell you something, and I don’t want you to say anything back.” Her voice sounded different. It caught his attention. “Promise me you won’t say anything back.”

His mind took flight. Do women have a joker for a brain, too? He’d never encountered anything like that, anyway.

“Promise me.”

He leaned up on one elbow, towering over her. “Okay. I promise.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He could still smell her odor.

“I love you. I have since before Imola.” She pulled him against her. “Don’t say anything. Just hold me.”

He kept the promise and snuggled against her. He thought he felt the slight hitches of sobs as she burrowed her face into his neck.

He settled into the spiral of relaxation that doomed all postcoital men, when he felt her jerk up in the bed. His faculties were slow.

She leaned over the edge of the bed, and he heard her hand pushing through the contents of her purse. He tried to move, but his muscles were lethargic.

She straightened up and turned toward him.

His sluggishness turned to partial paralysis: he could rise only halfway, but he managed to bring his right hand up in front of his face. All of the yellow signs of caution crowded around the bed, laughing at him. He peered through his fingers.

Something in her hands glinted in the candlelight. She gripped it with both hands, her arms extended. It shook in her grasp.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. His immediate thought was of his background research on Lilith and her demon progeny. How they seduced, then devoured men. He remembered the swipe of Lilin’s razor. He closed his eyes. “No. Please.”

He held his breath and waited.

And nothing happened.

Then he heard a chuckle. He lowered his hand.

She held a small, white jar out toward him.

“What’s that?” His voice came out high-pitched, like a child’s.

She laughed. “Carmex. I can’t get the lid off. Can you help me?” She thrust the jar into his right hand.

The first two tries were unsuccessful but not due to tightness of the lid. His hands didn’t feel like they were attached to his arms. They shook flaccidly like Jell-O salad headed for a picnic over a bumpy road. The lid dislodged on the third try, and he nearly dropped it handing it back to her.

She nodded a thank you. “Whenever I breathe through my mouth a lot, I get chapped lips. I want to head it off.”

The logic sunk in, and Jason let out a wheezing breath. Classic Agnes.

She looked at one hand, then the other, and frowned. “You know what?” She twisted the lid back on the jar and threw it across the room. It hit the far wall and fell to the tiled floor. The lid came loose and rolled on its edge toward the door. She turned to him. “I don’t need that stuff. I know a better way to take care of my lips.” She lunged on top of him and held a strong kiss as long as she could before her giggles broke the seal between them.

Agnes lay awake, propped against the faux wood paneling, cushioned by the thin pillow. Jason’s breathing was regular, calm. He was beyond leg-twitching sleep and into full slumber. She wanted to caress him, hold him in her arms, but she didn’t want to wake him.

She had dreamed about what happened a little earlier, but her dreams didn’t do reality justice. She hadn’t known what to expect physically, but she had a good idea of what she wanted emotionally. And Jason carried her beyond her expectations and wants in both arenas. That’s why she’d told him. She’d known right then what it was to her. There’d been no need to wait.

A frown crinkled her forehead. She hoped he understood her request. She wanted to hear the three words from him. Desperately. But those words had a history in her world. They were the words of her father, said to both daughters in different ways. If Jason had said them, it would have created a crack, an opening. Lilin was lurking, waiting for the smallest opportunity. And those words sliced two ways.

Jason stirred, his eyelids flittering at the early morning glow. He rolled on his back and drifted for a moment and then jerked his eyes full open. He searched, in panic, until he saw her.

Agnes leaned down and kissed him. “Good morning, sweetie.”

He smiled, started to say something, but stopped until he could turn his head away. “Hi. Sorry. Morning breath.”

She pulled on his arms, and he slid to the edge of the bed. He tried to grab a sheet for cover, but she yanked him upright and pulled him across the room to a whitewashed chest of drawers. On its top sat a plastic washbasin, half filled with water, two gallon jugs of water, two washcloths, and two towels. One washcloth was wet; the other appeared dry. Same for the towels.

Agnes turned to the far edge of the chest and poured coffee from a thermos into a Styrofoam cup. She heldout the cup and slid a box of donuts in his direction. She smiled. “I’ve been busy this morning.”

He sipped the coffee, unfazed by his shivering nakedness. “You went out this morning? I didn’t wake up?”

“Yes, and no.” She laughed and dipped the dry washcloth into the basin. “This is going to be cold.” She pressed the cloth to his chest and rubbed a circle before he pulled away, nearly spilling the coffee.

“Jesus.” He looked down past his waist as he slid the cup of coffee onto the chest. “That’s not going to portray me in the best possible light.”

She laughed again. “I saw the best light last night. I can handle this version as long as it isn’t permanent.”

He grabbed her in a hug. “Any colder and it might be.” He kissed her and shivered.

“It’s no colder than the air in here.”

“Feels like it.”

The washcloth headed south.

He grabbed her hand. “About what you said last night. I—”

“Please don’t say it.” She pulled her hand free and brought the cloth to her target. “Okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” He exhaled and immediately pulled in a full shivering breath. “Mind telling me why?”

She pulled close but kept washing. “Last night you showed me. Words weren’t needed. I like it that way. So don’t tell me. Show me.” She leaned back. “Oh, my. I didn’t mean so soon.”

She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top, straddling him. Her kiss was hard but not violent. With a final thrust of her tongue, she planted her left palm on his chest and pushed off of him. Before he could react, sheslid downward, kissing a path down his chest and belly.

Her scent made him dizzy. His mind caught, but only for a second. This was Agnes. And last night, it was Agnes. No doubt. But it was like a weight had been lifted from her. A trapdoor opened allowing another escape—this one emotional. And she was encouraging him. Daring him. To share.

As his pleasure rocketed, his desire to reciprocate gave chase, and he pulled her upward on the bed, rotating with her until he was on top.

He knelt beside her and peeled her jeans and panties off together in a single slow motion. The smile on her face seemed more a dare than permission.

He grabbed her ankles and pushed them upward and outward, the heels close to her hips, and pushed her elevated knees apart. He lowered himself to her and decided to dispense with any of the preliminary intimacy they’d experienced last night. He sensed her agreement and matched her dare.

The GTO eased past Eddie Hahn’s cabin and made the turn toward Inverness. The morning fog had nearly burned off. Tendrils still clung to the tops of trees, holding on in the building breeze. The on again–off again sun presented a strong case for a clear afternoon.

Agnes guided the powerful car through the serpentine turns as if it were an extension of her mind. She looked over at Jason. “Your car will be fine. No one will even know it’s there.”

“I could have followed you.”

She dropped her right hand from the steering wheel and patted his thigh. “You know Detective Bransome pretty well, right?”