He suddenly felt on top of the world. “You did?”
“After I met you I finally understood what was wrong with the hero in my novel. That night I rewrote him, and now he works perfectly. You inspired me.”
He stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m very serious. My first version was boring, but after we met I realized I was going about things the wrong way.”
“I don’t think I want to hear any more of this.”
“I understand,” she said, earnest now. “You’re afraid I’m judging you by an impossible standard—the archetype of the ideal romantic hero. But that’s not true.”
“It’s not?”
“A true hero is never perfect. If he were, he wouldn’t be a hero, you see.”
“I think I’m losing the thread of this conversation.”
“There’s nothing heroic about perfection. Also, it’s boring, and the last thing one wants in a novel is a boring hero.”
“If you will stop talking, I will try very hard not to bore you.”
“Okay.”
He used the pad of one thumb to gently pry her lower lip downward. When her mouth was open he cupped the back of her head, urged her closer, and kissed her, long and deep. He forgot about the alarming discussion of heroes and let himself fall into the deep waters of the kiss.
He eased her onto her back and prowled her sleek curves with his hand, exploring her secrets. When he found the heat between her thighs he began to experiment. She responded immediately.
“This is how it’s supposed to be,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he said.
He stroked the small, taut bud at the top of her sex. She pushed against his hand, seeking more pressure.
“Tell me what you want,” he said against her throat. “Tell me how you want it.”
With a small, sharp gasp she reached down, found his hand, and positioned his fingers.
“There,” she said. “Right there.”
She guided his hand until he found the cadence and pressure she wanted. He fought the demands of his own body, wanting to savor the thrill of watching her achieve satisfaction and the intoxicating knowledge that she had found that satisfaction with him.
The tension inside her was unmistakable. Her whole body tightened. She clawed at the sheet with her free hand.
He managed to hold himself in check until he sensed the first subtle ripples of her climax shivering through her. She took her guiding hand off his and dug her nails into his back.
He elevated her knees and drove slowly, steadily into her hot, snug core. Her mouth opened on a soundless cry. He moved inside her, sinking himself to the hilt again and again.
“This is so real,” Maggie whispered. “So real.”
His release pounded through him in endless waves that left him exhausted and at peace. The past could not touch him in this moment. Neither could the future. He was with Maggie and all was right with the world.
* * *
After a while he managed to rouse himself long enough to ask the only question that mattered.
“Are you thinking about your novel?” he said into the pillow.
“No.”
“Hallelujah.”
Chapter 40
Sam emerged from the bathroom, settled back into the warm, rumpled bed, and flopped onto his back. He folded one arm beneath his head. The position gave him a good view of the ceiling.
Maggie rolled onto her side to face him and levered herself up on one elbow. She leaned over and kissed his chest. When she raised her head, she was smiling a sensual smile, and he was pretty sure her eyes were actually glowing.
She was warm and soft and damp and inviting. The intimate scent of satisfying sex drifted in the atmosphere. This was as good as it got. A smart man would not shatter the mood with unnecessary conversation. In his experience, after-the-act discussions were a bad idea. The last time he’d had one that had appeared to go well he had found himself driving to Reno with a beautiful woman to start a doomed marriage.
Keep your mouth shut, Sage.
But people rarely take good advice, even when they give it to themselves, he thought then. Why be the exception to the rule?
“What did you mean when you said this is so real?” he asked. “You hadn’t even finished yet.”
“I didn’t need to finish to know it was real.” She threaded her fingertips through the hair of his chest and tugged gently. “It felt real. That was all that mattered.”
He thought about that for a moment and then abandoned the effort to decipher what the hell she was saying. He pulled his arm out from under the pillow and turned onto his side to face her.
“What does real mean?” he said.
“It felt like real passion. Shared passion.”
“As opposed to?”
“Being assaulted by a vampire.”
He sat up fast. “I may not be the most exciting man you’ve ever met, but I hope to hell that going to bed with me was better than being attacked by a vampire.”
“Sorry.” She lay back against the pillows and looked up at him. “I probably used the wrong visual image.”
“Think so?”
“You’re getting mad, aren’t you?”
“No.”
Not mad, he thought. Hurt. Probably just his pride. Okay, mad.
“Yes,” he said.
The sensual warmth faded from her eyes. The serious, watchful expression returned.
“When I refer to a vampire, I’m talking about the kind of man who is attracted to a woman like me because he thinks that if he has sex with her he can somehow control her, and that if he controls her he can use her.”
“A woman like you?”
“An extreme lucid dreamer,” she explained.
“You’re talking about men like Oxlade and Guilfoyle?”
“Oxlade isn’t interested in having sex with me. He just wants to run experiments on me. Arthur Guilfoyle would be happy to seduce me if he thought that would get him what he wants, but it would just be business as usual. Make no mistake, both men are extremely annoying, but I wouldn’t classify them as vampires.”
“You seem to know a lot about men like Oxlade and Guilfoyle.”
“I’ve spent years booking appointments with therapists and doctors and analysts who claim to be experts in dreams. Some tried to be helpful. Others were frauds and cons. Several took a genuinely scientific or medical approach. A few were delusional. But there is another category.”
“The vampires?”
She touched his jaw with the tip of a finger. “You are a very smart detective.”
“I told you, I keep up with the literature of the profession.”
“Yes, you did mention that.”
“You’re going to tell me about your close brush with marriage, aren’t you?”
“Only if you want to hear the gory details,” she said.
“I’m not sure I want to hear them, but I need to know what happened to you that left you so gun-shy when it comes to marriage.”
“Nearly two years ago I walked into the office of Dr. Brighton Forrester. He was the first man I had ever met who truly understood me when I explained my dreams and why I wanted to get better control of them. He was—is—a lucid dreamer himself.”
“He dreams the way you do.”
Maggie smiled, but it wasn’t the smile that made him catch his breath. This smile made him want to pound Dr. Brighton Forrester into the ground.
“Yes,” she said. “It was such a relief to be able to talk to someone who didn’t think I was delusional or that I suffered from weak nerves or was prone to hysteria.”
“You fell in love with him?” he asked.
Maggie scrunched up her nose. “I told myself that what I felt was love. I was certainly attracted to Brighton, and he was attracted to me, at least at the beginning. We had so much in common.”
Unlike, say, you and me, Sam thought. He decided he would not dwell on that unwelcome thought, not now.
“Go on,” he said.
“It didn’t hurt that he was handsome, well-educated, and intelligent,” Maggie said. “He was a doctor with a distinguished reputation. My family loved him.”
“What went wrong?”
She winced. “I told you the gossip that circulated after the disaster was not accurate. I did not leave Brighton standing alone at the altar on the day of the wedding.”