“Will it help with the butterflies?”
“Helps with all sorts of things.” Stepping back, he goes to the cupboard above the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of vodka. I turn off the stove, gather glasses and set them on the counter.
Scratching at the window draws my attention and I see the orange tabby, his face covered with a frosting of snow.
“Cold night for that little guy.” John crosses to the door and opens it. The cat darts inside, hisses at John, then disappears into the living room.
“He’s warming up to you,” I say.
“I’ve got that stray cat thing going.” He pours into our glasses and raises his to mine. “Here’s to the end of a long and difficult case.”
I clink my glass to his, and try not to wonder if the case is really over. We knock back our drinks without breaking eye contact. I know what’s going to happen next. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about acting on the reckless impulses running hot in my blood.
He takes my glass and sets in on the counter. The next thing I know I’m being swept into his arms. “What are you doing?”
“I was thinking about trying to get you into bed.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
He kisses me, but this time it’s not tentative. It’s the kiss of a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. “So are you okay with this?” he whispers.
He’s asking about the rape, I realize. “At one point in my life, I would have run away from this moment and never looked back. Or maybe I would have sabotaged whatever relationship we’d begun.”
“I thought I had the market cornered on the relationship-busting thing,” he says.
“You don’t.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Probably.”
He looks at me with those dark, intense eyes. “No pretenses, Kate. It’s just us. You and me.”
“And our baggage.”
Laughing outright, he carries me down the hall and starts into the first bedroom.
“Wrong room,” I say.
“Sorry.” He backs into the hall and carries me into my bedroom.
He puts me down next to the bed. His eyes go to the old kerosene lamp on my night table. “Does that thing work?”
“It belonged to my mamm.” One of the few things I have of hers. “Matches are in the night table.”
“Don’t go anywhere.” He softens the words with a smile.
My nerves are snapping now. I watch as he removes the globe from the lamp. A match flares, then flickering light fills the room. He crosses to me, sets his hands on my shoulders and gazes into my eyes. “It’s been a long time for me.” He glances away, then back. “Not since Nancy.”
“Two years is a long time to be alone.”
“Plenty of demons to keep me company.”
I think about everything I’ve read or heard about him, and I wonder if the stories are true. If he went rogue after his wife and kids were murdered. I wonder if he would tell me the truth if I asked. I wonder if I really want to know.
He slides his hands to the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift my arms and he pulls it over my head. His gaze flicks to my bra, skims down my belly, lower. He runs his hands through my hair, mussing it. His fingers linger on either side of my face, then he snags the straps of my bra with his thumbs and tugs them over my shoulders.
Cool air washes over my breasts, and I shiver. I’m keenly aware of his hands going to the fly of my jeans. His fingers tremble as he unfastens the button, then tugs down the zipper. Self-consciousness creeps over me. Needing something to do with my hands, I reach for the buttons of his shirt. But my fingers are shaking and I fumble them.
John takes my hands in his and kisses my knuckles. “How is it that you can chase a madman into the woods in the dead of night and not even break a sweat, but when it comes to this, you’re shaking so hard you can’t even manage the buttons on my shirt?”
“I think if push came to shove, I could probably kick your ass, Tomasetti.”
He grins. “I think you probably could, too.”
I try to smile, end up flushing hotly. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Yes you are.” He touches his mouth to my forehead. “Don’t be nervous. It’s only me.”
He unbuttons his shirt and it opens to a solid chest covered with a thatch of dark hair. He’s muscular, but not buff. Thin, but it’s a long-distance-runner kind of thin. My thoughts evaporate when he tugs my jeans down my hips. I step out of them, then watch as he kicks his own slacks aside.
His touch is electric, positive and negative charges skittering over every nerve ending in my body. Slowly, he backs me to the bed, pushes me back and comes down on top of me. Arousal comes in a flash flood. It courses through me with every hammer strike beat of my heart. I arch, wanting him, wanting this moment, wanting too much.
As John eases his body into mine, I feel as if we’re the center of the universe and a kind God has blessed two imperfect people with a perfect moment.
CHAPTER 30