When She Dreams (Burning Cove #6)(68)

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

She smiled. “You make me feel beautiful.”

He continued across the room to the bed and lowered himself beside her. When he started to kiss her she stopped him with a finger on his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“I was just wondering if most men travel with a tin of condoms.”

He groaned. “I have absolutely no idea and zero interest in the answer. I bought mine from the pharmacist on Tyler Avenue in Adelina Beach the day before we left for Burning Cove.”

“Really?”

“He keeps them behind the counter. Guarantees they are the best quality.”

He started to pull her closer. She moved her hand to his shoulder, stopping him again.

“You planned to seduce me?” she asked.

She sounded curious. Intrigued. Not angry.

“I don’t have that much faith in my powers of seduction, and even though I haven’t been in the private detective business very long, I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea to sleep with the client. So no, there was no plan.” He paused. “But deep down I had hope.”

She brightened. “So did I.”

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.