Callaway Country. Annette Broadrick
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legs, resisting the urge to plunder. Instead, he wanted to take his time and explore her. He leaned down and licked the hardened tips of her breasts, one after the other, smiling when she shivered.
“Are you still cold?” he asked.
“No. Oh, no. I feel as though I’m burning up inside, waiting for you to take care of the fire.”
He rewarded her honesty with a kiss that represented all the years of missing her, loving her, grieving for the loss of her in his life. Then he began a trail of kisses down her body, wanting to memorize her with his mouth and tongue.
She cried out when he touched her through her thick curls. He savored her for a moment before trailing kisses down her inner thigh and the back of her knee. He glanced up at her as she lay with her eyes closed and her neck arched slightly, her body glowing in the dim light from the moon.
He moved to the other knee and began his slow way back up, pausing once again at the apex of her thighs, giving her the pleasure he denied himself.
She groaned out his name, her breathing uneven. No longer able to lie quiet, she undulated, silently begging him to enter her.
He could no longer ignore her plea. In one long stroke of possession he moved inside her, fighting to maintain his control until he brought her to the very peak they both sought.
She wrapped her legs around him, holding him tightly against her, and met each thrust with her own. She chanted his name with each movement, placing hot kisses on his mouth, his cheeks and his jaw.
It had been so long—too long—but he could no longer hang on to his control. Instead, he increased his pace, moving faster, his rhythmic movement driving them both onward. He felt her tension increase until her involuntary spasms signaled that she had gone over the edge, taking him with her.
When he felt his own body release he cried out her name as he tumbled into the darkness of oblivion once more.
The persistent br-ring of a nearby phone drifted into Clay’s consciousness, forcing him out of an almost unconscious state. Without opening his eyes he fumbled for the receiver and pulled it to his ear. “H’lo,” he mumbled.
“Rise and shine, Callaway. We’ve got work to do.” Sam’s rumbling voice was like a shock of cold water.
“Yes, sir,” he responded automatically.
“Meet me downstairs at the coffee shop in twenty minutes.” Sam hung up the phone.
Clay let the receiver drop back into the cradle with a groan. He felt as though he’d just fallen into bed. He forced his eyes open to a squint in order to see his watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He hadn’t gotten to bed until after two, but he was thankful to have gotten at least a few hours of rest.
He rolled over onto his back and only then remembered that he was sharing the bed with Melanie.
Melanie. Had he made love to her last night? Or had he dreamed it? He couldn’t remember what was fatigue-induced fantasy and what had actually happened. He definitely recalled dreaming at one point, but not about Melanie. He’d been dreaming about—
He sat up in bed and pushed the covers away. He had to get downstairs right now. This was the day he was officially assigned to work with a woman he’d hoped never to see again.
He glanced over his shoulder and met the horrified gaze of the woman in bed with him.
He closed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating. Melanie’s eyes were a gorgeous black. The eyes staring at him were a pansy-blue. There was only one woman he’d ever known with eyes that color.
Pamela McCall.
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