A Perfect Obsession. Heather Graham
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until they were certainly clean—and their sense of hunger and need was great. Then they stepped out of the shower, reached for towels, more or less forgot the concept of them and stumbled onto the bed in Kieran’s near-dark room, and back into one another’s arms. Once there, they eschewed foreplay. She crawled atop him and straddled him, and he entered her, the heat of his body bursting within her. They made love, again and again, their lips locked as they climaxed each time with a ferocity that left Kieran breathless. She marveled at it, amazed that she was with him, that the world could be so good, that sex was such an amazement every time.
He pulled her down into his arms and held her and stroked her hair. The glow of aftermath and a sense of warmth and security enveloped her.
And then she realized that he was lying there awake, no doubt thinking about the day once again.
And he picked up right where he had left off.
“Liar.”
“Pardon?” Warmth and serenity slipped away.
“That man. Brent Westwood. He’s a liar. I can’t prove it. There’s no way, really. Jeannette Gilbert is dead. But, in my gut, I know it. There’s no way in hell that man is the mystery lover Jeannette alluded to in her interviews. He’s a liar.” He smiled grimly as he stroked her face. “I will, however,” he assured her, “discover the truth.”
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