He met her eyes. Beautiful eyes he’d come to know so well, changing with laughter, passion, determination, empathy, like prisms in their beauty.
He hoped he had come to read them well.
He lowered his head and found her lips; she returned the kiss with a sweet fever, lips soft and sure, parting, welcoming, moist and warm.
The towel fell from her body.
He could feel her naked breasts against his chest, pressing against the soft fabric of his T-shirt, and the vibrant heat and curve of her body against his boxers.
He should have been telling himself that this was entirely wrong.
Instead, he was telling himself it was right, that it had been coming. They were deeply involved in so much together, in a case they’d both see through, work tirelessly at, and they were, in a strange sense, connected.
Logic didn’t matter. Wanting her had been growing in him explosively. It wasn’t that he didn’t have control; he did.
This was a fully conscious decision.
Her fingers slipped up under his shirt and trailed down his back, nails a soft but erotic brush against his flesh. He cupped her head and let the kiss intensify, his free hand running the length of her back.
They moved backward, a motion oddly synced, and fell upon the bed. He shrugged off his clothing, then rose above her, cradling her into his arms and drawing them side by side, holding fast to the kiss at first, then easing his lips from hers, letting them fall over her throat and shoulders and breasts. And below.
There was nothing like her touch in return—the sweeping caress of her fingers, the lightest whisper of her breath against his flesh. Every little movement seemed to heighten the raw hunger and desire between them; they played and touched, kissed, tasted, dove into the sweetest intimacy, until the agony of being separate overrode the soaring ecstasy of each of those touches, and he thrust deep within her, finding a new explosion of sensation so rich it seemed to rock the room.
She was a fluid wave beneath him, and he felt her every surge and writhe.
Their lips met again as they savored the wild sweep of the storm that had come between them, long awaited, and yet so sudden.
Wild as the ride was, the climax was ever-more combustible, not just an explosion, he thought whimsically when thought returned to him, but the demolition of a city block.
Finally, he lay at her side, bringing her to curl against him, amazed at the time it was taking him just to breathe normally again.
“Um. I swear, I didn’t plan that,” he said after a while.
She raised on an elbow to look at him, amused. “Really? I have to admit, I have been trying to figure out how to plan something just like what happened.”
He arched his head back, studying her face.
“I kind of thought you didn’t like me.”
“I guess I wasn’t really a team player at first. I didn’t know...that the case would get worse and worse.”
“You’re an incredible team player,” he assured her.
“And you mean that how?”
He laughed softly. “In several ways. Right now, I’m damned glad that you’re my partner.”
She smiled.
He stretched, and then started to get out of the bed.
“You’re not seriously going to go sleep on the sofa now, are you?” she asked him.
He smiled. “No. I did something against the grain. I left my gun out there.”
“Oh,” she said. “Maybe that’s why we shouldn’t—”
“Nope. I told you—this wasn’t a plan, it was just a moment of...wow,” he finished softly. “When I figured out what the brand was...all that went through my mind was telling you. I’ll be right back.”
He secured his gun, double-checked the doors and the windows and returned.
She was waiting, and swept her arms around him. He met her eyes, her beautiful, crystal, ever-changing eyes.
“Should we sleep?” she asked.
“Soon. Not quite yet,” he told her.
They made love again. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
And then they slept.
When morning came, with coffee on, with them both dressed and ready for the day, he knew soon it would be time to explain to her just exactly why he knew so much about the People’s Paradise.
* * *
Amy met Pete Perkins, owner and operator of the Dixie Inn, when they were leaving. Hunter introduced her as Special Agent Amy Larson of the FDLE, and she realized the man knew Hunter was here on a case.
“Glad to have you here. There’s nothing down in Micanopy. I mean, we are a small town here, but a normal small town. Old South, yes, and some people have old-fashioned ideas, but we’re mostly law-abiding and straight arrows. We have a nice ability to agree to disagree when we have different notions about stuff. Now down in Maclamara...”
“Isn’t the town a bit of a rural extension of this one?” Amy asked.
“Lord, no,” the man assured her. He was a pleasant-looking man, about six-feet-even, gray-haired and lean. “No, I...we’re mostly conservative, sometimes liberal, but...normal. Those guys down there...well, it doesn’t surprise me a poor young woman was murdered. Have they got any more on that, Mr. Forrest?”
“We’re working it. That’s why we’re back here.”
“You think those murders down south are connected.”
“We do.”
“You be careful. There are a lot of guns down there. Why, there’s a preacher down there, says his folks need to bring their guns to church. Guns—in church. Godly men need to protect themselves, their children and their faith, and if that means guns, then each man should have his and know how to use it. And there’s no law against it. So...anyway, I’ll just stay here. We may not be the best people in the world, but we’re surely not the worst—and we’re normal. You two take care, you hear me?”
“We will, and thanks,” Hunter told him.
Hunter’s hand came to rest on the small of Amy’s back. She didn’t mind the touch. She wouldn’t have minded it before last night; it was nothing more than a hint they needed to politely disengage and get moving.
Except now, this morning, it was a reminder of their touches the night before.
She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so good, so complete.
She cared for Hunter. Liked him, respected him, more.
Maybe it was natural with all they’d been through? Maybe it was just about circumstance, and when this was all over...