Memory of Murder

darkness. His head swooped down, blotting out what light there was, and his mouth found hers unerringly.

She gave a gasp and sank into it-the sheer pleasure of being kissed, held, stroked. Sank into it as she would a hot tub, sighing with the pure sensual pleasure.

After a while-she lost all track of time-he lifted his head and said in a soft growl, “Maybe I’m not all that kind. Maybe I just want to make love to you. Did you ever think of that?”

She laughed, and just as softly growled back, “That’s okay, too. Make love to me, then.”

Her eyes closed and she didn’t notice or care; her body was doing what it wanted, with no direction from her thinking mind. She felt his lips brush her eyelids…his hands cradle her head while his thumbs stroked her cheeks…so lightly, so tenderly.

And it was the tenderness that was her undoing.

Prickles washed through her body in a stinging shower, a wave of longing that caught her unawares. It was pain, yes, but different from the other, the pain that had weighed her down and brought her to this almost- stranger’s bed in the dead of night. This was bright and breathtaking, and she let herself be carried on it, into a realm of fantasy…of possibility…of what if?

What if this wasn’t just for tonight, but for always?

What if it wasn’t just making love, but love?

What if I love him?

What if he could love me?

What if he does?

So easily, the lines between fantasy and reality blurred and ran, like watercolors in the rain. She felt as if she’d always known him, this man who held her and touched her so tenderly. His hands seemed to know her body better than she did. His mouth, his fingers, his body came into her most intimate places, not as explorers, but as loved ones welcomed home.

She felt safe in his hands. Beyond the gentleness, there was strength in this man. How did she know that? It wasn’t something she asked herself, then, her mind having disengaged from her body. It was just something her body knew. She was safe in his hands.

“Make love to me,” she whispered, not even remembering she’d already said it.

He didn’t reply with words, but simply did as she asked.

He’d never known a woman like this, so completely immersed in the act of making love, so utterly without reservation, self-consciousness or inhibition. Yet, not in a frantic way. Her body was pliant…relaxed, her movements so languorous and sweet he felt as though he could sink into her and lose himself there completely.

Her joy, her pleasure, her delight in his touch, his kisses, made him feel bigger, better, stronger. More. More of everything good and admirable than he’d ever felt in his life before. He felt blessed and yet humbled, as if he’d been entrusted with a great treasure to cherish and protect. Which should have been daunting, perhaps, except he also felt completely up to the task. Not only that, it seemed to him he was the only man alive who would be.

She sighed when he kissed her…swelled under his hands. He no longer heard the rain or saw the darkness, because the world was her, and him…nothing more. Just the two of them and then, so easily, so naturally, one.

Being inside her seemed so right, the only place he could be, then, the only place he felt he belonged, as if he’d come home after a long, long time in exile. He felt a swelling in his chest, an unanticipated sting behind his eyelids, and quickly ducked his head to claim her mouth again, releasing emotions in a way he could understand and allow-in passion.

Reaching under her, he drew her more closely against him and seated himself even more deeply inside her, and felt her move with him as if she were truly part of him, not a separate person at all. He didn’t ask himself, How can this be? How is it possible I’ve never made love with this woman before? Not then. It was only later that it occurred to him to wonder, and ask: Where was the strangeness, the getting-to- know-you awkwardness that went with having sex with someone for the first time?

But just then, at that moment, he could only go with it, immerse himself in it as she did.

They moved together in the same rhythms for an unmeasured time, letting their bodies set the pace, tuned to each other as if they listened to the same music. And when the music rose finally to its crescendo, they rode it out together, bodies arching, swelling, pulsing and clenching in tandem. They clung together, first in something akin to terror, then exhilaration, and finally, a kind of thankfulness…and sweet relief.

Afterward, they lay intertwined and uncovered, bodies slick and humid where they touched, already beginning to feel the chill where they didn’t. Even so, when he took his arm away from her to reach for the covers, she gave a little growl of protest.

He laughed softly and kissed her forehead, and when he had them covered up, gathered her close again. He heard her sigh, and for a few minutes more, let himself drift in the kind of contentment he hadn’t believed himself capable of. But as his body cooled, inevitably so did his mind. Reason returned. And responsibility.

Still holding Lindsey close to his side with one arm, he lay back on the pillows and swore, muttering under his breath.

From her nest on his shoulder the murmur came, “Regretting it already?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Regretting my own stupidity, I guess. And no-” he raised up to touch a kiss to her forehead “-I didn’t mean that, either. What I mean is, I didn’t even think about protection. I’m sorry. I think I even have a couple of condoms over there in my wallet. I just…forgot.”

“You can’t get me pregnant,” she said after a moment. “And I haven’t had sex since my divorce. I think I would know if I was…you know.”

“And I was tested fairly recently-got sliced up by a suspect in a domestic abuse case, so they tested me as a precaution. But that’s-”

“Is that what this is?” Her fingers traced the newly healed scar on his side, making him wince involuntarily. “Oh-sorry,” she cried. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t. But what I was going to say was, that’s no excuse. I should have remembered.” He let out a breath. “Well-”

He stopped, but the words he’d been about to say hung there between them, unspoken: Next time…

Would there be a next time? Tonight…maybe. Even probably-or today, since it was already Sunday. But beyond that? He couldn’t see it.

Her voice came, quietly and without much expression. “You do regret it, don’t you.”

“How could I regret what was probably one of the most amazing experiences of my life?” He felt exasperated, cornered, unnerved by his own unprecedented honesty.

She was silent for a moment, absorbing what he’d said. Then she drew a shaken breath and said, “It was for me, too. But I’m betting you’re not thinking the same things I am right now.”

“For instance?” It was a growl of futile belligerence.

“You don’t want this-what just happened between us-to happen again.”

“Not true.” Again…futile. His body was already calling him a liar, and she knew it.

“I don’t mean tonight,” she said, with both a smile and sadness in her voice. “You said once, this-us-is a bad idea. You still think so.”

“It’s not a matter of what I think, or want,” he said slowly, as if speaking to someone of limited intelligence. “It’s just what is.”

“Why? Is it because I’m part of a case you’re working on?”

“Partly.”

“What, is it against the law for a police officer to be involved with someone connected with an open case? Even if she’s not a suspect?”

He stirred restlessly, his thoughts becoming scrambled…scattered. Fatigue, he wondered, or the distraction of her body lying warm and round against him. “No, not against the law.”

“Department policy, then?” She stirred, too, and he felt her hand move, innocent of design, across his belly.

His voice seemed to come from there-deep in his belly. “Yeah, probably. Ethically…”