It always happens when he's teetering on the edge of sleep, that most unwelcome memories resurface in spite of his best efforts. Sometimes they're not about blood-drenched sheets and smiling faces; there are darker things he's unwilling to admit, least of all to himself.
All of a sudden he's back into that dark hall, tied up to a chair with his enemy leaning over his shoulder. He struggles to focus on Red John's cryptic words, to prevent his mind from going there.
However, he's well aware he has no power to fight it.
The serial killer's hand leaves a path of fire all over his chest, sliding dangerously low. His whole body stiffens at the first touch, a shudder of revulsion running down his spine.
He shuts his eyes firmly, but can't stop his own natural reaction to the caress. His breath is ragged; he bites the inside of his cheek and swallows down a scream.
When his head lolls back in surrender he feels his foe's breath hot on his neck.
"You're beautiful," Red John says softly, and then he's gone.
As much as he loathes the man, Jane now craves his touch more than he craves his blood.