A week ago Carter had careened across the rain slicked streets of her city, rescuing a mob boss from execution. In the rearview mirror she had watched as the surprise on Carl Elias's face dissolved into an amused smirk as they jostled together through the uncharted seas of complicity and lawlessness.

From the back of her van, in counterpoint to his glib patter, Elias's wrists had rattled in their old-fashioned cuffs, the racket scratching her mind as she drove through the night in frantic search for safe haven.

It was a good rescue, she was sure of that. The right thing to do in a compromised situation, but still the fall-out was clouded and dangerous, the repercussions dark for both of them.

Less than a week ago Carter had stood over the skinny body of a nameless perp she had shot down in a dirt yard, watching the surprise on his face drain away into submission and then gray nothingness. When she crouched over him, the kid's fingers had twitched in a last gesture of futile aggression as the unfired gun slipped to the dust at her feet.

It was a clean killing, she was sure of that, the only choice in a lousy situation. She knew it was the right thing to do. And she clung to that bright certainty through the murky swill of paperwork, insinuating questions, and official complaints that swamped her after.

Now she felt woozy and unsteady, her mind clogged with the debris of these two desperate acts.

Shocked by Terney's betrayal and the suspension that resulted, her stomach heaved with the recognition that the cops she had trusted were not solid piers she could hold on to, but treacherous anchors dragging her down into the mire of corruption.

Now Terney was gone, fallen down a black hole with no trace and no mourners. She had her suspicions about who was responsible for the disappearance. Fusco's silence was eloquent in its own sketchy way; she didn't blame him for keeping Reese's secret. She found she couldn't really blame Reese either, although she wanted to.

Her balance overthrown with the successive jolts of these queasy discoveries, Carter found herself drawn to Reese's door again.

She hesitated before pounding on the metal surface. It was sticky daylight, they weren't on a case, no weapons drawn, or innocents threatened. She had no excuses or pretexts for stopping by his apartment uninvited.

This visit was unplanned and while Reese was as flexible in his hours as his outlook, it had been a while since they had seen each other and longer since they had last had sex. So she was unsure of the welcome he would offer.

She wasn't even sure herself what she wanted from this visit. Suddenly it seemed presumptuous to test their tentative relationship in this manner; they weren't best buddies or confessional pals. Were they even partners at this point?

But here she was and it wasn't her style to back down in a crisis, even one of her own making.

So she knocked.

After two short raps the door flew open. Reese greeted her with a solemn look, his face drawn and paler than usual, she thought.

No suit jacket, the belt of his dark trousers unbuckled and partly obscured by the loose tails of his white shirt.

The cowlick's steely wires sprang away from his shiny forehead, adding to the frazzled appearance announced by a two-day old stubble. His eyes, hooded and narrow, scanned her face then her body; searching for motive or perhaps assurance that she wasn't trailing trouble in her wake. In her black jeans and heavy leather jacket, she imagined she looked like a fugitive. Which she was, in a way.

With a quick glance at the empty hallway, he stepped back to let her in.

"Joss."

He said her name as an invitation but also as a question, one for which she had no immediate answer.

He didn't retreat into the apartment, but kept them pinned just inside the entrance below the sleeping loft that overhung the doorway. He took up most of the space that way, the span of his shoulders almost blocking out the light from those oversized windows; she felt both trapped and aroused by the intimacy of the setting.

"Fusco told me about the suspension."

Riding up in the elevator, she had already decided what she would not tell him.

"Yeah, I'm just waiting on the inquiry results. It's all I can do right now."

She wanted to hang on to this job, to this work she found so honorable and rewarding. Being a cop wasn't a duty for her now, it was a calling she cherished.

John lowered his voice to a whisper and stepped closer, his breath wafting warm and sweet over her face.

"How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm…"

She wanted to say fine, but that was a lie and they were well past offering misdirections and platitudes to each other.

So she switched to "Okay" as a feeble substitute.

The sound of her voice cracking over the easy word embarrassed her and unbidden her hand flew to her throat. She was so much less than Okay. Her job was endangered for something she didn't do. She was scared: her career, her son, her partner, her life were all threatened and she couldn't see a way out of the mess.

And then it came to her that this strange man standing in front of her was the only person in her life she was neither scared for nor frightened of.

Such a peculiar feature for a dead man, a distinction that made her heart swell and her insides clutch with desire as she considered it.

Peering into her face, John seemed about to speak again.

But, if he wanted to say something comforting in response to her turmoil, he abandoned the idea and instead cupped her cheek with his left hand. Bending down he pressed his lips to hers, the touch dry, the contact light and fleeting. When their lips separated, John didn't pull back, but set his forehead to hers, breathing deeply.

His right hand splayed against her hip, a finger gliding inside the belt loop at her waist. Using that arm as a guide, she slid her hand past his shoulder to his neck, curving her palm to fit the hard line of his jaw. His pulse felt quick and steady under her fingertips.

"Joss."

This time her name slipped out as a prayerful murmur, dense and wet.

Inquiry had transformed into conviction and he passed his right hand to the small of her back, pulling her in closer. She could feel the heat throbbing through her from his chest and stomach, the warm waves pounding beneath her skin in a sturdy rhythm. Without her consciously summoning it, the erotic call and response that drove their interactions was set off all over again.

He was here, solid and real within the circle of her arms, and she held onto him. Not clutching, not desperate, she hoped. Even as the ancient yearning coiled and her gut pitched and trembled again, she was mindful of a reserve she still needed to maintain. They could capsize so easily, loose their moorings completely, if she didn't hold on.

He sighed and gathered her tighter still, as if he would absorb her through his skin if he could. They swayed, hip against hip, and the movement felt like the sea, choppy waters inside her calming into a placid tide for the first time in many weeks. In the interlude that followed, their breathing started to synchronize and the knot inside her chest loosened just a bit.

"I was worried." Still murmuring, his lips now moist, brushed against her cheek.

The lowness of his tone and the urgency reminded her of the last time they had spoken, before Elias, before the shooting, before betrayal and reprimand and suspension.

She remembered hearing sirens in the background and the way John's voice caught and hitched as his attention shifted from her to the drama unfolding around him. Later she had learned about a car crashing over the freeway's side rail, two passengers scrambling from the wreckage to steal a helicopter. She knew right away, the hair-raising escape and the bravado could only be John. He made freeing a criminal mastermind from execution seem boring by comparison.

And today he was the one who was worried about her.

Now he tilted her head up with his hand; she felt like a child's doll as he positioned her just so. Their lips met again, but this time the hesitation had burned off, and his kisses took on a furious intensity. She had to cling to his shoulders to keep her balance in the fierce onslaught.

Other times, months ago, the sex had been careful and controlled, a statement of unspoken fragility or doubt.

This desperate concentration was new, the probing tongue, teeth tugging at her lower lip, hand clasping the back of her head to hold her mouth in place to receive his thrusts. She felt a pinch when a strand of hair snagged on a nail as he dug his fingers into her scalp.

Somehow, without her defining it, his urgency became her own. She claimed it completely, wanting what he wanted now.

Her hips translated the rhythmic pressure from his, her legs buckled and capered around his thighs as he guided her backwards. As she bumped into the wall behind them, he paused, eyes glittering with barely suppressed hunger.

The apartment's sunny expanse darted and blinked beyond John's broad shoulders, a collage of light and dark shapes shifting as he bent over her.

She could see him more clearly now, as if the first kisses had opened his face so that his grave expression was more visible to her.

She could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the light blue of his irises rimming the dark pupils. Even the deep crevices usually shadowed in purple at the inner corners of his eyes seemed illuminated and glowing as he stared at her now.

This, this beauty was what she desired, what she needed right now, even if she hadn't cared about it before and might not ever again. In this moment, with this man, she wanted what he wanted.

John leaned in, kissing a line from her mouth to her jaw, approaching the sensitive juncture of her neck. Tasting his way to her collar bone, his tongue made hot swirling patterns over her skin that sent sparks shooting to her toes. He pushed the clumsy leather jacket off her shoulders, inciting a shimmying movement in her arms to work it off. The jacket fell to the floor in an inelegant heap at her feet.

In the revealed V-neck of her silky gray blouse, his clever tongue found the swell of her breasts and set to sucking there, a blind rooting that shocked her nipples into attention.

Working over the buttons of the blouse, John gave up halfway down and just pushed the shirt as he had the jacket. But her hands caught in the blouse's narrow cuffs, pinning her arms behind her against the wall, pressed by the warm weight of his insistent body.

She felt bound then, just a little, her squirming only increasing the delicious sensation of entrapment and compulsion. As she moved against him, the position thrust her breasts higher, so that the lace of her white bra cut sharply into their upper curves. She wanted him to relieve the pressure there, the tension straining everywhere inside her, the desire pushing along every vein in her body.

John cupped the weight of one breast then the other, tracing a long finger over the lace pattern incised on her flesh. He lifted the right breast from its enclosure, tightening his hand until the pressure drew a strangled sigh from her. He relaxed and then gripped more firmly, setting up a rhythm that distracted her from his hidden movements to lower the zipper on her jeans.

She could see his fingers playing over her breast, exciting the nipple to a painful erection. Light and dark. She thought of the stark contrast of his uniform. Of black hair framing his face. Of the sun and shadows in his apartment. Of pale fingers twisting dark nipples.

She could feel the knuckles of his other hand probing her stomach as he pushed down on the stiff denim. The relentless bump and poke as his fingers slid past her scar, worrying the metal and the fabric and teasing her damp curls as they tumbled and pulled.

Conflicting urges rose in her: she wanted to cover herself, her exposed breast, her throbbing nipple, the little red crescents made by his nails in her tender flesh; she felt more naked now than she had ever been before. But she also wanted to guide his hands to complete their task, to release her from this torment, to take her without delay.

With her hands still trapped by the shirt cuffs, she couldn't follow either of her impulses. Neither fleeing nor helping were within her power.

"Joss."

He said her name again and she bucked her hips forward at the plea in his voice.

He lowered his head, unfastening the front clasp of her bra so that if fell away to tangle with the blouse on her arms.

Shifting her torso to the right, she aligned her breast with his mouth and shuddered when he took a first pull from her nipple. The kaleidoscope of colors folded with the rhythmic motion of his jaw: she could see his pink tongue lapping at her breast and from above the silver strands at his temples disappeared and his bobbing head appeared dark against her body.

With her wrists bound, jeans crumpled around her ankles, and mind a jumble too, she was startled when John bent to kneel in front of her.

"I want to see you."

He punctuated his words with a kiss to her belly button. His mouth felt soft and wet against her skin.

"In the light."

His nose and lips pressed against her panties, he planted open-mouthed kisses against her mound. Her head fell back against the wall, the soft thudding sound causing John to pause for a moment. He resumed the purposeful trek of his hands, sliding his fingers over the crease where her bare thigh met her panties, then down her legs, tugging the panties down as he moved.

As she leaned back against the wall for support, he pulled off panties and jeans, tossing them to the side with her jacket.

From his lowered position, John glanced up, his eyes shining as they raked across her body, his mouth slack but wordless. She felt worshiped then; the kneeling seemed an act of submission, of prayer even.

"You're beautiful."

His voice was firmer than before, no catch or hesitation as he spoke, his eyes undimmed by tears. He had offered this praise at other moments like this, kissing her waist, her belly, her sex, her inner thighs, the tender skin behind her knees.

She accepted it as a translation of other, richer phrases that neither one of them had yet claimed the right to utter out loud.

To shake off premonitions about declarations glibly given and easily retracted, she replied with a practical comment.

"You're wearing too many clothes, John."

With a few graceful movements, he stood to shed his clothing at her command, then helped to free her from the blouse and bra cuffing her wrists.

He reached for her again, his arms and legs, sinewy and hard, the ropy muscles bunching under pale skin as he moved against her.

"Say it again."

His strangled speech was urgent but confusing, her train of thought demolished in the sensations he was creating inside her with his touch.

She tilted her head to one side, a question unspoken.

"Say my name."

His fingers curved inside her, flexing in a promise of pressures yet to come.

Now she got it. The frank longing in his eyes formed yet another stanza of the prayer he had uttered earlier, need wrapped around the supplication as he offered it up to her.

"John."

She gripped his cock then with a firm move that made his brows jump and his eyes darken with desire. She could do this to him, for him.

He closed his eyes under the press of her strokes and implored again.

"Joss."

She wanted to push this show to its end; she needed the stretch and the dazzling friction of him and she needed this, all of this, right away.

"Come on, then."

She wasn't surprised, not really, when John gripped her hips and shoved her upward against the wall. She braced her back against it and clung to his shoulders so she could wrap her legs around his hips.

His erection slid against her, almost where she wanted it. She let a moan escape at the nearness of her treasure and thrust her hips forward to spur him to complete her.

"Yes, this. Here."

His hands, so competent, moved from her waist to cradle her ass as they both adjusted their balance.

He looked a brief question at her and she felt his stomach molding to hers as their bodies took the decision away from their minds.

"Come on," was all that she could say, repeating her demand in a whisper against his temple.

She flung her head back again, hitting the wall with a softer thump as he lowered her until she took him into her body, clasping and clutching around him as they joined.

After that, she could only cling to his neck as he pushed into her, short quick thrusts at first, driving further and further with every stroke. As they gained confidence or lost their minds, she moved her hands from his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his biceps as they bulged and twitched. The momentum of their bodies in this flight created a centrifugal force which kept them suspended against the wall.

Gravity still held them, but the sensation was of somersaulting in space, propelled together to break the bonds of their own little lives and become something greater in the flying.

Unlike their previous encounters, John came first this time, his fierce orgasm a collision of energy and curses powering through her body to ignite her own incandescent climax. As she burst, sparkling aftershocks escaped her throat as sighs or gasps, alternating with his name.

Sinking to the floor when the blast was finally exhausted, his thighs and arms trembled violently and his hands were so slick with their sweat that she thought he would drop her.

But he held on and she held on, a prayer resolved if not answered.

Still joined, still pulsing, his hips nestled into hers, they clung together for a long moment, tangled among the discarded clothing.

They didn't have much to say as they dressed; stunned relief swam in the air, punctuated by awkward smiles and a hasty sip of tepid water to cover the silences.

The hot daylight was still thick and slippery when she left.