CHAPTER SIX
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Undressing Carlton.
John.
Her man.
Juliet had usually imagined it would involve removing him from a suit jacket and tie, dress slacks and shirt.
But she could work with green plaid and worn denim, sure.
She took her time, standing before him in the dim cool bedroom of his cabin, stroking his arms and chest before unbuttoning the shirt slowly, exposing his skin and the chest hair she couldn't resist leaning in to brush with her lips.
His shiver was worth it.
Sliding the shirt off his shoulders, she took stock of the scars, and there were far too many, which marked the effects of the building explosion years ago. Donovan had told him the collision of two crossbeams directly overhead saved him from immediate death, but not from substantial harm.
Kissing each scar, savoring each sigh this elicited, she let the shirt fall to the floor and stroked his back while she nuzzled her way up his arm to his throat, his jaw, and lips, drawing him down for a kiss.
How had she known he would kiss so well? Or had she only known he would kiss her so well? No matter; she savored the feel of his tongue brushing hers, his lips moving against hers.
Yet there was more to reveal. Pulling back, she moved around him to explore his back, unable to stop from drawing in a breath at the longer scars here. She nuzzled each, aware he was trembling—or one of them was, anyway—and hoped these reminders of his near-death had long since stopped causing him any physical pain.
She stroked his shoulders and arms with her palms, planting soft kisses up and down his back and shoulder blades, and he tasted good and was warm and she needed more of him.
When she stood in front of him again, she smiled as she reached for his belt buckle, but he stilled her hands, his return smile slightly wicked.
"Before that comes off," he murmured, "this comes off." He grasped the hem of her tee and lifted up, and well, of course she cooperated, assisting in the process until the tee lay on the floor with his shirt and she stood before him in just her lavender bra and blue jeans.
She suspected he wanted her to take the bra off too, so she undid the hooks and cast it aside.
"Thank you," he said somberly, and touched her skin gently.
Juliet sighed at the sensation of his warm fingertips. She'd watched his hands so many times when they were partners: his long lean fingers, so graceful—not that he would have considered that a compliment—and she'd imagined them, as her feelings for him surpassed 'mere' partnership, doing all sort of things to her.
Usually dreams and daydreams are better than reality. Sometimes reality is.
Reality, this time, was much, much, much better.
She found herself leaning in toward him, and reaching up; he kissed her as she pressed her bare breasts to his bare chest and it felt so good and so right and so erotic that if they'd had to stop there she might have been okay for another few years. This was, by itself, perfect.
Was she really feeling his heartbeat? Or was that hers thundering along? Were they in tune? She pressed closer, and kissed him more deeply.
Still... there was so much more to learn.
Putting some air between them—seeing the heat in those so-damn-blue eyes—she unbuckled his belt and drew it out and tossed it to the floor. He reciprocated by doing the same to hers, a decidedly wicked gleam in his gaze.
"We need to lie down," he whispered, and she wondered if his leg hurt.
Pants off first, though. Juliet unzipped him—not intentionally brushing the front of his shorts even though his sharp intake of breath suggested otherwise—and he unzipped her, their jeans joined the pile, and they moved to his bed, casting off socks along the way.
Dark blue boxers for him; lavender undies for her.
He told her she was beautiful. He said she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.
She wrapped herself around him—so much warm flesh touching—and did not cry, because she'd cried enough today and there was no time for even happy tears.
Holding her tight, his arms the sweetest of vises, he kissed her hard and deep—and slow and sensuously—and kept their bodies locked together.
She had no idea how long they lay like that just kissing. Her arousal for him, and the arousal she felt from him, was growing, but to be connected, to be together, to be loving, after so many years apart, after believing so long that there was no hope at all?
This was a miasma of perfect bliss.
Later she couldn't have said who moved first, but someone's hand slid down to caress someone's ass, and that lit the fuse. From there, it was all fire.
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Carlton could not get enough of tasting her. Whether he was nibbling on her lips or kissing a path between her breasts or running his tongue along her inner thighs—and places more intimate—all of Juliet tasted wonderful.
And the sounds she made. Sounds of passion, want, need. Little gasps, helpless moans... the ragged breathing leading up to her orgasm.
And the way she felt underneath him, around him. Holding him inside her, her dark blue gaze fixed on him and full of desire and love; her legs clamped around his thighs. The way she seemed to be urging him in deeper, harder, faster.
She was soft and warm and pliant and demanding and there weren't enough words to explain to anyone, ever, how he loved her and needed her.
He knew it was a cliché, or had to be, to think her body was made for his or vice versa. But they fit together so perfectly. The women in his past—Victoria, Lucinda, the rare other brief lovers—they'd never felt like this to him, even when the sex was good.
It had to be Juliet. Juliet made all the difference.
Juliet had made all the difference almost since he'd met her, once he'd gotten out from under his ridiculous farce of a separation and started paying attention to his partnership and job again.
He thanked God she'd had the fortitude to put up with him in those early years. Originally he'd believed Karen Vick had been testing him by assigning another pretty blonde to be his partner, but over time he'd realized regardless of her intentions, she'd done him a huge favor, because Juliet O'Hara was the best gift ever.
Temporarily sated, they lay on their sides facing each other. He reached out to run his fingers through her soft hair, to caress her temple and cheeks. So lovely, she was.
She moved a little closer and nuzzled his jaw. "I love you so much. No matter who you are."
He chuckled. "I love you too. That was Carlton, finally getting his Juliet. The next time will be John."
She laughed. "I like it. Especially the 'next time' part. Can that be later today?"
"I hope so. Dunno if John's ready for you. He saw how hard you were on Carlton when you arrived."
Juliet immediately caressed his jaw. "Does it hurt?"
"Yeah, but I've been too busy to notice it much." This made her smirk.
"What about your stomach? Foot?"
"Ditto," he assured her with a laugh. "I'm fine. I'm very fine because you're here."
She smiled at first but then grew solemn, and reached down to touch his bullet-scarred thigh. "And this?"
Her fingers were so gentle, he was almost too distracted to answer. "It doesn't hurt to touch. It's only when I use the muscles to walk, or if I stand too long."
She gave him one of those searching looks. "You have to use a lot of muscles during sex."
Carlton kissed her forehead. "True. But I promise you I wasn't feeling any leg pain while you were blowing my mind."
Finally she laughed, and whispered she hoped to blow something else before the day was out.
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They had dinner late, about eight o'clock. John—she was making herself think of him that way now—scrambled eggs and cheese to serve with chopped tomatoes and toast.
She had no plans to go home, sitting at his table wearing his green plaid shirt, and was certain he had no interest in sending her home. No one was expecting to see her until she reported for work Monday morning, though she liked his idea of going to the Mandolin for lunch on Sunday afternoon.
John's hair, wavy silver and black, was delightfully mussed. He was delightfully mussed. When she'd taken custody of his shirt he'd settled for grabbing a different plaid shirt out of his closet—declining to try to wear her tee—but he allowed as how the green looked pretty good on her.
Even if he was looking at her bare legs when he said it.
She was tired, but it was a very good kind of tired. Everything about making love with him had been fulfilling in every way she needed it to be. They fit together. He felt right against her body. To see the look in his eyes as she drew from him, as he gave to her—the love and heat and need and desire—it was overwhelming and beautiful and she still felt herself thrumming, just watching him scramble eggs.
Guess that's love, baby.
She got up and poured water into tall glasses and laid out some silverware, feeling as if she knew the kitchen already.
Maybe you'll get to live here.
He hummed as he finished up the eggs, and she carried the toast to the table while he dished the eggs onto the plates.
I'll live anywhere with him.
He looked tired too, but not in any I'd rather be alone way.
"I guess this wasn't how either of us thought the day would go."
He looked wry. "I sure didn't. What was your specific plan?"
Had she even had a specific plan?
"Good question. I... was going to pound on the door, possibly punch you but definitely yell at you. Whatever happened next was going to be based entirely on your answers."
He spread butter on a slice of toast. "What answers did you think I might give?"
"Well, I certainly didn't think one of them would be federal operatives rescuing you by mistake. But I didn't see how you could have walked out of there unscathed. And if you were... scathed... you couldn't have escaped notice, not if you were injured. So another possibility was that you weren't in the building at all."
Those blue eyes fixed on hers instantly. "You wondered if I faked my death?"
"Not really, because pieces of your badge and wallet were in the debris." She swallowed, remembering the grief. "If they hadn't been, though—if there'd been no trace of you—then I might have wondered if you'd ever even been inside. If maybe you were somewhere else, saw or heard about the explosion, and decided to use that as a chance to…"
"Run away," he said flatly.
Juliet let out a breath. "But that theory didn't hold water either. I knew you'd never walk out of your own life, job, career, or pension. I knew that. None of it made sense except what seemed to be the truth: you were in the building, and you were killed in the explosion. So how could you be here and alive?"
Finally trying the eggs and tomatoes, she savored the taste and appreciated good, simple cooking.
He ate too, but she could tell he was thinking. She could always tell when he was thinking.
"Thank you for only punching me," he said at last.
Juliet laughed. "You're welcome. So you see, whatever answer you gave me was going to steer the rest of the conversation. And God forbid if you'd stonewalled me or been shifty or tried to claim you had no idea who I was talking about. I'd have... oh, I'd have had to..." She stopped, shaking her head, at a loss to find the words.
"You'd have tested the limits of my saw on human bone?" he suggested, and she laughed again.
"Maybe that's it. Or maybe I'd have tested my strength to see if I could wrap that cane around your neck."
"Girl's gotta have options," he said approvingly.
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Back in his warm bed later, he marveled again at how right it felt to have Juliet in his arms. He could barely remember the last time a woman had spent the whole night with him, but this fine and lovely lady had already let him know she intended to cook him breakfast in the morning after their shower—as if that weren't titillating—so it seemed she wasn't planning to sneak out in the wee hours.
She was purring again, or so it felt, little contented sighs as she pressed to him.
"I loved you so long," he murmured against her hair. "I never dreamed you'd feel the same."
"I denied loving you too long," she murmured back. "But I was glad we had the best partnership ever."
"We did. No one thought it could work. Hardass me with the sweet little rookie. Either I was going to run you off or you were going to have me up on charges."
Her laughter was a pleasing vibration against his shoulder. "Charges of what?"
"Crankiness, for starters. General disagreeability."
"I don't think those are in the personnel handbook."
"If they were, my photo would have been the illustration."
"That's true." She tilted her head and kissed him, and that was okay. "Long ago. Different lives for both of us."
I hope we get to keep sharing this one.
"How much time," she asked hesitantly, "can you give us before you contact Donovan?"
A question he'd dreaded. "Not much. If it seems like I've been concealing you... I mean, he might not believe it was only today that we connected once he finds out you've worked here for nearly three months."
Juliet thought a minute, then said resolutely, "Then we should get him here while you still have a bruised jaw and I have scraped knuckles."
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Sunday morning they spent being completely lazy (after a vigorous lovemaking session, that is). He trimmed his beard enough so that the bruise in question was indeed visible, and as it turned out he also had faint bruises on his stomach and foot. Juliet was both relieved there was proof of how recently she'd found him and chagrined at that same proof.
She made him extra bacon to assuage her guilt, and said never mind about his arteries.
They went into town for lunch at the Mandolin, and kept their hands off each other. Most of the people they saw knew him but not her, and they were careful not to act like a couple because since technically they had just met, they weren't, right?
But eventually they had to face their Decider... the man who created John Ellery.
Donovan's home base was at Langley, so unless he was on assignment, he was never that far away.
Carlton sent him a text on Sunday afternoon.
Hey, remember that guy from the explosion years ago? Something came up about him. Stop in soon so I can update you.
Donovan's answer was nearly immediate.
I'll be there before dark.
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