II

Days progressed, and the dreams had lessened to a degree, allowing him to sleep through the night in a relatively restful pose. The blood no longer trickled, she no longer spoke words in stark fear, nor stared at him in fright while he stood there, looking her in the eye. No longer did she defend herself against him.

Her hands no longer connected forcefully with the sensitive skin of his cheek, nor did they seek out his shirt and tug at it desperately, trying to flee his stoic silence and murderous rage. He had accepted that she was no longer amongst the living.

And that it had been him who had taken her life.

Michael Landsworth woke up and went about his routine, gaining more confidence each day that he wouldn't be caught. He hadn't meant to kill her, he reflected, but she had had a hand in her own death. She was so goddamn stubborn and whiney. Lord, she was whiney. Nothing he ever did satisfied her. If he came home an hour early, she would complain why he hadn't called her beforehand. If he had to work overtime, which he felt was a reasonable risk when being the manager of a well-visited bookstore, she wouldn't greet him when he joined them in their bed. Hell, he even slept in the guest room too many times to count. Fucking frigid bitch.

And then the sulking. That high pitched voice that would drone on and on and on, never stopping until he had to shut her up, for his own sanity. Really, who could tolerate such drivel and behavior from their spouse? He tried. Oh, he really tried. Walking away when she would bitch about the latest balance on their joint account. The money was in both their names, so why shouldn't he spend some of that on the pleasures of life? A good bottle of Chateau Petrûs, cigars, an ageing Scottish whiskey. He made the money, and he damn well had a fair share in saying what it was used for, too.

Mary-Ann had the house, the children, a steady and stress-free routine, and on top of that, enough money to sustain her just fine. So why wouldn't she just keep quiet? He didn't consider himself a violent man. In fact, he was renowned at work for his seemingly never-ending patience and general gentleness. The birthday and holiday cards from all the families, the phone calls and parties he was invited too…granted, the others liked to see Mary-Ann as well, but that was only because she was his wife and he had introduced her to them. She was a plain Jane with just enough pretty features to keep others interested. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he still hadn't meant for her to die. Who else would take care of his little girl now, and keep the house looking as fine as it did?

---

His hand snuck underneath her jacket, around her waist and pulled her to him, their faces ending up inches away from one another. So close, yet much too far away. Everything around them; the few footsteps, a clanging door and raised voices, everything faded into oblivion. Everything except for his cobalt eyes meeting her beautifully intense chocolate eyes which radiated…something. Lust, desire, wanton need. They certainly no longer carried the hatred and disgust from before, nor the fear. And maybe, just maybe, that other, almost coveted, four letter word lingered in her eyes too. But that didn't matter, not now. Not when they were still apart and all he could think about was how her lips would feel, and taste, and slide so hot and wet against his own.

A flush full of desire, feral and wild, ran down his body and it was almost as though she knew what he wanted, for in a flash she grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward and then her lips were on his, kissing him. These kisses, they were straight out of his dreams; passionate and hot and so damn good. Tasting faintly of chocolate and coffee, his tongue ran over her lips almost desperately, and she opened her mouth eagerly. Teeth clinked lightly and they pulled back, each wearing a slightly embarrassed smile.

"It took you long enough," she murmured. A charming and shy, but sexy, half smile appeared on his features before growing into that all too rare full-out smile, and almost in symmetry, a brilliant smile blossomed on her face too. A smile so beautiful and heartwarming that he couldn't resist kissing, tasting it again, and they resumed their hot and hungry probing of each other's mouth, albeit it less hastily than before.

His jacket was somehow removed and laid discarded next to them, and her long fingers splayed in his nape, nails teasingly scratching the skin there. He moaned into her mouth, slid his hand down her thigh and tugged it up, creating such a perfect cradle for him. And then she moved against him, clothed and all, but that didn't matter. He was aroused, she was flushed, and he wanted nothing more than to be in her, loving her for all that he could, and all that she was worth. And that was the world. She meant the world to him. She always would.

The buttons of his shirt were no match for her deft hands and when her nails slid up his chest and tugged off the offending material, he couldn't control his animal instinct and groaned, his arousal becoming almost painful in his jeans. Not wanting to be presumptuous, but not being able to help himself either, his hands slid down her over her breasts, a quick but effective caress. They slid down to the button of her slacks and popped it open, sliding the zipper down too. Dark blue lace, so sensuously thin that it offered a tantalizing peek of the soft hair underneath, and his index finger rubbed it in soft spirals going down, down, down….

And then nothing but the incessant tune from his cell phone. The sensual images seeped from his mind's eye and his breathing slowly returned to normal, as his did the rest of his body. It had been a while since he had such dreams, and he wasn't sure why they had returned now. What he did know was that he much preferred these dream sequences over those he had experienced in the last few weeks. She had felt so real, so tangible, so provocative, yet shy. So wonderful and as near to perfection as he could ever wish for in any woman. Perfection didn't exist, but she came damn well near it for him.

Maybe it had been the conversations that they'd had over the last few days. While still on neutral territory, for that was what work was, it had occasionally strayed into that of the personal.

One particular conversation came to the forefront of his memories, one which they had while searching the library of a missing casino owner.

"There must be hundreds of books here." Sara looked around and admired the mahogany English style library which was filled with everything from old manuscripts and rare first editions of Shakespearean plays to Terry Richardson's rather provocative photography books. "Quite the collection. Guess controversy wasn't a problem for him."

"Well, he owns the illustrated Kama Sutra. Perhaps his wife wasn't lying when she said he was a stud in the bedroom."

"And outside. She was rather proud of their achievements in the kitchen." Catching the look he threw her over his shoulder at this, the few dormant butterflies in her belly awoke and fluttered around aimlessly.

He didn't hear her walking on the rich Persian rug, but he sure felt the faint and comfortable warmth of her coming to stand alongside him. It had been missing for too long, and he relished it. His fingers skimmed the outside of the book before plucking it out of the row of other assorted titles. Leafing through it, the rather explicit images brought a handful of daydreams to his brain that he'd rather not have. At least not when standing so close to his in-dreams partner.

"Wow, those are uhm… I didn't think humans could do that. Seems I was wrong."

He could hear the slight astonishment in her voice, and couldn't suppress the soft chuckle that threatened to escape. Browsing through a few more pages, he held up another one for her to see. "I'm not sure how they managed this one either."

Putting the volume back in its place he brushed her arm a little, and a rush of warmth infused him. "These contemoprary versions, with the images and photography added, are far easier to understand than the more original versions."

"What, you read those?" She didn't expect a reply. She honestly didn't.

"There's a Victorian version lurking somewhere on a bookcase, yes." And he couldn't believe he'd said that.

It really was not something he ever imagined himself to tell anyone, let alone her, but she had a way of drawing things out, of showing parts of himself that he preferred to remain private. Or perhaps his defenses had been steadily broken down, allowing him to be more of the man he used to be, and less of an anti-social hermit who never followed his heart when it came to Sara.

TBC…