I was in my second childhood bedroom, this one in a happy place, my uncles' house, but still as ill fitting as the first. Carrie had left, in a better state than when she'd arrived, Davey and George had bundled themselves off to their room as lovey dovey as if they were still newlyweds and that left me alone.

I'd wandered the house, making certain the doors and windows were secure. As if they suddenly wouldn't be, and then I'd finally gotten ready for bed. On my back, in the center of a canopied bed fit for a fairy princess that I would NEVER be, I fought the urge to open the message again. Staring at the photo wouldn't make him manifest, I told myself. Willing him to appear wouldn't make it happen.

I sighed, rolling over and bunching my pillow into a more comfortable shape. At some point the carbs and wine worked their magic and sleep gripped me, pulling me under and promising rest, if not dreams.

Warmth, far more warmth than the quilt on my bed or the temperature of the house would warrant, was pressed against my back. And were those fingertips sliding up my arm, pushing my hair away from my neck. Lips, those were DEFINITELY lips against my neck. I arched back into his body, thinking that if this was nothing more than a dream, then I would happily take advantage of my imagination full throttle.

"Are you waking up for me, Char?" His whisper against my earlobe forced me to whimper in response. "Come here, sweetheart, I missed you."

Our mouths met in the darkness like they were magnetic, his tongue and mine needing the taste of one another like air. My fingers tangling in his curls, his clutching at my back and holding me tight against him. The blankets were twisted between us, forming another barrier, but for now all I could focus on was his mouth, his face, his hands. I pulled away, searching for his eyes, and there he was. Clay.

"It's you, right? You're not a dream?" My fingertips were tracing his face, making sure he wasn't some figment of my imagination. He shook his head and kissed my fingertips. "Are you back?"

"Soon," he promised, leaning forward so his lips could brush mine again. "Very fucking soon, Charlotte, we'll be back for good."

We managed to throw the blankets off the bed, to get rid of our clothes as easily, and then like we'd been apart for years and not a couple weeks, we made love like our lives depended on it. He held me until the hour before dawn. His body heat keeping me warm, his mouth keeping me occupied.

"Did Jensen get the same conjugal visit?" I asked, watching Clay dress in the darkness before dawn. He smiled and nodded. "Good, Carrie looked about as sane as I was feeling." He leaned over me, cupping my face with his hand and kissing my lips, my nose, and my forehead.

"I love you, Charlotte Ramble and I will be back before you can feel that again." He pulled the blankets back from the floor and tucked me in. "Sleep, sweetheart. And tell Davey and George that the only bugs in the house are ones I have planted." He kissed me senseless and left me with the image of his blinding smile and a shaking head.

Big, overprotective, sexy asshole.