Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse
7 pm Sunday May 13th 2007
Regan woke with a crick in her neck, cramped with cold. She reached out blindly to yank the blanket back over her and her fingers touched … leather?
She opened her eyes. Oh. Right. Living room. Couch.
Jack.
On cue, the body against hers stirred slightly. Regan opened her eyes, scrambling with sleepy wits to find a quip, a joke, something – anything – to defuse what she feared and hoped in equal measure to see in his face.
He was asleep.
Regan told herself she was relieved, and began to carefully disentangle herself, doing her best not to wake him. Still, she could not avoid disturbing him a little. He murmured in his sleep, and as she edged away from him he turned, gathering her close to him again.
I wonder who he is dreaming about, she amended. The question hurt, a keen little pain below her ribs that she tried to ignore, a pain she had no right to feel. She had no right to wonder which woman or women inhabited McCoy's erotic reveries, and certainly no right to resent them.
She covered his hand with hers, ready to gently push him away, and he sighed in his sleep, a gentle exhalation of pleasure, and said her name.
As he drew her closer still, Regan was shocked into immobility. He's dreaming of me.
She had figured she was just another McCoy conquest, tempting only by convenient proximity. Whatever her own feelings – and she had hoped to keep them from deepening – there was no point losing what they had for what would never be more than a diverting fling for McCoy. How could it be more? His history gave ample evidence that he was hardly prone to deep or long-lasting relationships.
But he dreams of me.
He could dream of any woman in the world.
But he dreams of me.
Regan took a shallow breath and put the thought aside, and the dizzying temptation to follow it into daydreams of a future when …
No.
She had a case to win.
.oOo.
A/N: Some short little chapters because that's where they broke naturally, before we get back to usual length in a while.
