Chapter Eight
He awoke to bright sunlight and white walls. The sun was so brilliant it hurt. It had been a long time since he'd been hung over and longer still since he'd made decisions he'd regretted. He wondered if Reese was one of those now.
She lounged against the headboard of his bed reading something in a folder – something she probably shouldn't be reading, something she probably shouldn't know.
"Is that from my closet?" his voice rough from sleep asked seriously.
"Uh-huh," she kept reading and didn't look up.
"You shouldn't…" he began forcing himself into a sitting position, which hurt terribly. He groaned and pitched forward putting his head in his hands.
She was completely nonplussed. "If you're gonna be sick," she commented without acknowledging him or his pain, "make it to the bathroom. I'm not your maid." It stood to reason she wouldn't feel sorry for him; having endured her share of hangovers. She knew from experience; this type of wound was self-inflicted.
He staggered to the bathroom and vomited the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He wryly thought he could really use that roll of breath mints now. He managed to get into the shower, briefly wondering who took everything but his boxers off him last night, before the scalding water brushed the remaining cobwebs from his brain.
She did. He remembered her small nimble hands unbuttoning his shirt and pants and him wobbling looking down at her in awe.
After his shower, he thought to shave but decided to forgo it, as the razor would be too loud for his hangover. He brushed his teeth and examined himself in the mirror. Haggard and worn he expected, but the blossoming black eye brought the rest of the evening back to him.
He remembered his hands in her hair and his mouth on hers, this time gently, cautiously and every so slowly. He distinctly recalled her biting his lip and then a sharp jab to his eye that resulted in the nice shiner he now wore.
"Jesus," he exhaled. "I have so fucked this up."
"Yes," she agreed appraising him from the doorway. He was still naked with just a towel wrapped around his waist. Her gaze lingered a bit too long over his torso, before settling on his battered face. "Yes, you have so fucked this up, Crews."
He looked chagrinned and was neither the lustful demon lover from the sandy beach nor the tortured ex-con from the bar. He was once again her tarnished angel, bruised and battered but still standing.
"So help me God," she swore approaching, "if you ever kiss me like that again – those will be the least of your injuries," she warned teasing. Her nails raked across his bare chest.
"I won't," he vowed solemnly, then lightly captured her hands in his. She arched a brow and tensed. "That wasn't me, that wasn't how I'd," he toyed with fire.
"That wasn't you?" she interrupted. "How could that not be you?'
"It was just for show," he lied, "you know for the case?"
"You don't remember kissing me again last night? Here? In this room?"
His jaw was slack and features blank, "here?"
"Right before I put you to bed because you were too drunk to…" she didn't finish her comment. He wondered if the end of that sentence was the same in her brain as it was in his…."too drunk to fuck."
"I want to apologize," he offered stepping closer.
"Say you're sorry then," she held his eyes.
"I can't," he admitted. "I'm not sorry." Her eyes narrowed and darkened. "Only that it wasn't how I'd have liked to kiss you," he was bold if nothing else.
She looked down, blushed from her neck to her nose in a deep red and then her eyes returned to him. "Not sorry for the right hook?"
He shook his head no.
"Not sorry for the shiner or the split lip?"
Again his head shook, indicating no.
"I don't get you," she told him flatly, "what exactly are you apologizing for?"
"For doing it wrong, for not having kissed you like I should have," he brushed his knuckles down her cheek.
"After all the abuse you've taken, you sure you want to go back for Round Three?" she smiled softly, but did not retreat.
"Absolutely," he grinned. He waited for her eyes to give him the permission he sought and then leaned down and inhaled her scent across her neck and collarbone. He trailed his fingers across her jaw and sunk his hands into her hair. He lightly nibbled on her upper lip and then licked her lower before planting a soft wet kiss there. He felt the intake of air and then fused his mouth to hers. He teased her with his tongue, feinting and retreating as she strained to keep her hands by her sides. Twice he registered her raise her hands to touch him and then not.
He wasn't there yet. He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.
She eased and exhaled a nervous, "that was much better," before he locked her in a deep stare and pronounced. "I'm not finished yet," in a low tone that left no question of his desires.
He twisted and captured her lips again; this time, it wasn't lust or dominance. It wasn't bravado or a display of power. This time it was achingly personal, with long, deep thrusts of his tongue and slowly drawing the breath from her. This time her hands lost the battle and he felt them ride up his chest to his throat and wind around his neck. She pulled him down into her.