Authors: A.K. Lawrence
“We’re fine right here,” Kevin told him. “It’s where we’re supposed to be.”
“No, you don’t get it,” Wit looked under the table again and saw the digital clock had hands now and was spinning uncontrollably in reverse. Before he could say another word a flash of fire slammed through the room.
He turned, threw himself to the floor and covered his head. He c
ould hear debris falling but nothing landed on him. Wit raised his head and looked for his friends. He saw skeletons, burnt, still sitting in chairs and holding playing cards in front of them.
His side started heating up and he fe
lt a deep burn. He looked down ready to slap the flames out when he saw Marie’s face laying on his shoulder. Wit didn’t start screaming until it began to melt.
Marie
was on her side against the back of the couch with her body curled around the length of Wit as he lay on his back. Her fingers trailed lazy patterns over his chest as he slept and she watched the fire. Her head rested on his shoulder and she, too, was fighting sleep. Her eyes would drift closed and then snap awake as she relived the events of the evening.
The fire danced and crackled while it waved hypnotically. She’d always loved fires, especially on a beach at sunset. A soothing voiced female singer played quietly in the background and Marie finally gave in to the urge to fall asleep. She was safe and secure, so why not? Her eyes shut.
And snapped back open when she felt something slapping at her forehead. She blocked Wit’s swinging hands with her forearm and sat up. She caught his wrist. “Wit, it’s okay. Wit? Wake up now.”
Ey
es dilated to obsidian opened and stared blankly into hers. “Wit, wake up!” she spoke with a matter of fact tone not wanting to startle him but at the same time she obviously needed to bring him back to reality. No stranger to disturbing dreams Marie stroked his arm and then gently shook his shoulder.
“It’s burning,” Wit groaned, “
too hot. Everything is melting. Will! No!”
Awakened by his own shout Wit looked wildly around the room. He saw the poker table pushed into the corner
of the room and visibly flinched. He was pale, shaking and Marie hoped he wasn’t going to vomit.
Wit leaned his head back onto the armrest of the couch, threw his arm over his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaled heavily.
He repeated the process three times before she noticed a decrease in the shaking of his limbs.
Somehow Marie had ended up on the edge of the couch
. She perched there and watched Wit out of the corner of her eye. He rubbed both hands across his face and shivered. Without a word she reached for the glass of water he’d left on an end table and handed it to him. He drained it in one long swallow and nodded his thanks.
“I can’t stand nightmares,” his voice was gravelled and she could see him holding onto his control tightly. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”
“A bad dream isn’t something you can control and, therefore, not something you should feel sorry about.” Gracious, did she really sound that prim? “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not especially,” he answered gruffly.
Marie sat quietly and then, “You said something about a fire.”
He turned his head and looked straight at her. “Great
. I was talking?” Marie nodded. “I suppose it makes sense. I was dreaming about my friends. We were playing poker and talking and somehow a bomb was under the table. I tried to get them to leave but they wouldn’t listen. It blew everyone to Hell except me.”
Marie winced. Survivor’s guilt, no doubt, but you couldn’t pay her enough to say that phrase. “I’m really sorry you’re going through this. Has it been going on for a long time?”
“Only since I stopped drinking,” Wit said wryly. “There was an interesting twist to this dream.”
“How so?”
“The guys were giving me advice.”
“And that’s different?”
“Yeah. The other few times I’ve had the dream it was memories, things that had definitely happened, that we were talking about.”
“Your sub-conscious must be wrestling with something,” she commented.
Wit thought about the visual of Marie’s face melting. He never wanted to see that again. “Yeah, I suppose that could be it. I’ll have to think on it when I’m clear- headed.”
“You’ll need a good night’s sleep to do that. Have you talked to anyone about your dreams?”
“You mean a doctor?” She nodded. “No, I haven’t. I considered talking to a friend of mine about some sleeping pills.”
“Those aren’t a solution but I
could see how they could be recommended in your case. When does the trial start?”
Wit huffed out a breath. “Three weeks unless there’s a continuance of some sort. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a delay. The defense lawyers have been spinning out paper like tomorrow’s never going to come, which, for their clients, I guess
it might not.”
“It sounds trite to say it but the trial could offer some closure.”
He bobbed his head side to side and thought about it. “It might. It’s a sucky thing to need closure for.” The shaking had finally subsided and Wit could feel his muscles unclenching. He built a mental and emotional wall against the cold that had resided in his soul since the bombing. With each second that passed Wit began to feel looser and back in control. Except for one thing.
The feel of the room changed. Marie didn’t know how to describe it, only that she felt it. Something was about to happen and she didn’t know if she should stop it. She didn’t know if she even wanted to.
Wit leaned closer, intimately. “I’m not tired anymore.” Those words said in a husky tone had her stomach doing slow flips.
Marie felt his lips teasingly close to hers. “Me either,” she whispered, a hairsbreadth from contact.
“I can’t think of a single thing I want to do.” The silky caress of his lips gliding across her cheek had her toes curling, her fingers closing against the fabric of the couch. She couldn’t catch her breath and the room had grown warm. Far warmer than the fire could explain.
“Oh yeah?” she asked, and kissed his palm when he reached to cup her chin.
“I can think of a few things I
have
to do, however.” His mouth captured hers in a demand, intensity screaming with every tug, nip and return.
Lightning struck her toes and travelled up her body, causing her thighs to quiver. She could feel the need in his kiss and she gave what she could while demanding more. His hands were everywhere at once
and Marie could only tilt her head back, moan and enjoy the ride they took her on.
He stroked gently, feeling for responses and quickening or lightening his touch as she
moved. The white t-shirt and black boxers he’d loaned her were loose enough that he could sweep his hands underneath and he did, his hands drifting up her abdomen until his thumbs ran over the silk camisole and teased the sensitive peaks.
They squirmed across the couch, turning and arching before falling to the floor. Wit landed on his back with Marie lying atop him. She could feel his har
dness pulsing against her thigh. She pulled back from the kiss, leaned back onto her knees and gripped the hem of his shirt.
Understanding, Wit leaned up and helped her take the garment off. She threw it to the side and, while her hands were occupied, Wit pulled her t-shirt off and tossed it next to his. She sat a
-stride him in a white lace camisole and a pair of his black boxer shorts. The light from the fire lit her skin with golden tones.
Marie shivered lightly when he ran his fingertips down her arms, shoulders to fingertips and back again. She leaned forward, braced her hands on his chest and nipped his jaw. Her lips trailed across and he captured her mouth once more.
Both of his hands laced through her hair and he pulled to the side, kissed her throat. His tongue touched her earlobe and he whispered the thought that was plaguing him. “You taste like cinnamon, it’s driving me crazy.” She felt his teeth scrape at her collarbone and her body arched.
In a quick movement he flipped them and she cradled him tightly between her clenched thighs. He felt her hips move and she ground against him. The heat nearly destroyed him and he reached for her leg, pulled it more tightly around him.
His hand covered her breast and she felt it swell as he squeezed and rubbed. The scratch of his five o’clock shadow set her nerves tingling as he slid his lips to the hard peak, suckling through the silk. It was all she could do to hold back a scream as her body bowed.
In a smooth motion his fingertips were sliding up her thigh and under the shorts, h
eading unerringly for her centre. With barely a pause he pressed his palm against her mound. Marie’s eyes flew open and she gasped his name.
The stretch band of the shorts gave easily to his questing hand and he pulled them down. Marie twisted her legs, kicked off the offending piece of clothing. With a groan Wit reached for the camisole and pulled it off.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered and licked her navel. The touch tickled and Marie leaned forward, laughing. With a twist she flipped him to his back and she sat atop him again.
“Not nearly as beautiful as you,” she said and trailed butterfly kisses up his throat. She bit at his bottom lip and gave it a suckling tug.
Her hands went to the waist of his shorts and she began tugging them down. He helped and just like that she felt him against her thigh.
“Wait, before you move,” he hissed, already feeling her heat against him. He reached for his shorts, pulled a small packet from the pocket. He quickly put on the condom and in a quick motion was poised to enter her.
“Not so fast,” she purred. Marie grabbed his hands, held them above his head. A wicked grin crossed her face as she slowly pressed him deeper inside of her. Wit tried to thrust and Marie held him back.
She rocked her hips and Wit groaned, pulled half-heartedly against her restraining hands. “Remember, turnabout is fair play,” he muttered.
Marie rocked her hips, began a rhythm. Every motion sent sparks arcing. Her limbs felt heavy, tight, and when he grabbed her hips and began thrusting in earnest her entire world exploded. Lightning bolts exploded behind her eyes and sent shocks through her arms and legs. Her entire body shook with the orgasm.
Wit couldn’t take the tight, clenching feeling
, it was too much. With a final lunge and cry he rode the wave of his own orgasm, clutching her hips hard enough to leave light finger marks. Marie collapsed across his chest, panting. When she regained her breath she pulled back and looked him over.
“Sex is definitely a curative,” she decided. “You look much better.”
“Fantastic sex,” he corrected. “It’s definitely not a restorative, however. I could fall asleep right here.”
Marie shifted.
They were still on the floor and she was lying across his body and what should have been uncomfortable felt as soft as a feather mattress. She nuzzled at his throat. “I’m fine right here but maybe we should consider the bed or the couch at least. Neither of us is as young as we used to be.”
The thought of back pain
brought Wit to a sitting position. He stretched and took a physical inventory. “I do feel pretty good,” he told her, “but I think I have rug burn on my butt.”
“Your butt, my knees. I think it was worth it,” Marie pulled her borrowed t-shirt on and her vo
ice was muffled by the fabric. When her head emerged she gave a huge yawn.
Wit flashed a wolfish grin. “I’d say so.” He scooped her into his arms and took her to the bedroom.
As she slept cradled on his shoulder his eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling. He thought about the dream, ran it through his head once more. He looked at the different angles of each cryptic statement. All in all, what his subconscious was trying to tell him was pretty clear, he thought.
The hours of work he’d put into creating
IGGY had been many and the thought of those going to waste caused his eye to twitch. There had to be a way, morally and ethically, to use his program. Okay, maybe it shouldn’t be in the hands of private citizens but it’s not like he’d be using it to blackmail politicians.
The sun was rising when Wit came to his decision. Well, most of a decision. He was able to meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror and that told him he was doing the right thing. The circles under his eyes were something he was used to ignoring.
Marie sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a white fluffy robe he’d picked up on a cruise. She was drinking coffee out of a thick stoneware mug and the scent nearly drove Wit to his knees. He lifted the mass of honey brown curls from her neck, nuzzled the graceful arch and his knees went weak for a different reason.
“Good morning,” she gave a nervous smile. “The coffee’s ready. This is a nice blend.” She held the mug up to her face
as a prop to hide her nerves.
After her experience with Michael/James she had questioned her judgment when it came to romance. And now here she was, sitting at a breakfast table with someone she barely knew yet felt incredibly close to. She didn’t regret the night but found she didn’t know how to act this morning.