Secrets to the Grave

19

They made love slowly, sweetly, gently. He touched, she sighed. Lips clung, tongues tangled. Her breath caught, he groaned, she gasped. They whispered and murmured, “I love you ... I need you.”

Anne slid her hands over her husband’s muscled back. She ran her foot up and down the back of his thick calf. She loved everything about him. She loved making love with him. She loved his strength, the size of him, the warm smoothness of his skin. She loved the way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way he filled her, the way he moved against her, the way he held her.

He was a patient lover, always careful she was ready, always careful that she was satisfied. He made her feel beautiful and powerful and feminine and sexual. He always held her afterward and kissed her hair and whispered how much he loved her, how he would keep her safe and never let anything bad happen to her ever again. And she felt safe and protected and so at home.

Vince tangled his hands in his wife’s dark hair. He kissed the graceful curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. He loved everything about her. He loved making love with her. He loved her softness, her delicate places, the heat of her, the smell of her. He loved the way she tasted, the silk glove tightness of her around him, the way she took him inside of her until he filled her.

She was his perfect lover, so open, so giving, unreserved. She made him feel strong and male and animal. Afterward he cradled her in his arms and kissed her hair and told her how much he loved her, and how he would keep her safe. And he felt so blessed and protective and completely at home.

He was one lucky son of a bitch.

He smiled down at Anne, thinking she looked like an angel in the soft light from the lamp on the nightstand. She smiled back, reached up and touched his cheek, her thumb brushing over the flat shiny scar that marked the entrance of the bullet fragment in his head.

He hoped this might have been the perfect moment for her to conceive, but he didn’t say it aloud. He knew she was worried about it. She worried that the post-traumatic stress would keep her body in self-protection mode and not allow her to conceive. One worry preyed on another—a vicious circle.

Vince had no doubt at all that they would have a family. He could close his eyes and see Anne round with their child. He could see her smiling down as a dark-haired baby nursed at her breast.

He brushed her hair back and kissed her softly. She kissed him back. Desire began to slowly stir again.

Until his pager went off.

Vince groaned. Anne made a little sound of frustration.

He looked in the window of the pager.

Mendez’s phone number plus 911.

He grabbed the phone off the nightstand and dialed.

Mendez answered on the first ring and said, “Haley Fordham is conscious.”

“I’m on my way,” Vince said.

“Bring Anne.”