... and then he closed his eyes and stopped thinking at all.
Her forehead rested against his chin, and he relished the feel of her skin. The smell of her hair.
She pressed her body against him more fully and the battle of wills was over.
Whether it was his prolonged abstinence or the one drink or both, he needed ...this.
He drew back, pushed the dress off her shoulders, exposing her bare breasts. He wanted to touch her. He needed to have sex. Here. Now. With her. There was no more denying it.
Her fingers tangled with his buttons, swiftly freeing each one. Together they dragged off his tie ... his jacket and shirt. She ushered her dress past her hips, allowing it to float to the carpet.
In one sweep she was in his arms, then on the bed. His shoes and socks, his trousers, and then his boxers landed on the floor. He ripped the delicate panties from her hips and would have driven straight into her but the last brain cell still functioning with any semblance of intelligence sent a warning.
Condom.
As if she had read his mind, she reached beneath the pillow and withdrew a shiny package. She ripped it open and sheathed him in one smooth motion.
He thrust inside her without a moment’s foreplay or the slightest inkling of finesse. She wrapped herself around him and met each flex of his hips. The heels of her stilettos scraped his thighs, urged him on.
And then she kissed him. Not slow. Not soft. She kissed the way she fucked: hard, furious, and without pretension. Her fingers rammed into his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss. “More,” she murmured against his lips, undulating her hips provocatively.
He gave it to her.
At some point he told himself this was crazy ... over the top. But that didn’t stop him ... didn’t even slow him down. The single viable idea remaining in his head was to have all of her.
5
9:55 p.m.
5900 Leeds Road, Birmingham
Wainwright Estate
Donald Wainwright prepared himself a double of the Kentucky bourbon he preferred and settled on the sofa to savor the burn. Lately, though, even his favorite whiskey seemed bland.
Life at home was bland.
His wife had already drunk herself into oblivion and gone to bed as she did every night. Claimed it was the only way she could endure being married to him.
He’d almost gotten used to her cutting remarks, had thought that nothing else she could say or do would get to him. But he’d been wrong. This evening she had announced that she planned to have an affair. With the mailman, of all people. How cliché was that?
For God’s sake, why had she felt compelled to tell him?
There hadn’t been much to say after that. He had mentioned, however, that discretion would be in her best interest if she had any aspirations of making it to the governor’s mansion alongside him.
But then he hadn’t really needed to point that out. The bitch wasn’t going to screw up her chance to be first lady of Alabama. She liked the notoriety far too much to allow anything to get in the way.
Funny. The first twenty years of their marriage had been perfect. Perfect wife, beautiful and intelligent; perfect kids who grew up to be a doctor and an engineer. His own career had not once stagnated. What more could anyone ask for?
Then, twelve years ago, things had changed. Maybe he worked too much, maybe she drank too much. Whatever the case, they had slowly drifted apart.
He downed a generous gulp of bourbon. His work would just have to continue to make up for the lack of affection his wife showed him. For him, an affair was out of the question. He’d watched too many of his friends fall into that trap and pay the staggering price.
He would simply do what he always did ... work.
Today had gone well. Stokes had gotten what he deserved, and the city could rest easy knowing that two of the most heinous crimes in its history were now solved. Stokes would never harm an innocent victim again.
It was done.
