"You could go on assignment," she said, even though she hated the idea.
"I wish I could . . ." His voice faded away, then turned sharp. "Old news." He took another drink.
"Maybe you should slow down a little." She tried to take the flask from him. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. He touched her face with his other hand, caressing her cheek as if he were blind and trying to come up with an image of what she looked like.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
"You're drunk."
"You're still beautiful." He slid one hand up her arm and the other down her throat until he was holding her in his arms. She knew he was going to kiss her, felt the knowledge in every nerve ending in her body, just as she knew she should stop him.
He pulled her closer and all her good intentions disappeared. She gave herself over to the pressure of his hands, let herself be guided down, down toward his mouth.
The kiss was like nothing she'd ever experienced before: tender and sweet at first, then searching, demanding.
She surrendered to him as completely as she'd dreamed of doing. His tongue electrified her, sparked a new and painful desire. She became greedy for him, desperate. Without thinking, she shoved her hands up under his T-shirt, feeling his warm skin, needing to be closer . . .
Her hands were at his collarbone, pushing the soft warm cotton upward, when she realized he'd gone still.
Her senses were so scrambled it took her a moment to clear her head. Breathing hard, aching with this new need, she drew back enough to look at him.
He lay back against the sofa, his eyes at half mast. He lifted his hand slowly, jerkily, almost as if he weren't quite controlling his own movements, and touched her lips, tracing their contour with his fingertip. "Tully," he whispered. "I knew you'd taste good."
And with that blow to the heart, he fell asleep.
Kate wasn't sure how long she sat on his lap, staring down at his sleeping face. Once again, time seemed elastic between them. It felt as if she were bleeding—but it wasn't blood that leaked out of her, not something that could be so easily transfused. Instead, she was losing her dreams. The fantasy flower of love she'd planted all by herself and tended so carefully.
She climbed off him and settled him onto the sofa, taking off his shoes and covering him with a blanket.
In her own bed, with a door closed between them, she lay awake for a long time, trying not to replay it over and over in her mind, but it was impossible. She kept tasting his lips, feeling his tongue against hers, and hearing him whisper,Tully.
When she finally fell asleep, it was already well past midnight and morning came much too quickly. At six o'clock, she slammed the silencer on her alarm, brushed her teeth and hair, put on a robe, and hurried into the living room.
Johnny was up, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. At her entrance, he put the cup down and got up. "Hey," he said, shoving his fingers through his hair.
"Hey."
They stared at each other. She tightened the belt on her terrycloth robe.
He glanced at Tully's door.
"She's not here," Kate said. "She spent last night at Chad's."
"So you put me to bed on the couch and covered me."
"Yep."
He moved toward her. "I was pretty baked last night. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come by."
She wasn't sure what to say.
"Mularkey," he finally said, "I know I was out of it . . ."
"Yes, you were."
"Did . . . anything happen? I mean, I'd hate to think—"
"Between us? How could it?" she said before he could finish saying how much he would regret a liaison between them. "Don't worry. Nothing happened."
