Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“It’s all right.”

“I’m almost finished. You don’t want to host a parasite.” He dabbed the cut several more times, then set the roll of tissue and the bottle of antiseptic on his TV tray night table. “There. See?” He came to his feet, dusting his hands. “All done.”

She looked up at him, her eyes so large and watery they dominated her face. She was making sobbing sounds and her lips were trembling. A tear slid into her mouth, at the corner of it, where her lips met. She seemed unaware of it.

“I was so…so scared.”

He dropped his phony cheerful manner and said solemnly, “I know.”

“There was nothing I could d-do.”

“No.”

“I tried to get away from them, but the road-”

“You did your best.”

“When the water rushed in, I panicked.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I’ve always thought…thought I’d be brave. But I wasn’t.”

“You were-”

“I knew I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t…you know how people say their life flashes in front of them?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head furiously. “Mine didn’t. There was nothing. Nothing but the water and…and terror. I just wanted to escape. I was so af-afraid. Raley?”

“Hmm?”

She reached for his hand, but when he extended it, she grasped his forearm instead. Then her other hand hooked his waistband, pulling at him. Dropping the quilt, she practically climbed him, using parts of his upper body as handholds to help her stand up, and when she was on her feet, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and clung fast.

“I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want to die.”

“You didn’t. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“Oh, God.” Coming up on tiptoe, she burrowed her face in his neck. “I thought I was going to die.”

“It’s over. You’re safe.” Awkwardly, he patted her back. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Then her hands were on his cheeks, tilting his face down toward hers, her lips frantically seeking his. She threaded her fingers up through his hair and formed tight fists that nearly ripped his hair out by the roots. She kissed him and continued to kiss him between words that were choppy and unintelligible but had the ring of desperation.

The feel of her body, much smaller, softer, than his. Her bare legs rubbing against his. Her hands, clutching. Her lips, moist and yearning. It was all too much. He was consumed by raw desire.

His arms closed around her. His hand on her ass, he drew her up and into him. He angled his lips against hers. When he did, hers parted. Tongues touched, then his was filling her mouth, and, Jesus, he was lost.

Inside his head a bell of warning was clanging louder than any fire alarm, but he didn’t heed it. She smelled good, she tasted good, her mouth was silky and hot and hungry, and it had been a long time since a woman had wanted him. With desperation.

She continued to clutch handfuls of his hair, then his T-shirt, until her hands slid beneath it onto his back. Her nails dug into his skin. He broke the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head and fling it away, then went back to kissing her. They separated again only long enough for her to take off the T-shirt he’d given her to wear. When they came together this time, her breasts were pressed against his chest, and he heard himself growl with pleasure.

She took hold of his waistband again and tugged him forward as she fell back onto the bed. He followed her down. She undid his fly, or rather they undid it together, clumsy fingers battling over the metal buttons until her fingers, no longer clumsy, closed around him. He groaned an incoherent string of swearwords as he shoved off his cutoffs and then worked the baggy boxers down her legs. She kicked them away even as he thrust into her.

It was hard and fast and graceless, and in under a minute they both came, hugging each other tightly, moaning, gasping for breath.

Then for several minutes, they lay locked together, completely spent. She didn’t move, so neither did he, although the consequences of what had just happened fell on him like a ton of bricks.

Jay was here first.

Despite how goddamn good she felt, that was what he was thinking when her leg slid off his hip and her arms relaxed their embrace, then let go.

He rolled off her onto his back and closed his eyes. Minutes passed in ponderous silence, so many minutes that the situation became even more awkward than it already was. Somebody had to say something sometime, but it wasn’t going to be him.

Finally, he felt her sit up. He opened his eyes as she reached for the boxers that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. He couldn’t resist glancing at her in profile. Remarkable ass. Lovely, smooth back. Lovelier front. The curve of her breast full but natural. A pink nipple that looked delectable.

Bothered by another twinge of arousal, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. He retrieved the T-shirt she’d been wearing from the floor and without turning around passed it back to her. She took it without a word. He gathered his two articles of clothing, then got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He stood at the sink, turned on the water, and used a cloth to wash himself, thinking, Christ, Christ, Christ.

He buttoned his cutoffs-remembering, with chagrin, the hackneyed adage about closing the barn door-then turned out the light before opening the door. She was lying on her side, facing the opposite direction. She had put on the T-shirt and pulled the quilt up to her waist. He lay down and turned onto his side so that they were back to back.

Huskily she said, “They say…” She hesitated, cleared her throat, tried again. “They say that when you…when you experience something like I did tonight, or when you go to a funeral, when you have an encounter with the reality and finality of death, it’s normal for you to…to want sex. They say that what happened just now…between us…What I mean is, they say it’s a natural reaction to the kind of trauma we went through tonight. Because sex is the ultimate…It’s the…It’s life affirming.”

Raley lay still for several moments, then reached for the gooseneck lamp and switched it off. “Is that what they say?”

He was gone when she woke up. There was a note on the dining table. White lined paper ripped from a spiral notebook, a bold, familiar script written in black ink. “Back soon.” A man of few words.

According to the time he’d jotted down beneath the brief message, he’d been away over two hours. She made toast and coffee, and was finishing her second cup when she heard his pickup coming up the lane.

She scampered back into the bedroom and closed the door, not wanting it to appear that she had been anxiously awaiting his return. While she was hiding there, it occurred to her that, when it came to sex, grown-ups could certainly behave childishly. Even so, she didn’t come out.

She heard the screen door squeak open, then slap shut, heard his footfalls going toward the kitchen area. When she worked up enough courage to open the bedroom door, his back was to her. He was piling several plastic sacks on the dining table. They bore the familiar Target logo.

“I wondered where you-”

She broke off when he turned around. He’d got a haircut. It wasn’t short like he used to wear it, but it had been clipped and moderately tamed. But the most startling change was his beardless face. She’d forgotten the angular bone structure of his jaw, the jut of cheekbones. And without the beard detracting from his eyes, they seemed greener, more arresting.

She wondered if she should comment on this sudden and drastic change, but before she could, he turned back around and began unloading his purchases. “Did you eat something?” he asked.