When he went to look in on her, she must’ve heard his footsteps because she rolled over to face him.
“You okay?” he asked, standing in the doorway.
“I think so. You?”
“I don’t know.” He’d never felt so at odds with reality.
“What you saw had to be gruesome.”
“It was.”
“But shouldn’t you try to get some rest?”
“No point. I can’t sleep.” What he really wanted was to crawl into bed with her and pull her close, feel her breathing against him. But he knew what she’d think if he sought that kind of reassurance. “Want to watch a movie?” he asked.
She sat up. She’d put on a tank top—and what was she wearing below it? He couldn’t help speculating.
“As long as it’s not remotely violent,” she said.
“A comedy?”
“What do you have?”
“I get satellite, so I’m not sure. But with over two hundred channels, we should be able to find something.”
He wanted to support her as she made her way to the living room but didn’t. She was capable of getting around on her own now. And, needy as he was feeling, it would be best to keep his hands to himself.
“So, what do we have?” She sat at one end of the couch and he sat at the other, reading the options listed on the programming guide.
“There aren’t any comedies right now,” she said. “At least no good ones.”
“What about a drama? I’ve never seen The English Patient.” He probably hadn’t seen it because it looked like a chick flick. But he was in the mood for something sentimental, something that might fill the empty hole inside him. He’d found a woman murdered in cold blood not half a mile from his home. A woman he’d known most his life, someone he’d once created a child with. Before tonight, he’d felt safe living in the forest, safe and in control of his surroundings.
“I haven’t seen it, either,” she said.
“It started fifteen minutes ago, so we’re coming in a bit late.”
“But that’s going to be the case with everything.”
With a nod, he changed the channel and they began to watch the movie. It turned out to be so thoroughly entertaining that his tension finally began to ease—until Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas made love.
As Sheridan saw the lead characters take off their clothes and touch, it was as if she was experiencing the same desert heat, feeling the same passion and desperation they did. But she sat there rigidly, refusing to move, refusing to even turn her gaze in Cain’s direction. Until Kristin Scott Thomas groaned in ecstasy. Then she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Cain. She wanted to catch a glimpse of his expression, see what he was feeling.
But he wasn’t watching the film.
He was watching her.
“This might not be the best movie for us to see tonight,” she said when their eyes met.
He didn’t answer.
“Don’t you agree?” she prompted.
“Why not?” he asked.
He knew, but he wanted her to spell it out for him, to see if she’d admit her own desire. “We’re feeling a little…shaken and…disoriented after everything that happened tonight.”
“Disoriented,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go with shaken, but I’m not disoriented. I know exactly what I want.”
“Right. Well, I think I’ll go to bed.” She started to get up, but he reached out to stop her, and the moment his fingers closed around her wrist she felt reluctant to pull away.
His eyes ran over her tank top, then settled on the blanket she clutched around her waist. “Let go,” he said.
She swallowed hard. “No.”
“I want to see you.”
“You already did when you dressed me after our dip in the pond, remember?”
“This time I want you to show me.”
She told herself not to do it. She knew better than to take this any further. But she was transfixed by the desire in his eyes.
“Sheridan?” He sounded greedy, desperate.
Dropping the blanket, she stood in front of him wearing only her tank top and a pair of panties.
His sudden intake of air nearly melted the marrow in her bones. One finger flicked over the silk of her panties—and still she didn’t step away.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured.
It’d taken Sheridan years to recover from their last time together. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore. She’d never been on the weaker end of a relationship since. She’d also never fallen in love again, which seemed unfair, but there was something to be said for emotional safety.
“Now’s not a good time. I—I have too many bruises,” she said, but it wasn’t the bruises that worried her. Regardless of her self-talk, she was afraid of how a sexual encounter with Cain might affect her later.
“You think I’ll hurt you?”
Not physically, which was what he meant. “No.”
“So what’re you afraid of?”
“Certainly not you,” she lied. To prove it, she let her fingers delve into his hair and felt wildly powerful when he closed his eyes as if he’d actually been afraid she’d refuse him.
“I thought you were reformed,” she breathed, watching the relief on his face.
“No, just waiting.”
“For what?”
“For this.” Holding her by the waist, he leaned forward and covered her right breast, fabric and all, with his mouth.
A tremor of pure pleasure made Sheridan too weak to stand. Cain must’ve felt her reaction because he supported her so she wouldn’t have to stand on her own. Then he pressed her down onto the couch and raised her shirt.
“Wow.”
She touched his cheek, and their eyes met. His were filled with a need she’d never seen there before. It was because of Amy. Finding his ex-wife murdered in the road had understandably shocked him, upset him, even though he hadn’t been in love with her.
“Everything will be okay,” she told him, and then he was greedily touching and tasting every inch of her bare skin.
“This is what I want,” he murmured, and Sheridan groaned as his hand slid inside her panties.
She could comfort him this way, let him escape for half an hour and still distance herself emotionally, she told herself as he went to get a condom. But then he returned and their lovemaking escalated quickly, becoming so frenzied that her control slipped. When she felt the delicious pressure of him pushing inside her she realized she’d been waiting for this moment, too—ever since that night in the camper.