Sweetest Kisses: A Single Kiss Part 25

The shock left her helpless to do more than endure the cataclysm, to hold onto Trent and let the pleasure wash over her and through her, and over her again.

When it receded, she was panting on his chest, her body at once heavy and light, floating and anch.o.r.ed, her mind at peace. Then gradually, she became aware of Trent's hands moving on her back, the rhythm of his breathing beneath her.

His erection, still pressed against her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I had to have hurt you. I didn't mean-" Embarra.s.sment stole her words, and some of her wonder, though not all. This was the experience other women took for granted, the one they joked about in high school and demanded as their due in college.

"You were magnificent, Hannah."

"But you're still- You didn't-" She pressed her nose to his sternum, certain he could feel her blush. "What now?"

"I can come like this too."

By contrast, his o.r.g.a.s.m was nearly soundless. He kept their bodies snug while he moved; the strokes were slow and measured, just a half-dozen easy thrusts against her belly, and Hannah felt damp warmth between them, then a long, soft sigh from Trent.

"That's it? That's all you get?"

"Hush." He gently pushed her head to his shoulder. "It's enough. More than enough."

She did not believe him, except his touch had s.h.i.+fted, become slower, more tender if that were possible, and it was all Hannah could do to keep her eyes open. She dozed, curled on his chest, his arms around her, and a sense of loveliness pervading her mind and body.

So that was an o.r.g.a.s.m?

And then, So that was almost making love?

"I've put you to sleep," Trent said, a trace of humor in his voice. "Let's tidy up before we both drift off."

He was matter of fact about it, s.n.a.t.c.hing a handful of tissues from the nightstand and swabbing at Hannah's belly. He was brisk with himself, scrubbing at his softening c.o.c.k, and then at his stomach. This sort of competence-confidence, really-amazed Hannah, and gave her almost as great a sense of intimacy with him as what had gone before.

Almost.

And now, now, she wanted to hear his voice, to talk, to learn how a couple eased from such closeness to what came after.

But what to say?

"Cuddle up." Trent s.h.i.+fted Hannah so she lay along his side, her head on his shoulder. "Don't go silent on me yet, Stark. A man could use a few rea.s.surances."

He caught her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles before settling their joined hands over his heart.

"What kind of rea.s.surances?"

"The sincere kind. You enjoyed yourself?"

"I have never enjoyed myself quite like that before," she said, turning her face to his shoulder. "I am dumbstruck."

"Never before? Never?"

She shook her head, unwilling to elaborate. Let him think his was a novel approach for her, a different position, whatever a more sophisticated woman might have meant by "never."

Trent hiked Hannah's leg across his thighs, giving her foot a warm squeeze. "Never?"

"You want to talk about this?" She huffed out a sigh, but to cuddle naked with him, warm and safe in his embrace, her body still humming with pleasure made her want to give him the truth.

"I seldom had my own room growing up," she said, "and in college there were roommates, and certain skills take absolute privacy to develop. I didn't date much, and then there was Grace."

He was quiet for a moment, probably trying to think of something to say to such a personal disclosure.

"Ah, Hannah, how you honor me."

Honor. Not flatter or please or trust, but honor encompa.s.sed all three, and even more.

"How will I face you in the office?" Hannah yawned and closed her eyes as she posed the question. The office seemed a million miles and five years away, at least. A different planet, where people wore clothes and bustled around on company business.

"With a smile, my dear. You will face me in the office with a nice, fat, satisfied smile."

Chapter 12.

Gerald Matthews untangled himself from Gail Russo's flowered sheets and took himself off to the bathroom. He'd swung by after making the rounds, as he occasionally did, though Gail had been next to worthless. She didn't party, and she was upset he'd left the firm, upset he'd be out on his own, upset he hadn't told her he was moonlighting.

Stupid, upset, clinging b.i.t.c.h. She'd be a lot more upset if she'd known that before he'd left Hartman and Whiny, he'd helped himself to a peek at Hannah Stark's personnel file, and oh, my, who would have guessed, Hannah Stark had at least one dependent?

A surrept.i.tious investigation of Hannah's purse-silly Hannah, leaving her office and her desk unlocked when she used the conference room-revealed a school picture in her wallet of a cute little girl with dark hair and Hannah's stubborn chin.

Pay dirt, in other words, given that Gerald knew which elementary school a kid living at Hannah's address would attend.

Gail would shoot around the room backward like a deflating balloon if she knew Gerald had snooped to that extent.

He could still hear Gail's sermonizing: "How could you just waltz out of Hartman without leaving me some way to explain this? I'm the head of HR, and you broke your employment contract. Do you know how that makes me look? What if the company decides to sue you for breach of contract?"

Whine, whine, whine.

But Gail's rant had given him an answer to a question that had bothered him-he wasn't being sued, yet. He'd slipped a conspiratorial arm around her shoulders when she'd pa.s.sed along that tidbit.

"Hartman won't sue me. They don't have the resources right now, especially in Trent Knightley's department. He's up to his a.s.s in alligators, and Hannah Stark won't be any kind of replacement for me."

Gail looked uncomfortable, so Gerald prodded her.

"You holding out on me, Gail?" She leaned into him, poor, dispirited little Gail. "You can tell me. I don't even work there anymore." Thank Almighty G.o.d.

"Hannah did fine on her first docket, Gerald, and Trent sent her home at noon with strep throat. I don't think she'll fall on her a.s.s, if that's what you're hoping for."

"Of course she managed, Gail." He dropped his arm. "That was a light docket, Linker was in a decent mood, and Margaret cut fellow-b.i.t.c.h counsel a break on her first day. Just wait until the January dockets. .h.i.t. I saw what was scheduled for then, and I don't envy Hannah Stark what awaits her between now and spring. What I want to know is do you have anything waiting for me?"

And her clothes had practically fallen off of her.

He'd given her a little of the rough stuff, but as usual, she'd acted like she didn't like it. Women were so predictable.

Now she was off to work, even though it had snowed a foot, the courthouse was closed, and most of the office would be claiming they couldn't make it in until tomorrow. Gerald treated himself to a long, hot shower, then slung a towel around his hips and made his way to the fridge. Gail stocked his favorite brand of beer, or she heard about it.

He stood in her kitchen, dripping onto her hardwood floor, and saw a note propped beside the beer.

Gerald, the circ.u.mstances under which you've changed employment suggest for both our sakes we should minimize our contact for the foreseeable future. I hope you understand what I'm saying. Best of luck, Gail.

He balled up the note, pitched it in the general direction of the trash, and cracked open a Sam Adams, chugging half of it.

He was being sued for breach of contract; that was what Gail was "saying." Part of him wanted to kick her over the county line-she was the head of HR for s.h.i.+t's sake; she should have been able to prevent this-and part of him was touched at the quaintness of her warning.

She'd had to have one last roll in the hay with him before she cut him loose, the pathetic little tramp. Gail was one woman whose attentions he wouldn't miss, always so d.a.m.ned nice, always so d.a.m.ned guilty. He'd hated that part of her.

But Gail's note clarified one thing for Gerald: he would take Hannah Stark-or Juliet Randall-down if it was his last act as a member of the bar. No one made a fool of him, least of all some wet-behind-the-ears ice b.i.t.c.h stepping into his shoes. Hannah Stark would leave the practice of law-at least-or get kicked out of it.

Helping himself to another swallow of cold beer, Gerald went back to the bedroom, got out his cell phone, and found Joan Smithson's number.

Monday morning dawned brilliantly sunny and temperate. The opening of school was delayed two hours, and Trent admonished Hannah not to show up at the office before noon.

He helped her tidy up the couch where he'd ostensibly slept, and caught her hands in his as they folded a blanket up.

"You will come to the Christmas party with me, Stark."

Thus Hannah admitted to herself, whether she was ready for it or not, she was dating the boss.

"I will let you pick me up and drop me off, because we live only two miles apart, and I'm mindful of my carbon footprint."

"Right." He took the blanket from her. "We'll carpool."

His smile was wickedly pleased, and Hannah had been relieved to bundle him and Merle off while she and Grace were still in their pajamas. She turned to face her daughter, who looked a little perplexed.

"We had some fun this weekend, didn't we, Grace?"

"Lotsa fun. Did Merle's dad slip you the fish?"

"What?"

"Joey Hinlicky's older brother has girlfriends, and he's always fish-kissing them. Joey spies on him and then tells us about it. Larry Smithson said his brother does the same thing."

"Why would you think Merle's dad would kiss me like that?"

"We saw you on the couch, while we were doing the dishes," Grace said with a shrug. "He kissed you."

"He kissed my cheek."

"I like him, and I don't have a dad. If he were my dad, he'd be kissing you on the mouth and you'd be kissing him too. Can I have peanut b.u.t.ter toast?"

"Peanut b.u.t.ter toast sounds good." Much better than a discussion of French kissing.

"Are you going to marry Merle's dad?"

"I like him, Grace, and he kissed my cheek, but getting married is a big, big decision, and it wouldn't be just up to me."

"It would be up to me too?" Grace got out the bread and put two slices in the toaster.

At least Grace hadn't brought Bronco into the decision-yet.

"That decision would be up to Merle's dad and me, though we'd listen to what you and Merle had to say about it, but he has not asked me." Hannah got the peanut b.u.t.ter down and opened it.

"You could ask him. He's really nice."

"I won't ask him any time soon. He is nice, but we work together, and it's tough enough to be friends and work together."

Grace frowned, a knife full of peanut b.u.t.ter in her hand.

"That doesn't make sense, Mom. My job is going to school, and if I didn't make friends there, I wouldn't have any friends. I don't want you to be lonely. I have a friend now, and you should have one too. Do you want some toast?"

"Yes, please."

Hannah watched, bemused, while her daughter made them breakfast. This was a first, and had something to do with acquiring a friend and being around that friend and that friend's father.

The whole morning unfolded with the same sense of bemus.e.m.e.nt, as if Hannah were simultaneously in two different realities.

The inside Hannah had to stop herself from dwelling on the image of Trent Knightley, naked, gilded in moonlight, standing in her bedroom.

The outside Hannah made it in to the office by 11:00 a.m., tackled the next docket worth of cases, and was relieved to hear Trent had gone to a settlement conference at another law firm and wasn't expected back until late afternoon.

Relieved and disappointed, though how on earth was she to face him?

Hannah drove out to the jail after lunch, town having gotten less snow than the slopes and the sun making an effort to melt what hadn't been plowed away. Her client was Beauregard Jefferson Davis, IV, and he was serving five years for rape. Hannah's job was to get him an abatement of child support while he was incarcerated, or he'd just be put right back in jail for nonsupport when his sentence was over.

And again, she felt a duality inside, between the part of her that would do a good job for this client and the part of her that wished Grace's dad was serving at least five years if not more.

Wherever he was.

The county detention center, where sentences of up to eighteen months could be served, was a long, low, red brick building with precious few windows. On one side, a concrete "courtyard" was fenced with chain link and razor wire. Floodlights would keep the whole area illuminated at night, and a couple of basketball hoops lent a surreal touch.

Hannah shut off her car, gathered her briefcase-but not her purse-locked the car, and headed for the main entrance. Her stomach protested more the closer she got to the building, as if her body sensed the misery the bricks and mortar kept confined.

Breathing as regularly as she could, Hannah identified herself to the duty officer behind the bulletproof gla.s.s. He made a copy of her driver's license, made sure her brief case held only files, noted something on a log of some sort, then made a phone call while Hannah waited.

"You can go down to interrogation, Ms. Stark. Straight along the hallway to room number seven, on your right. We'll bring Davis up in a few minutes."