When I reach her I take the book out of her hands and lay it on the nightstand. I kick off my jeans and ease in next to her, leaning over to move one of the thin straps aside. I kiss her collarbone and work my way up her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume.
“You smell so good,” I say.
She places her hands on my chest and runs her fingers lightly over my skin, leaving sparks trailing in their wake. Claire has always been able to turn me on with a touch of her hand and tonight is no exception. The first kiss I place on her lips is gentle, but when she opens her mouth to me I deepen it, taking my time. Gone is the frantic feeling of earlier today, because this time I’m not stopping until we’re done.
I grab the hem of her nightgown and pull the whole thing over her head. The site of Claire stripped down to her lacy black underwear almost sends me over the edge. I have no intention of turning off the lamp because I want to see every bit of this. She sighs when I rub her nipples. They harden instantly and I groan, loving the way they feel under my fingertips. I replace my fingers with my mouth and circle each nipple with my tongue. When I start to suck, Claire runs her hands through my hair and tells me how good it feels.
I kiss my way down, past her stomach. Kneeling between her legs, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down and throwing them on the floor. I look at her—laid out before me—and wonder how I was able to stand not being with her for so long.
I put my hand between her legs and stroke her. Her eyes are half lidded and her lips are parted as she draws in increasingly ragged breaths. I love watching Claire when she’s turned on, and all of her inhibitions are gone. I push her legs farther apart and use my mouth and my tongue. When I told her I’d forgotten what she tastes like, this is what I really meant.
Claire moans softly and repeatedly, and that’s a sound I love hearing her make. Always have. I can tell she’s close, very close, so I keep stroking and licking and I don’t stop until she comes.
When the aftershocks have subsided she pulls me up toward her and removes my boxer shorts. I’m dying for Claire to touch me, but I’d rather be inside of her, so I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me. She straddles me and guides me inside. We rock together and it feels incredible, and when I come I say her name over and over. I’m still inside her when she stretches out on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and we lay still, catching our breath.
“I never stopped wanting you, Claire,” I whisper. “Never.”
I hold her in my arms and as soon as I’m able, I make love to her again, just because I can. Afterward, when I’m certain that she’s fallen asleep, I slip out of bed and finish my reports. Jim has sent three increasingly angry e-mails, asking where they are. I’ll get an earful on Monday, but I really don’t care.
Fuck you, Jim. I still win.
62
claire
Chris and I tuck the kids into bed one night a few weeks later, and reconvene on the couch to watch TV. It’s Sunday and he worked most of the day, but he took a break to go to Josh’s soccer game and he stopped early enough so we could take the kids out for dinner. He seems happier, even with his stressful workload and the large amount of time he has to spend away from home. Even without
the antidepressants. Instead of shutting me out he answers my questions when I ask about work. He shares with me how frustrated he is.
We’re watching the end of a CSIrerun when the local news interrupts programming with a special report. I watch the BREAKING NEWS banner flashing at the top of the screen and feel a prickle of unease because whatever we’re about to learn is significant enough to disrupt prime-time programming.
The news anchor begins speaking and I lean forward a bit, listening as he reports that two police officers have been shot during a routine traffic stop. The station cuts to live footage, which shows flashing lights, police cars, fire trucks, and barricades. “Can you tell where that is?” Chris asks. I don’t answer him because I’m searching the faces of the police officers who are trying to maintain order and hold back the onlookers. The anxiety increases a bit when I realize that Daniel isn’t one of the officers I can identify in the crowd.
It can’t be him. There’s no way it’s him.
But it might be him. I don’t know if he’s on duty tonight, but this is the shift he works. I fight the urge to slip out of the room, send him a text. I might not be able to see him anymore, but that doesn’t mean I stopped caring about his well-being. The news report ends with a promise from the anchor to keep viewers updated as more information becomes available.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Chris says.
“No,” I say. My worry increases. You’re being foolish, I tell myself. Daniel wouldn’t have anyone in his police car. He patrols alone. But Daniel told me once that a routine traffic stop is one of the most dangerous things a police officer faces. “You never know what the person behind the wheel is thinking,” he said. “What they’re going to do. If they’re armed.”
CSIcomes back on, but I’m no longer paying attention. The nightly news will start in a few minutes and then I’ll know more. I’ll know that Daniel is safe.
The shooting is the first story the nightly news covers. For five minutes they repeat the same information they’ve already given viewers, but then Daniel’s name suddenly flashes on the screen and I stand up so fast that my knee hits the coffee table and sends my glass of water flying.
“Claire!” Chris says. “What is it?”
I scramble for the remote control and turn up the volume. The anchor reports that Daniel Rush and Justin Chambers, the reserve officer riding along with him, have been transported to the hospital. Their conditions are unknown.
I sit down on the very edge of the couch, feeling panicked. I can’t answer Chris. It’s as if the wind has been knocked right out of me, and I can’t speak.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.
My heart is pounding and I have that awful feeling, the kind where the adrenaline makes your whole body vibrate with anxiety. “I know one of those officers. He’s a friend of mine.”
His forehead creases in confusion. “Which one?”
Hysteria bubbles up inside me. I feel it building and want to shout, “The ridiculously good-looking one!” but I take a deep breath and say, “Daniel Rush.”
Chris ponders this for a moment. “I don’t understand. How do you know him?”
“I did a freelance assignment for the police department.”
“But you said you were friends with him. What do you mean?”
I thought breaking things off with Daniel would mean that I’d never have this conversation with Chris. But suddenly I want to have this conversation. Need to have it. Daniel’s life could be hanging in the balance, and I’m not going to downplay our friendship, even if I have to pay for it. “We got to know each other pretty well,” I say.
“How well?”
I can almost see the lightbulb flickering above Chris’s head.
He stands up and takes a step back, exhaling in one fast breath. “Jesus, Claire. Are you trying to tell me you were having an affair with this guy? Because if you are, just say it.”
I shake my head. “I never slept with him. I never did anything like that with him.”
“Well, what did you do?” Chris asks, appearing only slightly relieved.
“We talked,” I say. “We texted. We went to lunch, to dinner. We spent time together.”
“How much time?” Chris’s face is flushed and he’s getting louder by the second. “And why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”