I work for hours until I forget the outside world exists and my fingers are cramped and my own shoulders ache. When the sun becomes just a thought on the horizon, I put my computer to sleep and fall into the darkened bedroom, asleep before my head hits the pillows.
Somewhere around noon the phone wakes me up. I try to ignore it because I’m having a very nice dream involving Jake. He’s under the covers with me, nuzzling my neck. My hands cling to his broad shoulders as the coarse hair of his legs rub against mine. His hands move down my sides and I start aching in places that I didn’t know could ache.
His head follows the direction of his hands, pausing to lick on my tightened nipples and then lower still. The first touch of his tongue is so tender, I almost weep. He draws his tongue in slow, long movements until I tilt my hips forward in an unspoken plea for more. He palms my butt and rocks me toward his mouth. I’m shaking with pleasure and desire, desperate for more. I beg him to stop tormenting me. He rises to his knees and drags me down with hungry hands until my wet heat presses against his hard erection. He leans forward, all two hundred and sixty pounds of fierce need, sinking on top of me, but the stupid phone will not stop ringing. I shut my eyes tighter, but the heavy pressure of his body dissipates and I’m left clutching my sheets.
It’s probably Oliver. Unhappily, I stick my hand out and fumble on the nightstand without emerging from the covers. If I don’t lift up the sheets, maybe the dream will come back.
“Hullo?” I mumble.
“Did I wake you?”
It’s Jake and he sounds amused. My heart gives a silly pulse as I scramble to answer him. I feel off-balance, as if he somehow knows I was having a naughty dream about him. “I went to bed at four in the morning. It’s still early for me.”
I run a hand over my hair, smoothing the wild strands down, and then laugh silently at myself. Jake can’t see me. If he could, he’d hang up and never call me again because I know from experience my bed head is frightening. My ex used to say that for someone with thin hair, I was able to create an alarming Medusa-like cloud after only a few hours of sleep. Although seeing my hair is the least of the reasons he should run away. The first and foremost is that I’m using him as fodder for my sexual fantasies.
“Were you having trouble sleeping?”
“No, I was working. The words kept falling out and I didn’t want to stop.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“I’m not,” I answer with frank eagerness. I don’t want him to hang up. Talking to him feels good, like spring in my heart after a long dark winter.
“Then I’m not sorry either. I called about some security ideas.”
Oh, I like that he called me and not Oliver—that he thinks I’m capable of making decisions like this. “Thank you,” I murmur, huddling deeper into the covers. I wish he was here with me. We could discuss this over coffee, still in bed, our limbs tangled together. I barely remember the last time I slept with a man. Daphne’s stayed over a few times, but she sleeps in my pull-out in the living room, and as much as I love her, she’s no substitute for a warm male body.
“For what?”
“For treating me like an adult.”
“You look like an adult.”
Is that . . . an innuendo? I want to tell him that I’m very adult. That I just had a grown-up sex dream he starred in, and would he like to come over and act it out in person. Of course, I don’t because rational people don’t go around telling strangers that they are spank bank material, and even if he is okay with that, what if he showed up and I couldn’t bring myself to turn the doorknob. That would be a humiliating experience.
Abruptly I sit up, tossing the covers aside and banishing my foolish thoughts. Jake is not flirting with me; he’s being kind and I need to start acting like the adult we both are pretending I am.
“What are your ideas for improving the safety of my home?” I ask with brusqueness.
He picks up my cue and responds in kind. “I’d like to place proximity sensors around your doors—the front and the balcony. The alarms are outward-facing and wouldn’t be triggered by opening the door from the inside or even walking onto the balcony.”
“You can do that?”
“Technology is pretty great.”
I guess it is amazing. It’d be great if we could implant a device in my brain that would turn off my fear, but then I’d probably walk into traffic and get myself killed. “That sounds good. You wouldn’t have a proximity sensor for an individual, would you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, let’s say I fell. Could you have a proximity sensor that could detect the motion of falling and then a period of, say, thirty seconds of no movement?”
“I don’t have anything like that, but it’s possible it could be rigged up. A proximity sensor can detect certain motion, like the deceleration of mass, but it’s not a system I stock and could bring over today. Why?”
I blow out a stream of air and then decide what the hell. He already knows I have issues. “I’ve been trying to force myself to go outside, leave my apartment.”
“Is that safe?”
“It’s how I won before. After—” I don’t even like to bring up the attack, but I force it out. “After the attack, I got scared of everything and everyone, but after like six months of solitude, I started going a little stir-crazy, so I tried to leave. I got as far as the stairs—I lived on the second floor—and had to turn around and go back. But I kept going back and I’d mark down in a little journal how long I stood there. After a couple of weeks, I looked at my log and saw I had stood five minutes outside my door. That was . . .” I try to find the right word to describe my triumph that day. “I felt like I’d won the Pennant and the Super Bowl all at the same time.” Please don’t find this pathetic, I cringe.
“I understand,” he says. “When I took my first step with the prosthetic, it felt as good as when I’d passed Ranger School.”
Okay, he did get it. Wait, did he say prosthetic? “You have a prosthetic?”
“Yes, left hand, left leg, below the knee.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know anyone who had a prosthetic. A couple of my characters in the Dark Worlds series had biomechanical limbs, but I’m a science fiction writer, so I can write any kind of thing I please, within the rules of the world I’d built. While I’d done some research, I had no idea what it meant to have a prosthetic.
“Is that a problem for you?”
There’s a hint of defensiveness behind his strong voice. If he only knew how exponentially more attractive he just made himself, he’d be frightened. He’d suffered a terrible blow to his body and probably his self-image, yet he had started his own business and is clearly very successful or Oliver would have never hired him. He is someone who’s overcome. Basically the person I want to be someday.
“No, not at all. I was just thinking how amazing you must be.”
“How do you figure?” He snorts.
I shrug, but he can’t see me. “Because you’re a bad-ass at protecting other people. Not to mention you can go outside whenever you want.”
“Are you saying you would give your left arm to be able to walk in Central Park?” It’s a joke. At least I think it’s a joke, but I’m not sure, so I don’t respond right away. He clears his throat. “Bad gimp joke. Anyway, let me know when I can come over and install the system.”
I chew on my lip. I’d like him to come over right now. I’d like to look at him, his tall frame, his prosthetics, what I presume to be a sweet and decent face. But then if I puked, passed out, or did anything embarrassing, I could kiss all my dreams good-bye. Actually, no, that’s all I’d have left of him—those dreams. “This will require you to come inside, right?”