She couldn’t remember grabbing the buttons of his jeans, nor popping the snaps of his black and red flannel shirt. All she remembered was him sliding inside her, his hot flesh under her palms and the truck’s unforgiving grill against her lower back.
He drove into her. His blue gaze never left hers. He watched the play of emotion on her face, her lips, as he put a finger on her clitoris. She came a second time, then a third. He filled her up, almost to her womb. She wrapped her legs more tightly around his hips, opened herself completely, and welcomed each powerful thrust. She spasmed the fourth time as he rammed home. Before her orgasm had subsided, he came, too. His hot sperm filled her. His cock pulsed inside, then he took her mouth as if he owned her.
Max woke up. Though the orgasms hadn’t been real, she still felt weak with the power of them. Burrowing deeper into the blankets, she imagined his big, rough hands on her skin ...
She uttered a low, throaty sound of satisfaction, stretched, and opened her eyes. The first rays of morning light filtered through the branches of the elm outside her window. Curled against the back of her knees, Buzzard the cat—so named because he was a stray who had hung around like a buzzard looking for carrion—fussed as she moved. She felt marvelous, always did when Cameron came to her in her dreams. She closed her eyes, felt him inside her again. Felt the silk of his blond hair through her fingers—
Her eyes snapped open. Cameron hadn’t been blond. And he hadn’t had much hair.
Nor had his eyes been blue.
Ohmygod, she’d just had a wet dream about Witt!
She bolted up in bed. “Cameron, you bastard.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“I know it wasn’t you.”
“I mean I didn’t give you that dream.”
“Then who did?”
“You had it all on your own, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, right, and that’s why he drove a black and red Ram and wore that damn flannel shirt. That was your dream.” He’d given a variation of it to her several weeks ago.
“And you liked it so much, you switched partners.”
“If that’s true, then why aren’t you steamed with jealousy?”
“We ethereal beings don’t feel jealousy.”
“You’ve been jealous of every other man I’ve been with.”
“Not jealous, my sweet. Simply pissed as hell that you throw yourself away on one-night stands.” His voice rose a decibel with each word until the boom of it hurt her eardrums.
She jumped out of bed and held her hands to her ears. Thank God no one else could hear her ghostly husband. Only Max ever heard him. Some people would say she was crazy, but Cameron’s voice in her head was the only thing that kept her sane. Except at times like this when he drove her nuts.
Witt. Ohmygod. Witt.
It was ridiculous. It was downright terrifying. She didn’t even like the man. Not exactly. He was dictatorial. He looked like Dudley Do-Right of the Royal Canadian Mounties, for God’s sake, and was just as damn noble in his pursuit of justice.
She never would have had that dream on her own.
She paced her small room once.
It was absolutely not her dream. The positive assertion gave her some semblance of control.
“It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve imagined him—”
“Do not say it.” That time had been brought on by Cameron. Definitely. But tonight, Cameron hadn’t been there to play any role at all.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Tonight was all about you and Witt.”
“Shut up.” She didn’t want to think he might be right. The detective was off limits.
She looked at the clock. Years of early rising were ingrained despite the fact that she’d been out late and had no particular need to get up at all.
To get her mind off a certain cop, she needed some action. She needed to chase a killer. She needed to find the wino from her vision. But first, she had to find out more about Tiffany’s life.
Armed with a goal, Max pulled a black pantsuit from the closet, underwear and nylons from the dresser, and threw the lot across the bed. The toss was easily made since she lived in a boxy room with a dorm-size refrigerator, small desk, chair, single-size bed, and the absolute luxury of her own bathroom. She couldn’t stand to share.
“You never could.”
She swallowed the epithet on the tip of her tongue. Five steps and she was in her bathroom. No goopy bar sat in the soap dish. No razor droppings dotted the sink. No dental floss, used cotton swabs, or wadded up tissues lay in a circle outside the garbage can.
Cameron had been a total slob, but dear God, she’d give anything to clean up after him again.