Chapter 8

The definition of insanity, Trina thought, making her way up the stairs, was doing the same thing twice and expecting different results.

Hunter was dreaming again, that same rough, broken cry piercing her sleep, and when she slipped through the door into his room, that same agonized expression contorting his chiseled features.

“Hunter,” she whispered.

She was playing it safer this time. She thought.

“Hunter.”

“No!”

“Hunter!”

But he was deep under, someplace she couldn’t reach him with whispers or words. She put a hand on his arm, which was warm, solid, and slick with sweat. Squeezed.

Her body answered with a squeeze of its own. His skin was hot and smooth, the muscle underneath solid and shifting as he thrashed.

“Hunter, you’re dreaming again. Wake up.”

And then suddenly his hands were on her, grabbing her, pulling her down. For a split second she thought of a television show she’d seen—Gray’s Anatomy, maybe—in which the traumatized veteran had attacked his girlfriend in the night. But this wasn’t that. There was no threat in him, at least not that kind of threat. His hands were roaming, roving, finding the back of her head, the curve of her ass, drawing her down, in, and even though a shred of her dignified self kept insisting, You can’t do this again, she socked that smarter Trina in her self-righteous jaw and let Hunter tug her mouth down to his.

Oh, God.

She didn’t care. She didn’t care what a bad idea this was or that in half-sleep he probably didn’t know who she was or what the hell he was doing. She didn’t care that when he awoke fully he’d push her away, or that in the morning he’d pretend it hadn’t happened. She didn’t even care that it couldn’t be, couldn’t last.

She just wanted more of him—the succulent swell of his mouth against hers, the slick contact echoing in the quiet room, the grunt of satisfaction he’d made when she’d slid home against him, key fitting lock and turning. His rough, dream-angry hands, the sinew, bone, and equally hard muscle under her own roaming fingers, the sleepy, rich scent of his skin filling her head.

Because these strange interludes, these middle-of-the-night meetings, they were the only place she could find him. Or, really, the only place and time when he could find her. When she knew he recognized her.

“God,” he said. Or she thought he did. And “Trina.” Then again, so she couldn’t mistake it, “Trina.”

This couldn’t make it worse. It couldn’t make her feel more lost. And maybe, just maybe, it could be a bridge back for him. There was no denying the connection, no denying the hard length of him against her thigh or the relief in the sounds he made or the way he clutched her.

And there was no denying the relief that had washed over her as she felt his mouth on hers, heard her name spoken in that sleep-roughened voice. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been holding herself together, but now he was giving her permission to let go, and she poured herself into him. Kissing him long, their mouths slick and giving, his hands now drifting down to find the hem of her shorty nightgown, sliding underneath it to cup her where she was hot and achy and so willing. He groaned, clutched her like she was the secret to something, the pressure of his palm against her pubic bone over her panties setting off a cascade of sensations that her body mindlessly sought more of, her hips lifting to him. Her voice, his name; her fingernails, his skin; her hunger, his willingness to feed and fill.

He took his hand away, gave her the whole of his body between her thighs, and she’d missed him, missed this, so much. Rocking against each other and kissing, like before the first time he’d ever been inside her when they were as horny as teenagers in alleys, backseats, behind the locked door of a bathroom in his house at night, until they’d gotten their first big break and the girls had both been invited to a sleepover party.

Everything about this was brand new and ancient at the same time, the way he ground between her legs, the tension gripping and welling up there and clutching her all over, drenching her in sweat. It was impossible to tell how much was his tongue stroking hers, his mouth setting the pace, his hands pulling too hard and not hard enough in her hair, the weight of him on her like something she’d lost and found again and couldn’t get enough of, the hard, hot length through two thin layers of fabric, just the right amount of friction, the emotion pouring through her like something she’d been soaked in.

Whatever it was had gotten hold of her and tightened its grasp, sweat prickling all over her body, her hips seeking him recklessly and relentlessly, and his seeking her back. He wouldn’t let her mouth go and it was like being pulled, down, down, down, the tension thrumming to a taut, helpless peak, until she was breathless and beside herself, totally out of her head. She raked his back, called his name, came with an exultant, ragged cry he suffocated with his mouth, his own groan swallowed in his chest, his body rigid over hers, his muscles locked and trembling.

He lowered himself slowly to the bed beside her, found her hand with his, wrapping hers completely, a blanket of safety, and they lay there, side by side, her thoughts a jumble, words waiting to sort themselves out. Questions. What was that? What happens now? Does that mean—

And in the silence, his breathing was easing, lengthening, his hand coming loose, until she looked over and saw that he was sound asleep.