Page 72 of Colton's Secret Weapon
“She just keeps talking calmly,” the man said, “cheerful and upbeat. I don’t know how she does it.”
Mitchell had nothing to say to that but thought of the police officer’s words again a little over an hour later as he readied for bed. Dove had chattered all the way home about how much stronger and more alert her father had been that day. He’d eaten three meals, had been awake for several hours, his scans and blood work had come back better than expected, and the doctor had said that as long as he made it through the night with no trouble he could be released as soon as the next afternoon.
There’d been no further developments in their case. Mitchell had spoken to both Peter and Eli several times that day. Both of them were concerned about Whaler being on his own, prey to whoever had tried to kill him but hadn’t finished the job. The man was not only refusing Dove’s urgings to enter an abstinence-based program but even to go to rehab for a few days while he got more of his strength back.
She hadn’t discussed any of that with Mitchell. Nor had she asked if he’d spoken to anyone. He knew she’d been getting reports, though. Peter Welding had told him that much.
He’d also heard that she’d been submissive, almost to the point of paranoid where her own safety guidelines were concerned.
With good reason. They weren’t up against any deadbeat or deranged criminal here. They were dealing with a powerful, moneyed man who had connections. And above-average intelligence. At Peter’s invitation, he’d watched the interview with Brad Fletcher from the day before. The man had been properly contrite at appropriate times—like when he’d been shocked to find out that Bob St. James had security cameras—but mostly he’d appeared cocky, sure of himself and not the least bit concerned. Mitchell’s takeaway had been that in Fletcher’s mind, it wasn’t a matter ofifhe’d get St. James Boats butwhen.
Glad that he had Dove safely with him one more night—knowing that he had to come up with some kind of plan in the event of Whaler’s release the next day, like moving the older man in with him, too—he donned his pajama pants, leaving off the shirt, and headed into his room.
Wondering if Dove would be wearing the same lightweight pants to sleep in that she’d had on every other night in his bed. She’d asked him to stop by her place on the way home that night so she could pick up a few more things.
While he’d only seen the satchel she’d carried out of her room, he’d found himself entertaining thoughts about its potential contents. Mostly pertaining to sexy sleepwear.
The sun had set, dusk had come and gone, leaving the room in darkness broken only by the beam of moonlight coming through the window. One last check that his gun was in place as he’d left it moments before, he checked his phone and climbed into bed.
He wasn’t going to reach for her. The call was hers. But he knew it was coming. She hadn’t sent any sex signals. There’d been no come-on or tantalizing looks. They weren’t Dove’s way.
Nor his, either, he realized. He got the looks often enough from women who made it clear they were open to his attentions. And found them to be turnoffs.
Wide awake, anticipating, he lay there…for all of twenty seconds. He felt the mattress move. Waited for her touch on his already hard penis—eagerly—and felt her naked leg slide over his silk-clothed one instead.
Dove was the aggressor during that first encounter. Full of confidence that took him to a whole new level of hard with desire, she stripped his pants and played with him, sitting astride him, completely naked. Her exploration took them places he’d never visited. And the culmination was out-of-this-world incredible.
The second time was his turn. He didn’t stop until she was writhing, begging and then crying out for release.
After they’d shared a third orgasm, he lay back, replete. For the moment. Heard her sigh, flat on her back next to him, and expected her to turn her face to the wall and go to sleep.
Wondering if he’d get a goodnight kiss as he had the night before.
Wanting it almost as much as he’d wanted the sex.
Neither happened. She didn’t kiss him. Neither did she roll away.
Then he heard “We need to talk” come softly from beside him.
And Mitchell’s heart sank.
The future was at hand. Her father was going to be released from the hospital. She’d need to stay with him; that was a given. And, until the situation was resolved with St. James Boats, which somehow meant getting Brad Fletcher permanently away from them, they were going to need some kind of protection.
All of which Mitchell would be sure to have suggestions to deal with, she was sure. And things they could talk about in the morning. Or afternoon. With Whaler present. Or not.
She had something more pressing on her mind. An important something that could help sustain her—and please him—during some potentially challenging days ahead.
“I don’t want to be done with our sex, yet.”
His head turned sharply, and though she couldn’t make out much of his expression, she saw the glints in his eyes pinging on her. Felt them as though he’d touched her, but not with warmth. Or cold. Just…there.
“Unless of course you want to be,” she clarified. No way did she want pity. Or any kind of a one-way street.
He didn’t turn away. Wasn’t saying anything. So she waited. Mitchell had to choose his words. And when he did, he spoke the truth. She wanted that, his truth. No matter what it was.
“What exactly are you proposing?”
A question. With no hint to his truth. Taking a breath, she said, “That we decide, both of us together, whether or not we’re done with the sex.” And then, in case he needed reassurance, she said, “No commitments, other than that. No expectations. Just…we’re not done yet if we both don’t want to be done. And if we’re together on that, then maybe some kind of arrangement whereby we actually have sex,” she said. “Since, after this, we won’t be meeting up in your bed at night.”
