Lightning Strikes

Hell, it’s home!

He kicked shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, which hit the hardwood floor with a solid whoomp. He tugged off one of his boots and tossed it next to the bag.

God, I’m wiped.

He reminded himself that despite such dog-tired moments, he liked doing what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. Liked keeping his boots next to the front door, liked tossing back a shot while listening to the blues, liked keeping the ringer on his phone permanently off.

Which was why he liked his consulting gigs. They fit his lifestyle to a T. No playing the corporate games, no molding himself to society’s expectations. As long as he met his deadlines and produced quality work, he could wear his hair longer, dress in jeans and T-shirts, take off a few days when the mood struck.

He yanked off the other boot, then remained bent over, arching his back to release some tension. His body ached from folding his six-three frame into airline seats, taxi seats. This past year, he swore he’d visited more cities than the president himself. Wonder if it’s the same for the big guy— After a while, people and cities blurred into a swirl of shapes and voices.

Especially when Donovan pulled an all-nighter, like he’d done last night in San José.

He straightened, tossing the other boot in the vicinity of the first, then glanced up at the clock on his wall. A slant of moonlight highlighted the chunk of redwood he’d found on the California coast several years ago. Inspired, he’d polished and rigged it to be a clock.

3:00 a.m.

Donovan scratched the stubble on his chin. He’d been up—he squeezed shut his eyes and added the numbers—damn, over forty hours.

His eyes suddenly felt gritty, heavy. Sleep didn’t beckon, it badgered. He absently rubbed his right leg, the damn spot that ached when he pushed his body too hard.

Gotta get to bed. I’ll sleep till noon, maybe later, then make myself the meanest, hottest plate of huevos rancheros this side of the border.

Smiling at the prospect, he trudged toward the hallway as he peeled off his T-shirt. Reaching the recliner, gray and bulky in the shadows, he tossed the shirt over its back. Then he stripped off his jeans, stepped out of his briefs, and dropped both on the floor.

With a drawn-out yawn, he headed for the bedroom.

He started to roll over onto the mattress, but it was…different. He fumbled in the dark. Damn, this mattress was higher off the ground than he recalled. A good foot, maybe two, higher.

He was so tired, it took all his will to keep the shadowy dream figures that toyed at the edges of his consciousness at bay. So tired, the thump-thump of the old pine tree that brushed the side of this apartment building whenever the winds got restless, sounded eerily like the drumbeat of an old Muddy Waters song.

Donovan blinked his heavy eyelids. Too heavy to stay open.

So why in the hell am I still standing?

Oh yeah, the bed. Too high.

He stroked the satiny mattress cover. Felt like that bed at the motel in Cincinnati. Or was it Seattle?

Hell, that’s where he probably was. Cincinnati or Seattle or…

He lifted his good leg, rolled onto the mattress, and stretched out his tired body. Ah, the breezes felt good. Warm. Comforting. Like a woman’s touch…

The shadowy figures in his mind sharpened and withdrew, preparing to start the dream.

Silky strands of hair caressed his cheek. The scent of soap and almonds.

Almonds. Reminded him of Deidre, the airline stewardess in Boston, and her almond-scented body lotion. He flashed on her raven hair, blue eyes…he couldn’t remember much more. Their hit-and-miss relationship had been a long time ago…another lifetime ago…

The image faded.

His leg brushed against another, feminine one.

Yeah, let me dream of a lady.

In the dark haze of his mind, he imagined his fingers touching warm skin. Soft. Supple. As he explored the feminine curve of a back, he was vaguely aware of other sensations.

Warm, dewy skin.

Smooth, taut muscle.

Scented breezes, imbued with a hint of almonds, swirled around them, enveloped them.

Oh, yeah, let the dream come on.

He willingly let his mind slip over the edge of reality into a haze.

The woman liquefied in his arms, her shape conforming to his. He stretched to his full length, relishing the fluidity of curves and bends that molded against his primed body.

Breasts, soft and full, pressed against him. The puckered tips of nipples tightened, grew hard.

Feeling her arousal was like an aphrodisiac.

His fingers explored the terrain. He ran a palm, fingers spread wide, down a taut tummy, played briefly with a navel, then reversed course and crept back up to the soft, round base of a breast.

He stretched open his fingers even wider, sliding them on either side of a pebbled nipple. With a groan, he rolled the nub between his fingers, tugging it gently.

A feminine moan. Ragged, breathy. And when her hips ground a little against him, desire shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

His hand slipped down, instinctively seeking that spot of heat and gratification…

In her dream, Blaine sat on a chair, staring across the cruise deck at Mount McKinley, which rose like a fore-boding monolith to a sky filled with pristine white clouds. So white, it pained her eyes to stare at it.

Cool sea breezes ruffled her hair.

No, fingers ruffled her hair.

She blinked, groggily aware that the sunlight had faded to black. Hazily aware that the wild and rugged Alaskan terrain had disappeared.

The dream had shifted, changed.

She was naked, in the arms of a man.

She felt mesmerized by his warmth and masculine scent. His solid body crushed her close. So close, she couldn’t tell where her skin ended, where his began. It was as though they were one warm, pulsating body.

She shuddered a breath, falling further into the dream. Relinquishing herself to it.

As their bodies shifted, her skin burned and tingled at points where they touched.