Deadline (Sandra Brown)

his mouth still open around the scream that invariably came too late.
    This was like every other time he was jolted out of the nightmare, except now Amelia was here, her hand resting on his shoulder, and he realized that she’d been here for a while, her voice mingling with that of the smiling young soldier from rural North Dakota.
    Dawson drew up his knees and placed his elbows on them, holding his head in his hands as he gasped for breath. The terror gradually receded, but not the humiliation, made even worse when Amelia sat down on the edge of the bed. He was as sharply aware of her pity as he was of her nearness.
    “You were calling out.”
    “Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”
    She removed her hand from his shoulder, but stayed. Knowing what a frightful and pathetic sight he must be, he shook back his hair and used the hem of the sheet bunched around his waist to wipe the sweat off his face, neck, and chest.
    She asked, “Is it always the same dream?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you want to—”
    “No.”
    “It might help if you—”
    “I’m not going to talk about it.”
    “Not with me or not with anyone?”
    “Anyone.”
    “No one would think less of you if—”
    “I would.”
    “You’ll never get rid of it until—”
    “I’ll work it out, okay?”
    “How?”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “To do what? Take more pills?”
    “Maybe.”
    “You have a problem, Dawson.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yes. And drugs and alcohol aren’t the solution.”
    He whipped his head toward her and snapped, “What the fuck do you know about it?”
    She recoiled as though he’d struck her.
    Realizing what he’d said, he muttered an expletive and reached for her, catching her hand as she shot off the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    Applying only light pressure so as not to frighten her, he brought her around to face him. He looked directly into her eyes, silently appealing for forgiveness and, short of that, understanding. She remained unmoving.
    “Please don’t look at me like that.” Then he closed his eyes and raised her hand to his mouth. He kissed the inside of her wrist, whispering repeatedly against her pulse, “I’m sorry.” Bending his head low over her hand, he kissed the base of her thumb, and finally pressed his lips into her palm, hoarsely whispering, “Don’t be afraid of me. Please.” He touched his tongue to the hollow of her hand.
    She made a small sound that brought his head up. Her expression had turned into one of confusion and indecision. She was breathing lightly and rapidly through her lips.
    Caution and conscience kept him from dragging her down to him.
    Caution and conscience be damned.
    He pulled on her hand, gently but inexorably, until she was again sitting on the edge of the bed. Wide-eyed, she watched him as his fingertips explored the features of her face. Brows, cheekbones, nose, lips, jawline, and chin. He memorized them by touch.
    Since she allowed that, he brushed her hair aside and nuzzled her neck until he felt the warmth of her skin against his lips. “I wouldn’t…I couldn’t ever hurt you. Believe that.” He planted a tender kiss on the side of her neck. Then another.
    Her head tipped back. Taking that as encouragement, his kisses on her neck became more fervent. By the time they reached her ear, there was intent behind them, and she responded. Tension escaped her on a sigh. Her body settled, ever so slightly shifting closer to him. Tentatively she placed her hands on his shoulders.
    He eased his head back and looked into her eyes. “I’m not him, Amelia. I’m not like him. I swear to you, I’m not. I have it under control.”
    “I’m not afraid you’ll lose control.” Her voice was low and husky, and he wished it was something he could touch, stroke, taste. “I’m afraid I will.”
    With a rasped curse, he cupped her head between his hands and claimed a kiss that was unapologetically deep from the start. There was no buildup to the intimacy, because he’d been thinking about making love to her mouth from the moment he saw her in the courtroom.
    She didn’t shy away, but kissed him back in kind, with heat, her fingers alternately kneading his shoulders and tugging handfuls of his hair. Her unrestraint was as much a surprise as it was a delight.
    He lowered her back onto the bed, where the kiss grew hungrier. As their mouths feasted on each other, he angled his body above hers. The sheet had become displaced, so there was nothing between the