Fired Up

of the arrow. All the colors of the dreamlight spectrum radiated around her, dazzling, blinding, floodlighting her senses.
    Jack surged into her again. She came immediately, too breathless to cry out. The waves of energy were still sweeping through her when she heard a low, harsh growl. Jack surged into her one last time. His powerful climax rocked through both of them.
    When it was over he braced himself above her, shirt hanging open, and planted his hands on the table on either side of her. His hair was damp. Sweat dripped from his shoulders onto her breasts.
    “Chloe,” he said again, very softly this time.
    He leaned down and brushed his mouth across hers.
    She touched his bare chest. His skin was slick with perspiration and very warm, as if he were running a real fever.
    He straightened, freeing himself from her body with obvious reluctance. He closed his pants, scooped her off the table and carried her the short distance to the couch. He sank down onto the cushions and cradled her across his thighs. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
    He was asleep within seconds.
    She stirred a little and opened her senses slightly. She had burned through most of her reserves, but she had just enough energy left to look at the top of the table where Jack’s hands had been a moment ago. Then she studied the carpet.
    Heat and power still burned in his psi prints, but the wavelengths were stable and strong. Stray fragments of dream energy were no longer bleeding over into his other senses. There was still a taint of darkness from the medication he had been taking, but that was not the real problem.
    The problem was that she was pretty sure she had failed. Clients never took failure well.

33
    HE AWOKE TO THE LIGHT OF THE DESERT SUN STREAMING through the tinted windows and the sound of water running in the shower. He had a vague memory of falling asleep—going more or less unconscious—with Chloe’s warm, sexy weight lying across his thighs.
    It occurred to him that he felt better than he had in weeks, months. Maybe years. He was also half aroused. The morning erection felt good, too. It felt normal. Nothing much had been normal of late.
    He got to his feet, stretched, yawned and wandered into the suite’s second bath. When he emerged a few minutes later it occurred to him that if he moved fast he might be able to join Chloe in the shower. He’d noticed yesterday that it was a really big shower tricked out in true Vegas style with multiple showerheads and spray nozzles. A real water wonderland.
    He started across the room, heading toward the master bath. Halfway to his goal he saw the lamp. It was sitting on the table.
    The memory of sweeping the artifact aside so that he could get Chloe onto the table slammed through him. He’d taken her there on the table with zero foreplay and absolutely no finesse. Last night she had saved him from becoming a psychic monster, but now she probably thought he was a Neanderthal when it came to sex. Not exactly a big step-up in status.
    He went into the bedroom and opened the door of the bath. Steam rolled out in waves. Gold fixtures and marble tiles gleamed in the mist. The roar of the water was so loud he knew that Chloe must have turned on every jet, faucet and nozzle in the mini spa.
    He could see her through the clouded glass walls of the shower. She was standing beneath the rushing waters, her back to him, washing her hair. He realized he was hard, fully aroused.
    “In or out, take your choice but close the door,” she called above the thundering waterfall. “You’re letting all the heat out of the room.”
    He closed the bathroom door and opened the shower.
    “Chloe, about last night,” he began.
    She straightened, opened her eyes and turned slightly toward him. “I thought we agreed that no good conversation ever started with about last night.”
    He did not know what to say. She looked so delicious standing there with water splashing and pouring everywhere, so delicate and feminine and soft. He must have crushed her on that table last night.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I can do or say. Hell, you’re bruised.”
    She glanced down at the mark on her thigh. “Not your fault. I bumped into a chair. You did not hurt me, so you can stop apologizing.” She became very busy soaping up a washcloth. “It’s not as if you attacked me. We were both in the grip of a major burn, and I think the energy of the lamp was affecting us. Things got a little