Mary, Mary

8
    JAMILLA GREETED ME at the door, lips first, a delicious kiss that warmed me from head to toe. I didn’t get to see much of her wraparound baby-blue blouse and black pencil skirt until we pulled apart. Black sling-back heels put her at just about the right height for me. She sure didn’t look like a homicide cop today.
    “I just got in,” she said.
    “Just in time,” I murmured, reaching for her again. Jamilla’s kisses were always like coming home. I started to wonder where all this was going, but then I stopped myself.
Just let it be, Alex.
    “Thanks for the flowers,” she whispered against my ear. “
All
of the flowers. They’re absolutely beautiful. I know, I know, not as beautiful as me.”
    I laughed out loud. “That’s true.”
    I could see over her shoulder that the hotel’s concierge, Harold Larsen, had done a good job for me. Rose petals were scattered in a swath of red, peach, and white. I knew there were a dozen long-stems on the bedside table, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the minifridge, and a couple of carefully chosen CDs in the stereo—best of Al Green, Luther Ingram, Tuck and Patti’s
Tears of Joy,
some early Alberta Hunter.
    “I guess you really did miss me,” Jamilla said.
    Suddenly, the two of us were like one body, my mouth exploring hers, my hands holding her up from the rear. She already had my shirt half unbuttoned, and then I was reaching down her side for the zipper on her skirt. We kissed again, and her mouth was so fresh and sweet, like it always was.
    “‘If lovin’ you is wrong, I don’t want to be right,’” I sang in a half-whisper.
    “Loving me isn’t wrong.” Jamilla smiled.
    I danced her backward toward the bedroom.
    “How do you do this in heels?” I asked along the way.
    “You’re right,” she said, and kicked off her shoes even as her skirt slid to the floor.
    “We should light these candles,” I said. “You want me to light them?”
    “Shhh, Alex. It’s already warm enough in here.”
    “Yeah, it is.”
    There wasn’t a whole lot of talking for a while after that. Jamilla and I always seemed to know what the other was thinking anyway—no conversation required at certain times. And I had missed her, even more than I thought I would.
    We pressed hard against each other, chest to chest, breathing in a nice rhythm. I rose and hardened against her leg, and I could feel moistness on my thigh. Then I reached up and held Jam’s lovely face in both of my hands.
    I felt as though she could hear my thoughts. She smiled, drinking in what I hadn’t even said. “Is that so?” she finally whispered, then winked. We had shared the mind-reading joke before.
    We kissed some more, and Jamilla breathed deeply as I slowly worked my lips over her neck, her breasts, and her stomach. Everywhere I stopped, I wanted to stay, but just as badly, I couldn’t wait to move on. She wrapped her arms around my back and rolled us both over on the bed.
    “How can you be so hard and so soft?” I asked.
    “It’s a woman thing. Just enjoy it. But I could say the same about you. Hard and soft?”
    A moment later, I was inside Jamilla. She sat bolt upright, her head thrown back, her lower lip clenched tightly between her teeth. Sunlight reached through the bedroom window and slowly crossed her face. Absolutely gorgeous, all of it.
    We climaxed together—one of those ideals that everyone says is just an ideal, but it’s not, not always, anyway.
    She lay lightly down on top of me, the air slowly escaping from her lungs, our bodies melding as they always did.
    “You’re going to be too tired for the rides tomorrow,” she finally said and smiled.
    “Speaking of rides . . . ,” I said.
    She started to laugh. “Promises, promises.”
    “But I always keep mine.”

Chapter 9
    I DON’T REMEMBER when Jamilla and I eventually drifted off to sleep that afternoon, but I was woken up by my pager. My brand-new pager. The one I got especially for this trip so only a few people would have the number—John Sampson, Director Burns’s assistant, Tony Woods, that’s about it. Two people too many? So what now?
    I groaned. “Sorry, sorry, Jam. I didn’t expect this. I don’t have to answer it.” The last part I said halfheartedly. We both knew better.
    Jamilla shook her head. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I’ve got mine here in the nightstand. Go ahead, Alex, answer the call.”
Yeah, answer the call
.
    Sure enough, it was the director’s office reaching out from