Persuader

minute. Then I felt her lie down next to me. She shuffled around a little. Then she went still. But she was tense. I could feel it. It was coming through the mattress springs, tiny high-frequency thrills of concern.
    "Don't panic," I said. "I'm way too tired." But I wasn't, really. The problem started when she moved slightly and touched my butt with hers. It was a very faint contact, but she might as well have plugged me into a power outlet. I opened my eyes and stared at the wall and tried to figure out whether she was asleep and had moved involuntarily or whether she had done it on purpose. I spent a couple of minutes thinking it through. But I guess mortal danger is an aphrodisiac because I found myself erring on the side of optimism. Then I wasn't certain about the required response. What was the correct etiquette? I settled for moving an inch myself and firming up the connection. I figured that would put the ball back in her court. Now she could struggle with the interpretation.
    Nothing happened for a whole minute. I was on the point of getting disappointed when she moved again. Now the connection was pretty damn solid. If I didn't weigh two hundred and fifty pounds she might have slid me right across the shiny bedcover. I was fairly certain I could feel the rivets on her back pockets. My turn. I disguised it with a sort of sleepy sound and rolled over so we were stacked like spoons and my arm was accidentally touching her shoulder. Her hair was in my face. It was soft and smelled like summer. The cotton of her shirt was crisp. It plunged down to her waist and then the denim of her jeans swooped back up over her hips. I squinted down. She had taken her shoes off. I could see the soles of her feet. Ten little toes, all in a line.
    She made a sleepy sound of her own. I was pretty sure it was fake. She nestled backward until she was jammed tight against me from top to bottom. I put my hand on her upper arm. Then I moved it down until it fell off her elbow and came to rest on her waist. The tip of my little finger was under the waistband of her jeans. She made another sound.
    Almost certainly a fake. I held my breath. Her butt was tight against my groin. My heart was thumping. My head was spinning. No way could I resist. No way at all. It was one of those insane hormone-driven moments when I would have risked eight years in Leavenworth for it. I slid my hand up and forward and cupped her breast. After that, things got completely out of control.
    She was one of those women who is far more attractive naked than clothed. Not all women are, but she was. She had a body to die for. She had no tan, but her skin was not pale. It was as soft as silk, but it was not translucent. She was very slim, but I couldn't see her bones. She was long, and she was lean. She was made for one of those bathing suits that swoop way up at the sides. She had small firm breasts, perfectly shaped. Her neck was long and slender. She had great ears and ankles and knees and shoulders. She had a little hollow at the base of her throat. It was very slightly damp.
    She was strong, too. I must have outweighed her by a hundred and thirty pounds, but she had worn me out. She was young, I guess. She had maybe ten years on me. She had left me exhausted, which made her smile. She had a great smile.
    "Remember my hotel room in Boston?" I said. "The way you sat on the chair? I wanted you right then."
    "I was just sitting on a chair. There wasn't a way to it."
    "Don't kid yourself."
    "Remember the Freedom Trail?" she said. "You told me about the long-rod penetrator? I wanted you right then." I smiled.
    "It was part of a billion-dollar defense contract," I said. "So I'm glad this particular citizen got something out of it."
    "If Eliot hadn't been with me I'd have done it right there in the park."
    "There was a woman feeding the birds."
    "We could have gone behind a bush."
    "Paul Revere would have seen us," I said.
    "He rode all night," she said.
    "I'm not Paul Revere," I said.
    She smiled again. I felt it against my shoulder.
    "All done, old guy?" she asked.
    "I didn't say that, exactly."
    "Danger is an aphrodisiac, isn't it?" she said.
    "I guess it is."
    "So you admit you're in danger?"
    "I'm in danger of having a heart attack."
    "You really shouldn't go back," she said.
    "I'm in danger of not being able to." She sat up on the bed. Gravity had no effect on her perfection.
    "I'm serious, Reacher," she said.
    I smiled up at her. "I'll be OK. Two or three more