The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

since she’d let herself be held. Once, the thought of a man’s hands on her body had filled her with panic. But in Moore’s embrace, panic was the last thing on her mind. She responded to his kisses with a need that surprised them both. She’d been deprived of love so long that she’d lost all sense of hunger. Only now, as every part of her came alive, did she remember what desire felt like, and her lips sought his with the eagerness of a starved woman. She was the one who tugged him up the hall toward the bedroom, kissing all the way. She was the one who unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened his belt buckle. He knew, somehow he knew, that he could not be the aggressor for it would frighten her. That for this, their first time, she must lead the way. But he could not hide his arousal, and she felt it as she opened the zipper, as his trousers slipped off.
    He reached for the buttons on her blouse and stopped, his gaze searching hers. The look she gave him, the sound of her quickening breath, left no doubt that this was what she wanted. The blouse slowly parted, and slid off her shoulders. The bra whispered to the floor. He did it with it with utmost gentleness, not a stripping away of her defenses, but a welcome release. A liberation. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure as he bent to kiss her breast. Not an assault, but an act of reverence.
    And so, for the first time in two years, did Catherine allow a man to make love to her. No thoughts of Andrew Capra intruded as she and Moore lay together on the bed. No flashes of panic, no frightening memories, returned as they shed the last of their clothes, as the weight of him pressed her into the mattress. What another man had done to her was an act so brutal it held no connection to this moment, to this body she inhabited. Violence is not sex, and sex is not love. Love was what she felt as Moore entered her, his hands cupping her face, his gaze on hers. She had forgotten what pleasure a man could give, and she lost herself in the moment, experiencing joy as though for the very first time.
    It was dark when she awakened in his arms. She felt him stir and heard him ask: “What time is it?”
    “Eight-fifteen.”
    “Wow.” He gave a dazed laugh and rolled onto his back. “I can’t believe we slept all afternoon. I guess it caught up with me.”
    “You haven’t been getting much sleep, either.”
    “Who needs sleep?”
    “Spoken like a doctor.”
    “Something we have in common,” he said, and his hand slowly traced her body. “We’ve both been deprived too long. . . .”
    They lay still for a moment. Then he asked softly: “How was it?”
    “Are you asking me how good a lover are you?”
    “No. I meant, how was it for
you
. Having me touch you.”
    She smiled. “It was good.”
    “I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t scare you?”
    “You make me feel safe. That’s what I need, most of all. To feel safe. I think you’re the only man who ever understood that. The only man I’ve been able to trust.”
    “Some men are worth trusting.”
    “Yes, but which ones? I never know.”
    “You won’t know until push comes to shove. He’ll be the one still standing beside you.”
    “Then I guess I never found him. I’ve heard other women say that as soon as you tell a man what happened to you, as soon as you use the word
rape
, the men back away. As though we’re damaged goods. Men don’t want to hear about it. They prefer silence to confession. But the silence spreads. It takes over, until you can’t talk about anything at all. All of life becomes a taboo subject.”
    “No one can live that way.”
    “It’s the only way other people can stand to be around us. If we keep our silence. But even when I don’t talk about it, it’s
there
.”
    He kissed her, and that simple act was more intimate than any act of love could be, because it came on the heels of confession.
    “Will you stay with me tonight?” she whispered.
    His breath was warm in her hair. “If you’ll let me take you to dinner.”
    “Oh. I completely forgot about eating.”
    “There’s the difference between men and women. A man never forgets to eat.”
    Smiling, she sat up. “You make us drinks, then. I’ll feed you.”
    He mixed two martinis, and they sipped as she tossed a salad, slid steaks under the broiler. Masculine food, she thought with amusement. Red meat for the new man in her life. The act of cooking had never seemed as pleasurable as it was tonight, Moore