I walked to my dresser, pul ed out some underwear and put it on under my short robe, careful of the new dressing I’d taped on. Then I pul ed out a pair of loose-fitting, peach jersey drawstring shorts and a soft yel ow tank top with peachy flowers printed in a strip up the sides. I turned my back to the bed, shrugged off my robe and got dressed.
Then I walked to my acoustic guitar, grabbed it and sat on the edge of my mauve chair, settling the guitar on my thigh, close to my knee, deciding, if I played quietly, maybe I wouldn’t wake Mace.
But I had to play, it had been two days and too much happened. I needed it.
And Guitar Hero didn’t cut it.
My fingers moved up the neck, feeling the strings, snagging the frets. I strummed a few chords. Then put a few more together.
After awhile, I forgot everything. Eric, the way he looked at me, what he said to me and that entire scene. My new alarm system. Police checking in on me. The Rock Chicks in danger. Someone wanting to murder me. That same someone already murdering Lindsey. I even forgot Mace someone already murdering Lindsey. I even forgot Mace and Juno, who were in the same room with me.
My long since cal used fingers moved along the frets, strummed and plucked at the strings, and, softly, I closed my eyes and began to sing The Beatles’ “Blackbird”.
And I kept my eyes closed, softly singing and strumming, picking and sliding until I plucked the last two notes. I opened my eyes and saw movement.
I looked to the bed.
Mace was awake, elbow in the pil ow, head in his hand, eyes, I could tel , even in the mostly dark, on me.
Just like he used to do. Just like always.
“Kitten, come to bed,” he said softly.
Just like he used to say. Just like always.
Out of habit, having sunk into living the memory of what we once were, I didn’t hesitate.
I put the guitar in its stand, turned out the light and walked to the bed. I rounded it, Mace rol ed, Juno moved to accommodate me (such a good dog), I shimmied out of my shorts and I slid under the covers.
Mace’s arm wound around my middle and he pul ed me deep into him.
“Feel better?” he murmured into my hair, knowing how I needed my music.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He kissed the back of my neck.
“I missed that too,” he told me, talking about me playing and singing and him watching and I felt a shiver slide across my skin.
I knew not only did he mean to say that out loud, he meant to say what he said earlier out loud too.
And I didn’t know what to make of that at al .
* * * * *
I woke up with his hand under my tank top, not just under it but honing in on my breast. “Mace –” I said, sounding sleepy.
His hand cupped my breast, the rough pad of his thumb slid across my nipple then back.
“Mace –” I said again, stil sounding sleepy but my voice had dipped lower.
His thumb was joined by a finger, there was a gentle squeeze then a rol .
Pleasant happy tingles shot everywhere, a goodly number of them directed themselves straight between my legs.
Oh lordy be.
I twisted my head to him, my intent to say something, to protest but he pul ed up, leaned in and kissed my open mouth. The kiss was deep, hot and he pressed his h*ps into my bottom at the same time he did another squeeze then swipe of this thumb. I felt his hardness against my behind and more pleasant tingles, far more intense, scored a path through every nerve.