She moaned, her soft whispers of yes driving him as he pistoned inside her, chasing a rising passion until, finally, he couldn't hold everything inside him any longer. She was tight around him, milking him, her hands on his ass as she worked with him, forcing him harder and deeper so that when he finally exploded, it felt as if they were one person.
And when the world fell away and he collapsed beside her, he knew that he had never felt like that before. Because it wasn't about sex, but about the woman beside him. A woman who'd gotten under his skin and into his heart. A woman who murmured his name and curled sleepily against him.
A woman who'd seen all of him, and wanted him still.
He breathed deeply, pulling her closer, not wanting to lose the connection even as exhaustion overtook him and he drifted into the dark.
* * *
He didn't know how long he slept, but he came awake with a start when Skittles jumped on his chest and began sniffing his face. "Hold up there, tuna breath," he said. "This is a little too much intimacy considering we don't know each other that well."
"Speaking of intimacy," he murmured as he rolled over, disappointed to find only rumpled sheets. He considered asking the cat where Laine was, but the question was unnecessary. Even if the smell of frying bacon didn't give her away, the house was small. It wouldn't take too much effort to find her.
He slid out of bed and pulled on underwear and his Tee, then headed toward the bedroom door, patting his leg so the cat would follow him.
Skittles, however, was turning circles on his pillow, apparently ready to settle down for his mid-morning nap.
"Suit yourself," Lyle said. "But don't expect me to save you any bacon."
"Sorry, what?" Laine asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
He waved the question away. "Just talking to your cat."
"Yeah?" She slid into his arms for a good morning kiss. "And just when I thought you couldn't be any more perfect, you go and impress me with your feline-human relations."
"Oh, is he a feline? 'Cause I'm not sure he realizes that."
"Good point. I know you like bacon since you ate your weight in it at the hotel, but the eggs at the buffet were scrambled, so I don't know if you like fried."
"Fried is perfect. You're perfect," he added, standing behind her with his arms around her waist as she flipped the bacon. "I had no idea you could cook."
She turned in his arms. "If by cook you mean bacon, eggs, slice-and-bake cookies, tuna salad, and anything with Stouffers on the label, then I'm a righteous chef. As for all other categories? I'm pretty much a disaster."
"Peanut butter sandwiches?"
She wrinkled her nose as she shook her head. "I always rip the bread."
"Pasta?"
"I can never remember how long to boil it."
"Canned soup?"
"Okay. You caught me. I guess I really do have mad cooking skills. Now let me focus or you'll have raw eggs and burnt bacon."
In the end, he had to applaud her bacon and egg skills, and he dug in as she stood beside the coffee maker waiting for her cup to finish brewing.
"There is a serious amount of junk mail in this world," she said, tossing flyers aside. "Not one real--oh."
"What is it?"
"I saw it last night and forgot about it--I wonder what could have distracted me," she added with a sexy little smile.
She held up a brown envelope, then sliced it open with a steak knife. "Someone sent a letter by courier."
"What is it?" he said, noting her frown as she glanced at the thin sheath of papers she'd pulled out.
When she didn't answer, he stood up, worry running through him like ice water. "Laine?"