"We're supposed to make a difference. Goddamnit, we're supposed to make
a difference. Six kids dead, and there's nothing you can do. You
couldn't stop it, and you couldn't fix it. All you can do is walk away
and try to convince yourself that there was nothing you could do."
"But you don't walk away," she murmured. "That's why you make a
difference. Michael." She drew away, to study his face. "You couldn't
have stopped this. I won't tell you you shouldn't grieve over something
you couldn't prevent, because that makes you who you are."
"You never get used to it." He dropped his brow on hers. "I used to
wonder why my father would come home sometimes and close himself off.
When he did, I'd hear him and my mother talking after I went to bed. For
hours."
"You can talk to me."
He pulled her close. She was so warm, so soft. "I need you, Emma. I
wasn't going to come back here with this. I needed to hold on to
something."
"This time, you hold on to me." She lifted her mouth to his. His
response was so strong, almost desperate, that she no longer tried to
soothe. If he needed to burn out despair in passion, she was there for
him.
She took control as she hadn't known she could, pulling him down with
her, letting her hands excite, her mouth demand. He had always loved
her before, gently, patiently. There was no room for that now, and no
need. If his passion was dark, hers could equal it. If his desire was
urgent, she would match it.
This time she would chase away his demons.
She rolled with him, over him, dragging the towel aside, giving herself
the pleasure of driving him, feeling his body tremble and heat and tense
as she raced over it. No hesitation, no fears, no doubts. To pleasure
herself as much as him, she stroked with fingertips, slow circles,
teasing lines.
The lamplight glowed over his skin, tempting her to taste with quick
flicks of her tongue, with long strokes of her lips.
Power, just discovered, rocked through her like thunder.
He felt himself pulse, wherever she touched him. Though his hands
weren't idle, she shifted away. Wait, she seemed to tell him. Let me
show you. Let me love you. Linking her hands with his, she slithered
down his body, her mouth burning frantic arrows of pleasure into his
flesh.
He could hear the patter of rain on the glass, feel the sheet heat under
his back. In the slanted light he saw her, long, pale hair streaming
down her shoulders. Her eyes dark, depthless as they met his.
Rearing up, he dragged her close until they were thigh to thigh. With
the need pumping through him, he tugged at buttons, wanting to see her,
desperate to feel her.
Her teeth nipped into his shoulder as he ripped her blouse. Here was a
violence she could understand, and relish. Savage without brutality.
And the turbulence in him was a storm within her. Equal.
Interchangeable. She found that love and lust could tangle gloriously.
As he tore at her clothes, her low-throated moan had nothing to do with