They smiled at each other as he settled between her thighs, pushing into her only a little, but enough to cause him to groan softly. "God that feels good."

"What else have you fantasized?" she asked.

"Hard and fast against a wall. No, wait. We did that for real. It just seemed like a fantasy." He felt her soft laugh all the way to the base of his cock, and it caused him to grimace with the effort of withholding himself from sinking into her completely.

She trailed her fingers down his spine to the cleft of his butt. His breath caught. "Anything else?" Her voice was as sexy as the feathering motions of her fingertips.

"You taking me in your beautiful mouth. Oh, you did that, too. Or was I hallucinating?"

"If you were, so was I."

"That's a fantasy that bears acting out again, don't you think?"

"Oh, absolutely. Often."

He gave her a wicked smile, which she matched.

"So, is that it?" she purred. "Have we run out of fantasies?"

"Hell, we're just getting started." Sliding his hand beneath her bottom, he tilted her up. "Going real slow, like now." He kissed her, his tongue sliding into her mouth with the controlled intensity with which he was pushing into her. He pulled out, almost entirely, before sinking into her a little deeper than before. And again.

She made a small, wanting sound and breathed his name. "What exactly do you call this particular fantasy?"

He buried himself inside her fully and, just as he kissed her again, whispered, "Making love."

She lay on her side, facing away from him. Replete. Happier than she remembered feeling in...Possibly ever. She slid her foot up the length of his shin.

"Know what first attracted me?"

He pushed his penis against her bottom. "It is impressive. Sometimes embarrassingly so."

She laughed. "That wasn't it."

"Oh."

She laughed again over how crestfallen he sounded. "It was your crooked tooth."

"The one that defied orthodontia?"

"It's very sexy."

"Glad you think so."

"And your hands."

"They're sexy?"

"They're large and masculine and capable. And sexy." She sighed as one closed around her breast possessively. "Will you be able to sleep tonight?"

"Well, if my recent exertion didn't wear me out enough to sleep, I can't imagine what would." He bit her lightly on the shoulder. "Who knew you'd be so insatiable."

She bumped his ribs with her elbow, but, unwilling to leave the subject of his nightmare, repeated her question.

"Sleep? Maybe," he said.

"Surely talking about it lanced the wound."

"We'll see." His arm tightened around her. "Lying with you is bound to help."

Contentedly, sleepily, she mumbled, "Notch up another fantasy fulfilled. I've been longing to sleep with you."

"You will."

"Will?"

"Just not quite yet."

His hands, with their tender touch but masterful guidance, drew her back and up and open for him. He secured himself inside her with his hand on her front, planted firmly between her thighs.

With very little movement, he pumped into her rhythmically while in shockingly coarse terms he described how it felt to be enveloped by her and the pleasure his fingers and mouth derived from pleasuring her. Soon his lyrics changed to those of poets, but the subtext was as erotically charged.

When both were on the brink of implosion, his voice became rough with emotion. His breaths became bursts of air against the back of her neck. In the language of raw need, he gasped, "Squeeze me. Tighter." His body strained, and each shudder was marked with the harsh, choppy cry of a man in the throes of release that went beyond the physical. Finally, as his body relaxed and enfolded hers, he sighed her name like a benediction.

She fell asleep with all those wonderful words echoing in her heart.

Hours later when she woke, she instantly missed his warmth, his scent and breath, the weight of his arm across her waist. Alarmed, she sat up. "Dawson?"

He was gone.

Chapter 30.

Headly had persuaded Eva to go to the hotel. His condition continued to improve. Carl Wingert was no longer a threat. It was unnecessary for her to spend another uncomfortable night on the foldout chair in his hospital room.

"But you know the real reason I didn't want her here," he said to Dawson after explaining Eva's absence.

"Same reason I came now, in the wee hours, when few people are around."

Standing behind the chair in Headly's room, he braced his hands on the back of it and looked meaningfully at his godfather. "I assume you gave them orders not to kill him."

"If it could be avoided."

"He was bleeding pretty bad."

"One bullet went through his right shoulder, grazed a lung, causing partial but significant collapse. They put in a chest tube. He caught another bullet in the back of his knee. His age is a factor, of course, but I'm told he came through the surgery fine. When he's well enough, he'll be turned over to the judicial system."

Seconds ticked by as they held each other's stare.

Finally Dawson said, "We can't leave it at that."

"You can. I can't."

"I can't either."

"Dawson-"

"Let me rephrase. I won't."

He must have sensed Dawson's resolve, because he said, "I've been trying to figure out how we can do it. He's got marshals guarding him. They're not going to let us in there with a weapon. But I have an idea."

Dawson listened while Headly laid it out. He nodded somberly. "I can do that."

"We won't get away with it, you know."

"Probably not."

Headly studied him for several long moments, then, mind made up, looked down at the IV taped to the back of his hand. "First thing you gotta do is pull this friggin' thing out."

Five minutes later, Dawson pushed the wheelchair into the elevator. He had successfully gotten Headly disconnected from the IV, out of the bed, and into the wheelchair, but it hadn't been easy. Headly was rapidly regaining sensation and some muscle control in his arms, shoulders, and hands, but for all practical purposes, they were useless.

In the confines of the elevator his breathing sounded labored and uneven. He looked pale beneath the fluorescent glare, and his face was moist with sweat. Dawson asked if he was in pain.

"I'm fine."

"We could wait."

"I don't know when they'll move him. We may not have another chance."

The elevator doors opened onto a dimly lighted hallway. "Leave the marshals to me."

The two, seated outside Carl's room, looked at them curiously as they approached. "Evening, gentlemen," Headly said in his most authoritative tone. "I'm Special Agent Gary Headly, here to question the prisoner."

The two marshals looked at each other, then at Dawson, finally back to Headly. One said, "He's still in serious condition."

"Right. He could die. Which is precisely why I need to question him now."

"Where's Agent Knutz?"

"Probably up to his earlobes in paperwork, which is why I'm handling this interrogation."

"With all due respect, sir, you don't look all that well. Are you up to it?"

Headly glowered.

The marshal, discomfited, cleared his throat and gave a nod toward Dawson. "What about him?"

"This is Dawson Scott. He's the one Wingert held at gunpoint yesterday afternoon."

"I know who he is. Why's he here?"

"To dispel any of Wingert's bullshit."

The two marshals exchanged another uneasy glance, then one worked up enough courage to challenge him. "Sorry, sir. I can't let you go in without-"

"Authorization?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine." His cell phone was lying in his lap. He nodded down to it. "The AG's number is programmed under the numeral eight. Wake up our boss and tell him that you're denying me access to a fugitive that I and the entire Department of Justice have been chasing down for nearly forty years." Smiling benignly, he added, "He'll probably be tickled to hear from you."

It took the marshal about three seconds to decide. He left the phone where it was. "Are you armed, sir?"

"Yes. With a catheter up my dick and the bag into which my bladder is draining. You're welcome to check." Again he nodded down at his lap, covered only by the flimsy hospital gown.

The marshal said, "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Son, even if I had a weapon, I can't move my hands."

Meanwhile the other marshal had been patting down Dawson. "He's good."

One of them held open the door as Dawson wheeled Headly into the room where Carl Wingert was strapped to the bed not only by restraints but also by a network of medical paraphernalia.

Dawson pushed the wheelchair to the bedside. Carl's eyes were closed. Headly said his name, and when he failed to respond, he told Dawson to poke him. None too gently, Dawson prodded Carl's elevated bandaged leg. Groaning, he opened his eyes to slits. They flared wide when he saw the two of them.

Being this close to him again, Dawson suddenly felt claustrophobic. The sound of a thousand bees buzzed inside his head, their racket underscoring the blips and beeps of the various machines and IV drips that Carl was hooked up to. Their tubing created the same tangle at the side of the bed that Dawson had remarked on in Headly's room.

Carl was the first to speak. "Well, well," he said to Headly. "At last we meet." He took note of the wheelchair. "In the flesh, you don't look so tough."

"You don't either."

"I've had better days."

Headly shot him a grin. "I haven't."

"Chalk one up for you. You figured me out today."

"You're getting old, Carl. No longer as smart as you think."

"Oh, I don't know about that." He spoke in a musical, disarming tone reminiscent of Bernie.