“What did you do?”
Sheepishly, he admitted, “I was going to have all of his utilities shut off and then have a hundred deep-dish garlic and anchovy pizzas delivered to his house in twos for the next six months.”
“Aw . . . that’s adorable.”
“Oh, hush, so you’ve out-supervillained me one time. I was distracted by providing your vital medical care.”
I burst out laughing.
“Sometimes you make it very difficult to be your white knight,” he grumbled.
“You can try again sometime,” I told him.
“Count on it.” Dick chuckled and wrapped an arm around me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead against the line of his jaw. He always had the appearance of having a five o’clock shadow, but his skin was surprisingly smooth and soft. I took a deep breath, inhaling his spicy bergamot scent. The familiar smell enveloped me and sent a shudder down my spine. I gasped but covered the noise by sucking air through my teeth as if I had been shivering. I pulled the blanket up to my chin.
“Cold?”
I nodded.
“That happens sometimes with the saline,” he said, as he gently pushed me back against the arm of the sofa and climbed under the blanket with me. “Here. Shared body heat.”
“You don’t have any body heat. You’re room temperature.”
“Just snuggle up, woman.”
I snorted, carefully arranging us so my back was tucked against his chest. His arms wrapped around my front and enveloped me in an embrace that was oddly warm. He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, on the opposite side of my Darla-related wounds.
I had no doubt I was safe. It’d been a long time since I’d been able to trust someone to get this close to me.
After Mathias, I didn’t trust my perceptions of people. I didn’t trust that I could be loved, that I was worth loving. As much as I valued my clients, professional decorum and survival instincts kept me a little bit on edge. And now I felt . . . safe and cherished . . . and completely at peace, despite the fact that my head was still pounding and I was snuggled up to a T-shirt that was extolling the virtue of sex in the bluegrass state.
“This is nice,” he rumbled, burying his face in my hair.
I closed my eyes and relaxed against him. “Mmmhmm.”
“See, I’m not such a bad guy.”
I snickered. “Well, you’re not a good guy.”
“Is this because I have my hand on your boob?” he asked.
I yawned widely, noting that he did not, in fact, move his hand from my left breast. “That, too.”
I slept so deeply that I don’t think I moved for twelve hours. At one point, I felt Dick get up from the couch, fiddle with my IVs, and pull the blanket up to my chin. Somewhere inside my barely conscious brain, it bothered me that he was leaving me, running off like I was some one-and-done. But at a weirder subconscious level, it was sort of a relief to have my worst suspicions (about Dick and the rest of the male population, dead and undead) confirmed.
I drifted back to sleep, relieved that I hadn’t wasted years on bitterness and . . . yet more bitterness.
I fully woke up hours later, and the room was totally dark. Once again, I had a room-temperature body wrapped around my back, and his hands were respectfully tucked around my arms. Dick’s chin was cradled in the crook of my neck. The IV lines had been removed, so I could roll over freely. My hands ached from the punctures, and all of the extra fluids made me feel sort of sloshy, but I had to admit I felt better. The throbbing in my head was gone and my mouth had something resembling moisture in it, which was nice.
As I cuddled against Dick’s chest, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
He looked so sweet when he was asleep. His face was relaxed and untroubled. The puckish bend to his mouth was missing, and he looked—I knew I was going to feel strange about thinking this later—innocent.
Dick Cheney saved me. He’d come back. He didn’t want me to wake up alone. He wanted to take care of me. I’d never been with someone who wanted to take care of me instead of the other way around. I leaned closer, letting my nose brush against his. He didn’t stir. Licking my lips lightly, I pressed forward and brushed my mouth against his.
He inhaled sharply and jerked awake. His eyes flew open wide, and I leaned back, a cold flash of fear in my belly warning me that I might have gone too far. One does not poke a sleeping predator. And making out with him without permission? Probably not a good idea, either. But in the darkness, I could see Dick’s lips curve upward. He lowered his forehead against mine, and after a long moment, he kissed me back. His lips were cool and smooth and molded against mine. I melted into him as I felt his hands sweep over my back and pull me even closer.
I wound my leg around his, bringing his hips closer to mine. I moaned into his mouth as his hands made their way from my back to caressing my bare arms. I twisted my fingers into his T-shirt. And, glancing down at the “Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky” logo, I tugged at it until he reached for the hem and pulled it over his head.
Finally, I got to see what Dick Cheney was hiding under those smartass T-shirts.
Wow.
Why did he wear shirts at all? It was practically a crime against humanity, or at least against the female half of the population. Dick wasn’t beefy and overbuilt, but he had a lovely swimmer’s physique—a long, muscled torso, impressive pecs, and rangy, sinewed arms. And those arms were wrapped around me. It was heavenly.
Before I could make some awkward remark, he pressed his mouth against mine, effectively (and mercifully) shutting me up. I could feel his fangs growing against my mouth. I flicked my tongue, letting it flutter against the sensitive enamel of his canines. Dick growled, clutching my face between his hands as he sucked on my bottom lip and nipped at it. I hissed at the sharp, but not entirely unpleasant, sensation.