Talking In Your Sleep…

Now he was confused. Maybe she was embarrassed. That made sense, he figured—and hoped she was embarrassed enough to shut the window tonight.

“Hmm. Well, okay then. Are you sure I can’t help you with those…?” He left the end of his sentence open, so she might fill in the blank with her name, the way most polite people would. Instead she frowned and turned up the walk.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Well, that had better solve his problem. Rafe went back to his house and hoped for the best.

THEY WERE WRAPPED in white satin, and everything was scented of rose petals and sex. Joy laughed—she was having the time of her life. He took a length of the smooth material and twisted it tight. Her heartbeat quivered in anticipation—what was he going to do?

“Hold out your arms,” he commanded in a husky tone as smooth and hot as the undulating pleasure that was coursing through her bloodstream.

“Are you going to tie me up?”

“Yes. I want you helpless. Mine. To do whatever I want.”

She quivered from head to toe, holding her hands up to him in supplication, but her thoughts were wicked.

“Do whatever you want to me—I want everything from you. Anything.”

He laved her skin with his tongue as he wound the satin rope around her wrists in a soft figure eight, and then proceeded to bind her to her elbows. Gently, he pressed her back down, pushing her arms upward and attaching the ends of the material to the headboard.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” She was daring, adventurous—she wanted to be the lover he’d never forget.

He rose up on his knees, glistening and perfect, his erection jutting out toward her belly as he swung one leg over, straddling her waist.

“You’re so beautiful,” he crooned, looking at her with eyes burning so fiercely she couldn’t glance away. “You may be tied up, but I’m your slave. I’ll do whatever gives you pleasure.”

She writhed, arching upward, needing the contact he was promising, wanting the torture.

“I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth. You’re so hard…. I love wrapping my lips around you when you’re like this.” The short, uneven pants of desire chopped her words into uneven phrases, but she didn’t care.

“I think we can make that happen…. Your breasts are so full, so soft….”

He reached down, cupping her breasts. Leaning in, he sucked both nipples at once until she was nearly screaming with need as he licked her, wetting her skin all over, making her slick.

Straightening, he kept her breasts tight between his hands, torturing her nipples with his thumbs as he slid his cock in the pocket between, groaning, squeezing himself tighter as he thrust forward, toward her mouth.

She loved it, watching him start to lose control as he pumped faster. She dipped her chin to dart her tongue out, sliding it over the tip of him every time he moved forward, reveling in his guttural moan. He came fast and hard, and she drank in his excitement, helping him milk the last drop of ecstasy from his orgasm. She was so turned on she couldn’t think straight.

He leaned in, kissing her forehead, and then moved down her body—she knew he wouldn’t leave her unsatisfied. He never did.

Glancing up from between her parted thighs, one hand lightly pet the hair between her legs, the feathering touches almost making her beg. She fought her satiny restraints for the first time, wanting to gain control, to make him hurry.

Instead, he drew warm, wet trails up the inside of her thigh with his tongue, and then she did beg. Pleasure and need seeped from every pore as she strained toward him, her flesh parted for his invasion, exposing her.

His finger grazed her clit, drawing her body into one long shudder. He knew how to hold her back, laughing against her before his mouth descended. Her body bowed in taut anticipation of the release that was mere moments away, and she couldn’t hold back a scream when she came, the name of her lover ripe on her lips. “Rafe.”

RAFE WAS RIPPED AWAKE by the scream. He bolted out of bed, trying to discern the source—had he imagined it or had the woman’s voice screamed his name?

The window—it had come from next door. Without much hesitation, he yanked on jeans, ran down the stairs and through the front door. Vaulting up his neighbor’s steps, he banged on the door, yelling.

“Hey! You in there? You all right? Answer the door!”

He cursed that he’d left his cell back in the bedroom—if she didn’t answer, he was calling 911.

He considered going down the side of the house and entering through the window, but he didn’t know the situation. If things had gone bad—as they sometimes did between lovers, and who knew what his tidy and prim neighbor was into—he’d be walking blind into a crime scene. It could make a bad situation worse.

No one answered. He started back down the steps to go call the police when the door swung open, and he braced himself to face the guy who likely had caused the scream.

Instead he faced all five feet six inches or so of his neighbor, wrapped in a short terry robe that definitely showed off things the suit had been hiding earlier, including an absolutely gorgeous pair of legs. Her hair was wild, her face flushed. She looked as if she had been having sex; but she also looked furtive, and maybe a little frightened.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, taking a step back, closing the door slightly as if afraid of him—or blocking his sight of someone else standing there with her.

“I heard you scream—you called for help. You called my name.”

It was dark on her porch though the light was on in the entry hall behind her. He squinted, taking a step closer, searching for bruises or any evidence of harm. Moving away, she started to close the door.

“I didn’t scream, and I certainly didn’t call for you.”

He didn’t know why she would deny it, maybe she was embarrassed or maybe she was afraid. He knew from prior experience that someone could be behind her in the doorway, and she could be telling him to leave under some kind of duress. He had to see for himself that she was okay.

Clearly panicked, her voice rose. There was no way he was going anywhere until he knew what was up. “Leave me alone! I’m fine—are you crazy, coming to my door at this hour, causing trouble—”

“Okay, have it your way.” He glanced at her, communicating his intention to get help, and went down the step.

“Wait.”

He turned, watching her run a hand over her face. He wondered if she was covering for someone trying to escape from the back.

“Why should I let you in here when I’m alone—I don’t even know you. For all I know this is some ploy to get inside the house.”

He looked at her steadily. “Do intruders usually bang loudly on your door, shouting for everyone in the neighborhood to hear, and then talk to you on your front porch for a while?” He blew out a breath. “If I wanted in for some nefarious reason, believe me, this wouldn’t be my method.”

“I’ve seen stranger things on the news.”

“I’m a friend of Warren’s—doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Not much. I don’t know him that well.”

“He lives right next door.”

“So? Am I required to be best friends with my neighbors?”

Coming from a close-knit neighborhood, he shrugged—he’d always known his. Sometimes too well. Maybe things were different out here.

“Listen, I’m Warren’s friend, and I’m also an EMT—though I don’t have any ID at the moment—if you’re hurt, I can help you, and you can call the police or I can, before I step foot in the place.”

“Why do you keep insisting on thinking I’m hurt?”

“I told you, I heard you scream. It woke me up.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.” She bit the words out, increasingly agitated, but he knew what he’d heard.

Had she really screamed his name? Out loud? The thought had her cringing inwardly.

“It was you. What I want to know is why you’re lying. It’s either me or the police, sweetheart, take your pick.”

Furious, she threw open the door, challenging him, and he had a moment of doubt. Still, he needed to follow through—he had to make sure she was okay, then he’d leave.

JOY WATCHED HER NEIGHBOR—she still didn’t even know his name—as he prowled around her home. He’d given her one of the most intimate visual inspections she’d ever experienced before he’d started checking out the house. He said he was an EMT, and she supposed his survey was strictly clinical, though it hadn’t felt that way. Given what she’d been dreaming about, that could be her fault, but she wouldn’t admit it.

He hadn’t laid a hand on her; he’d done nothing inappropriate, but had looked her over so thoroughly, apparently searching for signs of abuse, that she’d nearly squirmed. He was in her bedroom now, convincing himself she was safe. Her cheeks went up in flames.

She was mortified and impressed all at once that he was so concerned about her safety. Not all neighbors were willing to get involved. She never was. It wasn’t anything personal, but she worked a lot, and had never really gotten to know the people living around her. Still, had she really been in trouble, she was glad to know there was someone who would help.

However, this situation was getting more embarrassing by the minute. She must have screamed in her sleep the way she had in the dream—in her dream about him—but there was no way she was admitting that. She supposed she could have claimed to have had a nightmare, but that wouldn’t explain screaming his name. She wasn’t exactly good at thinking on her feet in the middle of the night. She hoped that once he saw there was no one else in the house, he’d believe her that he’d heard a voice from some other source.

As he ran up the stairs, two at a time, she couldn’t stop the rush of heat that flowed right down her spine to her core as she watched the muscles in his back flex, and she almost sighed over the perfect masculine shape of his rear. This man was even more handsome up close than he was in her dreams.

And, in her dreams, he had been perfect.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind.

When he came back down, he gazed at her with curiosity and announced, “You seem to be here alone.”

“Yes, I told you that.”

“So why’d you scream?”

“No, I…It wasn’t me. It must have been someone out on the street.”

He shook his head, and then his eyes narrowed. She held her breath—what was he thinking?

“Do you talk in your sleep?”

It was as if her deepest secret had been revealed—which in a way it had—and she shook her head in denial.

“No. No one’s ever said so, anyway.”

“That has to be it. You must have been having a dream or something—do you remember?”

She crossed her arms defensively. “No, I don’t. I was sleeping soundly until you came slamming at the door, demanding access to my home, threatening me with the police.”

There. The best defense was a good offense, right?

“I thought you were in trouble. It was a pretty loud scream. Woke me out of a…a halfway decent sleep.” His tone took on a tenor of astonishment. “I can’t believe I was actually sleeping, and then you woke me up,” he accused.

Her “good offense” strategy was suddenly on the ropes. “Listen, I don’t know what it was, but I’d like to get back to sleep, and I assume you would, too.”

They were standing about a foot apart, and all she had on was her robe and underwear. From what she could tell, all he had on were those jeans, and they weren’t even zipped up all the way. She had to get him out of here before she almost swooned for crying out loud, feeling a surge of lust for him.

“I won’t be able to get back to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I have chronic insomnia, and the nightly chatter hasn’t been helping. I can’t remember the last time I actually was sleeping as soundly as I was before your scream ended that.”

“I. Didn’t. Scream,” she ground out between her teeth. “I don’t talk all night. I don’t talk in my sleep.”

He ran a hand though sandy hair that was cut just the right length, and the gesture made her lose her train of thought for a moment. He had perfect arms. Nicely toned, muscular but not ridiculously so. They were manly arms. She didn’t like the bodybuilder type, though she had no doubt he was strong. What on earth was she doing? She never—or rarely—ogled men like this.

“Listen, fine. You probably don’t snore either, but—”

“Hey! I don’t snore,” she declared stoutly. This much she knew for sure.

“Fine. Still, on the very small, almost impossible chance that it’s you, and that you don’t realize it, could you do me a favor and close your window? Just in case.”

The sarcasm of his tone put her off, but even if it hadn’t, she wasn’t about to change her habits for a stranger.

“No.”

He blinked, standing there looking luscious and confused. Images of what he’d done to her earlier in her dream ran through her head like an X-rated movie, and she had to drop her gaze.

“No? Just like that?”

“It’s hot.”

“Use your AC.”

“I don’t have AC. There’s only one small window unit in the house and it is too noisy. Why don’t you close your window?”

“Why should I close my windows? You’re the one screaming in the middle of the night.”

She squared her jaw, supposing there was no reason not to tell the truth on this one. “Well, I’m not closing my window either—it’s too hot.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She stifled a yawn, moving toward the door. “I don’t know who you’ve been hearing at night, but people are out on the streets all the time—it was probably something out there.”

“It’s the same voice, saying the same things. In fact, it’s your voice. I’m sure of it.”

Sending him what she thought was the coldest look she could manage, she yanked open the door. “You’re imagining things. Thanks for your concern, but I’d like to go back to bed.”

He moved toward the door, shaking his head, and looking at her with a smile that had her knees buckling. Then she caught herself.

“I’m Rafe by the way. Rafe Moore,” he said slowly, watching her closely as if to catch her up, and she hoped she gave nothing away.

“Good night, Mr. Moore.”

She didn’t offer her own name, and simply arched an eyebrow when he paused, waiting. Blowing out a breath, he nodded once, his lips tightening. She almost felt bad, but she didn’t want to give him one ounce of encouragement.

“Call me Rafe. We’re neighbors, after all. Good night.”

Joy sank down by the door, utterly mortified. She’d held her own, but her dreams were obviously getting out of control.

Rafe wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t be going back to sleep tonight. In truth, she hated that she was contributing to his insomnia. He seemed nice, really, and was obviously a good guy, concerned about his neighbors, ready to help. He had a really cute accent, too….

Shaking away thoughts of her hunky neighbor, Joy couldn’t risk going back to bed and the dreams starting up again. Not tonight. She didn’t know why she was having them—she didn’t even care for sex all that much. The few serious relationships she’d had had proved that. Of course, maybe if sex in reality was as terrific as it was in her unconscious, she’d revise her opinion, but in her experience, it hadn’t been.

Eyeing the armchair and ottoman by the TV from her sitting position at the base of the door, she smiled. At least if she fell back into her lusty dreams no one would hear her from there.

3

RAFE SEARCHED THE CROWDED shelves of the garage in the corner where Warren kept his tools. He was looking for the laser level Warren had bragged about, but couldn’t find it anywhere. His pal was not a slob, exactly, but he was a pack rat. Everything from old electrical tape to plastic bags with every spare part you could think of was crammed three-deep on the narrow shelves.

While Rafe hadn’t been able to fall back asleep, the couple hours he’d managed had given him a boost of energy. He was intent on repainting the small kitchen for Warren and his bride—Rafe’s version of a Christmas/wedding gift—but he had to put up the wainscoting first, and that required the level.

When he yanked free a box from an upper shelf, what he found was more interesting—an older model camcorder. He recognized it in an instant—Warren had gotten it for his eighteenth birthday, and they’d had a hell of a time with it.

They’d pestered Rafe’s sisters particularly, following them around with the camera until his eldest sister, Becky, had threatened to crush it under her car wheel if they didn’t stop. Rafe was the fourth after three sisters, and though he loved them dearly, and they all had close relationships now, back then, he had been a major pain, as younger brothers aim to be.

Taking the camcorder out, Rafe saw there was a tape inside and for the heck of it, hit the play button, wondering if he might stumble across one of those old adventures. Within seconds, he was hitting the off button, a little shocked—Warren and his new wife had apparently been having a little fun with home movies back before they were married and had forgotten to remove the tape. Of course, they probably hadn’t expected anyone to be rummaging through their garage, either.

His embarrassment at discovering the video of Warren in flagrante delicto was muted by the sudden brainstorm that hit him—this could be just what he needed to prove his case.

If his neighbor, name still unknown, wouldn’t believe she was talking—and loudly—in her sleep, he could tape her and prove it. Then, she wouldn’t be able to deny it was her.

He took the tape out. He could buy a new one and replace this one later, after he accomplished his purpose. There was a place downtown that converted old tapes to compact discs. If he went to the local hardware store now, he could buy a new tape and a level to work on the kitchen.

However, grabbing Warren’s keys and heading out to the car—which always stayed in the driveway because the garage was far too packed with everything for it to fit—Rafe was distracted by an older woman teetering on a ladder across the street, hanging some Christmas lights. He jogged over, looking up and calling out, “Hello. That ladder seems a little rickety—could I give you a hand with those lights?”

The woman suspiciously looked down at him. “Who are you?”

He smiled. She reminded him a lot of his grandmother, whom he especially missed at Christmas. This woman seemed tough and independent as well; Rafe recognized the look.

“Rafe Moore, ma’am, at your service. I’m watching over Warren and Trudy’s house while they’re on their honeymoon.”

“Oh, I have seen you. Warren, he’s a good boy.”

Watching her twist around on the ladder Rafe got nervous.

“If you would like, I could give you a hand with those lights. That ladder doesn’t seem too stable. Warren has a good one in the garage. Why don’t you come down and let me go get it?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

Rafe moved forward, holding the ladder firmly as she started to step down, relieved he’d come outside when he had—if she’d fallen, it could have been serious, even from only six feet up. On the job, he’d frequently been called for older people who’d taken simple falls in their own houses, falls that had caused their deaths in some cases.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Bessie Woods.” She lowered herself slowly. Finally with both feet on the ground, she smiled up at Rafe, shaking her head at the ladder. “My husband passed on last spring. I didn’t really plan to do much for the holiday. My family is worried and doesn’t want me alone, so I just found out they’re all coming here next week to spend a few days before Christmas. I’ll go home with them for the New Year. I couldn’t have the grandkids showing up with not a single Christmas light on the house.”

She sounded a little grumpy. Rafe nodded, straightening the ladder, silently cheering her family for not abandoning their matriarch. She might not think she wanted the Christmas cheer and the company, but she’d be happier for it once everyone was around. The holidays were so hard for people who’d lost loved ones.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

She patted his arm and moved to the side so he could remove the ladder from where it leaned against the porch.

“We’ll do that, and then you can come in and I’ll make you some lunch.” She didn’t ask him, she told him, and he chuckled, not even bothering to argue. She looked up at the ladder.

“My Butch had that ladder for years. I was always yelling at him to get a new one or he’d break his neck. He never did, so I figured it must be good enough. Have to admit, though, I miss him every day. He used to take care of all these things, and…” Her voice faded, choking slightly, and Rafe’s heart squeezed.

“How long were you married?”

“Fifty-seven years. Four children of our own, eleven grandkids, four great grands,” she declared proudly, and Rafe was doing some quick math in his head.

“They’re all coming for Christmas?” He looked at the small house, wondering how they’d fit.

She laughed. “Oh, no, just my youngest son’s family—he lives the closest. The rest are scattered all over the country, though I see them often enough.”

“Good to have a close family,” he stated and realized for the first time that he actually was spending the first Christmas without his own. For some reason, his urge to escape the city, and the job, had blanked out that realization. He knew they’d understand—he’d missed several holidays when he’d had to work—but he’d never been away, completely, for the entire time. His sisters were busy, too—two of them were married; the other, a single lawyer, didn’t seem to have much interest in marriage.

The four of them were always in and out of their parents’ house, around the neighborhood, several times each week. None of them had ever considered leaving New York. It had been a shock for them when Rafe had announced he was heading to California, if only for a little more than a month. They’d been apprehensive, but supportive. They knew he was having problems, and he knew they were only a phone call away.

His eyes drifted over across the street, to his neighbor’s house. Did she have family? People who cared? She appeared to be very alone. He felt a twinge of sympathy if that was the case.

“Where are you from, Rafe?” Bessie interrupted his thought.

“New York City.”

“Ah, been there once. Too loud for me.”

He laughed. “Bessie, what do you think about giving this ladder to the Goodwill—they’ll repair it for someone else’s use, and we can get you a sturdier stepping stool, though not for outside jobs.

“That sounds like a smart idea.”

He looked over at the house next to Warren’s where nothing was stirring.

“Can I ask you a question, Bessie?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Do you know the name of the woman across the street?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That’s Joy Clarke.”

Joy, he thought, liking the name. He’d never known a Joy before.

“As far as I know, she’s free as a bird,” Bessie added knowingly. “Used to be a young man who visited pretty often, stayed some nights, if his car in the driveway is any indication, but that was a while ago. I didn’t like him.”

“You met?”

“No, but I didn’t like how he came speeding up the street in his fancy car, the radio blasting. A real man doesn’t need to draw attention to himself like that. She doesn’t have much to do with anyone, from what I can tell. Probably has her reasons. She does come around collecting for charity now and then, but that’s about it. I don’t know much, but I do know you look like a man who’s interested.”

He pulled back. “No, no…not that way. There’s a neighbor issue I need to talk to her about. Thought it would go easier if I knew her name, at least.”

“Whatever you say.”

It was clear Bessie wasn’t buying his story, though he took her teasing in good humor. She hustled in to make the promised lunch—and to get more lights now that she had someone to help hang them. He went to get Warren’s ladder, and wondered about Joy as he strung the lights. He noticed there wasn’t a single holiday decoration in her yard.