Читать книгу Cold Case, Hot Bodies - Jule McBride, Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

2

“GEM, YOU’RE A HOTTIE,” Dario said late that night as he tossed back a shot of whiskey, drinking from the bottle. He’d showered in a cramped stall down an unlit hallway, deciding against using a tub in the empty apartments upstairs, then he’d put on briefs, gotten into bed and opened the file, mostly so he could look at Gem’s picture again.

Her finger was crooked and her mouth was pulled into a sexy pout. She would have looked frivolous, but her eyes held too much awareness. Pain, maybe. Something that hinted at emotional depth. According to his information, she’d survived a famine and fled her country. She’d crossed the Atlantic, only to find herself in one of the world’s worst slums, but she’d made a decent life, anyway.

Dario felt a magnetic pull, a sense of impending fate. Plain old lust, too. Or else maybe he’d just had too much to drink. Whatever the case, he was fantasizing about playing out the age-old cliché about hookers and cops. It had been a long night, and he was desperate for release. Pat had called about another arson case, and although Dario was supposed to be laying low, he’d visited the scene. Then, because Beppe’s tenants had waylaid him to air their grievances as he was leaving court, Dario had wound up hauling in surveillance equipment to appease them.

Now cameras were arranged strategically around the premises. At least, by the end of the week, Dario would be able to prove his pop’s building wasn’t haunted. When he glanced at the tripod-mounted camera placed discretely in a corner, his lips stretched into a slow grin.

With this camera, he was going to catch a woman, not a ghost. As soon as he’d called and told Sheila about the history of Angel’s Cloud, apologizing since he’d be busy and unable to meet her this week, she’d said she’d never had sex in a haunted house and wanted in on the action.

“It’s different,” Dario had assured playfully. “And not something I can just tell you about. You’ll have to come over and experience it yourself.”

“See you at eight,” she’d said.

But eight had come and gone. Typical Sheila. Punctuality wasn’t her strong point. It was nearly midnight, and anticipation had left Dario as horny as the men who used to patronize the room where he was about to sleep.

To keep his mind occupied, he’d interviewed tenants. There was a middle-aged woman who ran an Italian ice stand, Carmella Liotella, and Chinese sisters, Zu and Ling, who shared an apartment on the otherwise vacant third floor. Brice, whose law office was around the corner, lived in the attic. Rosie, a liberal-looking single mom, was on the first floor, just beneath Carmella and opposite the apartment where Dario had set up camp. She had a crush on Brice, and an alarmingly flirtatious thirteen-year-old, Theresa, who’d been wearing skintight jeans, a midriff exposing a fake tattoo, and enough makeup that she could have been applying for a job as a madam herself.

Dario had moved in opposite them because everybody said that’s where the noise was coming from. The previous tenant had left in a hurry—supposedly due to the haunting—which meant the apartment had ramshackle furnishings. Shirts were still in the closet. The tenant had been a big guy, almost Dario’s size, so it was hard to believe he’d been scared off.

There were nine empty units, three per floor, discounting the attic where Brice lived—and that seemed weird, too, since Beppe was a soft touch and the rent was low. Ghost sightings increased whenever he made moves to sell, but Dario had always figured people would lodge complaints, no matter how absurd, to discourage the building’s ownership from changing hands.

Still, people had left despite having rent-stabilized leases, when they’d have difficulty finding similar bargains, and the place was creepier than Dario remembered. While in the basement, putting out environmentally friendly mouse traps Eliana insisted he buy, he could have sworn the air temperature dropped abruptly. Shrugging off the event, he’d spent an hour trying to fix the boiler before realizing he’d have to buy a new one. The whole time, he’d felt as if somebody were watching him. Most disturbing, the tenants seemed genuinely scared.

“The sounds started about two weeks ago,” Zu had reported. “We hadn’t heard anything in a long time, about six months, but then all of a sudden…”

“Gem O’Shea is walking the halls at night again,” Ling had added in a hushed tone. “Luther Matthews came by. He has a key to the place, you know. And he told us about Gem O’Shea. That she was murdered. I’m sure she’s haunting us.”

“Maybe trying to tell us who killed her,” said Rosie.

“The music’s, like, really loud,” added Theresa.

“Here,” Brice had added angrily, coming from the attic, and dumping a box of papers at Dario’s feet. “This is everything I was able to find out about the place. Something fishy’s going on. You should take a look.”

And Dario had. Apparently, these old walls had absorbed plenty of lovers’ whispered secrets, and many illicit backroom deals. The old news clippings collected by Brice jibed with records Dario had found in cold-case files at the precinct, as well as family materials related to the property that Beppe had kept, and that Dario had brought with him. A sheet in the police file indicated Gem had stashed jewelry in the house; an inventory list had been submitted in case of theft.

Definitely, the tenants hadn’t lied about the shoddy workmanship. It was Dario’s grandfather’s fault, since he’d hired bad contractors. The original bar, which had been about fifteen feet long, was still in Zu and Ling’s apartment. Someone had renovated it as a kitchen island. Brice’s shower stall was in his kitchen, and because his wiring was inadequate, he’d run an extension cord to an outlet in the hallway.

Outside, Dario had stood on the sidewalk, surveying the exterior, and something had niggled, but he didn’t know why. The building was tall and skinny, with a sharply graded roof and louvered windows. The bricks crawled with ivy, and a downstairs back door led into unkept gardens. The rear building, where Gem had lived, had been torn down long ago.

His cell rang. He clicked on. “Yeah?”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Sheila sounded tipsy, a good sign. “Are you coming now?”

“There’s more than one way to take that.”

“Not once you get here.”

“On my way,” she said, giggling. “Keep the bed warm.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” he returned with mock grouchiness. “Are you sure you’re going to show?”

“Put a key under the mat, sailor, and let Gem O’Shea wake you up.”

Not a bad idea. “Done. Two pots on the porch are planted with ivy. The key to the lobby doors will be in the one on the right. I’m the first door on the left—I’ll leave it ajar.” Maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but the neighborhood was relatively safe nowadays, and besides, he’d put his gun under the bed.

“Given what I’m going to do to you,” she was saying, “you’ll think you’re dreaming.”

“So you have plans for the bawdy house?”

“Just call me Gem O’Shea.”

She ended the call, and he grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Yawning, he thrust his legs into jeans, took the key to the planter and returned. Then he found a pen, scrawled “I’m in here, babe,” and taped it to the door, drawing an arrow toward the bed. The tenants were tucked in for the night and wouldn’t see it. Absently scratching his chest, he stared into the open folder before transferring it to the floor, suddenly glad Eliana had reminded him to bring sheets, a blanket and towels. Without a boiler, the steam heat hadn’t come on.

Where the hell was Sheila? He could sure use some body heat. After taking another swig of whiskey, he set the bottle on the nightstand, along with his wallet and badge. Checking to make sure his gun was under the bed, he switched on the video recorder.

Sheila was going to love his surprise. Pat would get a kick out of the story, too. Suddenly frowning, he thought about Pat’s engagement, then pushed aside the thought. Everybody he knew might be settling down, but Dario wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his own lifestyle.

Rummaging in his jeans pockets, he put some open condom packages and a twenty-dollar bill on the nightstand. Since Sheila was intent on playing Gem O’Shea, he’d pay her. As soon as she got here, he’d turn on the light, then they could make the homemade movie while polishing off the rest of the whiskey.

He smiled. He was glad he’d met Sheila. All she cared about was sex. She was like a female version of him. His other half. Taking off his briefs, he tossed them to the floor. Might as well be ready when she gets here, he thought.

A second later, he was out like the light.

“WAKE UP, SAILOR.”

Husky murmurings sounded beside Dario’s ear. Hot breath tickled his earlobe. His head was pounding, and he groaned when he realized he must have had way too much to drink last night. The warm whiskey had tasted great going down, burning a path from his mouth to his belly, just as surely as a kiss, but now…

Fingernails raked upward on his bare chest, then stopped to trace circles around his nipples. He groaned again, arousal catching him unaware. Music was playing, sounding faraway. Probably coming from one of the other apartments, he thought, but who was up so late? Zu and Ling said they went to bed early. Brice and Carmella had to work. And Rosie had a kid. Maybe he’d just drifted, and it was still only a little after midnight.

Weight was bearing down on him. Sheila, he guessed. He’d tossed and turned, so the sheet had tangled around his legs, and now, even if she hadn’t been on top of him, he couldn’t have moved. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw only vague shadows, enough to know he wasn’t dreaming. A woman was definitely straddling him.

“Finally,” he whispered. Shutting his eyes again, he lifted his hands, curving them over hips. Nice, plump womanly hips. Not too skinny—he hated women who starved themselves—but not too padded, either. Just right. It was one of the many things he liked about Sheila. After uttering a lusty sigh, he smiled. Her muscles flexed beneath his fingertips as she rocked against him, her inner thighs squeezing.

She was so responsive. That was another thing he liked. Now, if she’d only move upward a tiny inch. She was a hair’s breadth from where he was aching for her. So close.

Please. He thought the word as soft hands curled around his shoulders, then dug deep—now exploring dips and crevices around his collarbone. After a moment, flattened palms pressed down hard on his pectorals, feeling like heaven.

“What time is it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over all the racket. It was hard to believe somebody thought whatever was playing was music. He slitted his eyes open, but again, saw only inky darkness. The music sounded like show tunes, maybe something from Broadway.

“Three,” she whispered.

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder he felt like hell. “Better late than never.”

“Do we still have time?”

He didn’t have to be at work until nine. “We can get a lot done in six hours.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it earlier, the way I promised.”

“Me, too.”

“You feel sorry,” she whispered, the brush of her belly making clear what she meant. He was as hard as a rock. Her voice sounded deeper than usual. So husky that she didn’t even sound like Sheila. She must have felt as sex-crazed as he, waiting all day for this. That’s why she was talking like a sex siren from an old movie. She sounded like Bette Davis, Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one. All shivery and whispery, as if she’d had way too much to drink and had just smoked cartons of cigarettes, and was offering him something forbidden. He imagined her in a black-and-white picture, wearing a slinky gown, and holding a highball glass and a long black cigarette holder.

Then he remembered she was pretending to be Gem O’Shea. That’s why she’d worn a wig, too. Long strands of hair were brushing his face, teasing his cheeks and shoulders.

He rubbed her thighs, stroking them with the backs of his hands and shifted his weight, straining unsuccessfully to feel the crushing pressure of her pelvic bone against his erection. When she just missed the magic spot, he uttered a frustrated sigh. She was still in outerwear, a jacket and tight leggings, no shoes. “That’s the great thing about clothes…”

“What?”

“We can get rid of them.”

“That’s why I came over.”

Cold insteps with high arches were molding his calves, warming themselves. Threading fingers into her hair, he explored the wig and chuckled. Sheila really was great. She’d do anything to please a guy. What an imagination. “Are you ready to make up for lost time?”

“If you can forgive me for being late.”

“Kiss me and I’ll think about it.” Splaying his fingers, he dragged them through her hair, using the strands to pull her face down to his. Her mouth was open, and it melted against his as their tongues meshed, sparking electricity that began dancing wildly down his nerves, making them sizzle at the ends. Rushing between his fingers, tendrils of hair felt like palm fronds under water, softer than anything he’d ever felt, even softer than her mouth. His hands found her waist again, guiding the movements of her lower body, urging her closer, as he brushed his kiss-dampened mouth across hers.

When the friction turned maddening, he feathered, then nibbled. Judging by her soft whimper, it was working, really turning her on. She whispered, “What do I have to do to make absolutely sure you forgive me?”

“This.” He arched his hips, his body surging.

She pushed back, her thighs quivering, the inner flesh shaking deliciously as she scooted into the cradle of his legs and settled on the hard ridge of his sex. He gasped, a shiver ripping through him. Something in the back of his throat caught, and he said, “I’m glad you made it.”

She was panting softly, rolling her hips with the dexterity of a belly dancer and grinding herself against his groin. “I can tell.”

As she undulated, waves of need lapped through him. Pliable, ready lips fit to his again. Wet and promising, they clung as if she didn’t want to let go. His sentiments, exactly. Tonight, she didn’t even taste like Sheila. Her usual mint flavor had been replaced by chocolate and coffee, and the lipstick he’d eaten off was raspberry. Not a hint of alcohol, which was what he’d expected, given how tipsy she’d sounded on the phone.

“I tried to hurry,” she murmured.

“You’re here now,” he whispered back.

Against his, her cheek still felt cool from the night air, making the spear of her tongue seem even hotter. It was warm and runny—like hot honey or butter or molasses. It was like lazy sunshine on a Sunday morning, streaming through a window. And it was climbing, too, just like the sun, its radiance gaining intensity and heat.

Every time she licked the inner recesses of his mouth, renewed fire ignited in his abdomen. Warmth was pouring through her leggings, like jets of liquid joy, and when she started nuzzling the stubble of his beard, roughening her rel atively tender skin, Dario tilted back his head, simply reveling in the feel of her—her long legs bracketing his, her ample breasts cushioning his chest.

“Don’t stop.”

“Does it seem like I’m stopping?”

“No,” he murmured. “But you could.”

“I could do a lot of things.”

“Then do them.”

As she swirled hot saliva down his neck, in sloppy, looping kisses, the scratchy fabric of her jacket further aroused his nipples, chaffing until they were raw and painfully aroused. Merciless, she languidly licked his skin as if they had eternity, not just a night, then she dipped until a taut nipple was firmly in her mouth. Quick suckles made his mind fog….

He was sure he’d drifted again. He didn’t know for how long. He was floating in bliss. Sheila felt so good…impossibly good. Every time they got together, sex just got better. Tonight it was excellent. Better than ever before. Right now, the touch of her mouth was torture. Every fiber of his being was starting to sing for release. Slowly, he caressed her bottom, thrilled when she kept playing with his nipples…

Then, from somewhere far off, he heard another song start, and strained his ears. He heard piano music and stomping feet. Clapping hands. A hoot of merriment.

“Give me another pint of ale,” someone yelled.

“A pint for the whole house,” another hollered.

He must be dreaming. Or else someone was playing an old dance hall recording. He felt unbelievably hot. Sweat prickled his nape as he shook off sleep once more, and opened his eyes. Still, only darkness. What was happening? He felt almost as if he’d been drugged. “You feel so good,” he whispered.

“You’re not bad, yourself.”

As he inhaled sharply, Sheila’s scent settled in his lungs. It wasn’t the musky perfume she usually wore, but something lighter that evoked coy flirtation. As the music climbed toward crescendo, she continued nibbling that one nipple, making the other yearn for the ministrations of her mouth. She was raking teeth against the sides until fever took him, and the fire raging beneath his naval turned more fluid. A coiled spring of swirling lava became more diffuse, prickling through his veins, lazily roping into all his extremities.

“Are you going to wake up for me, sailor?”

Yawning and stretching beneath her like a huge jungle cat, he lifted his hips, the muscles of his buttocks straining. Between his legs, his heavy erection felt more than bother-some, an irksome annoyance that needed to be dealt with soon. Frustration surfaced in his husky growl. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“I got tied up.”

He imagined her naked, and strapped to a bed with long silk scarves. “I like the sound of that.”

“You would,” she teased.

“Damn right I would,” he whispered.

His eyes had adjusted, but it was too dark to see her features. He imagined her high cheekbones, the long, straight patrician nose. He wanted to see her undressed, her breasts swinging free from the restrictive jacket and whatever she wore beneath. He could see them softly bouncing as she rode him. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered, another swift pang claiming his groin.

He reached to turn on the lamp, but her hand glided over his, stopping him. It was just as well. He could tape them later. Maybe the camera was even picking up some of the action, anyway. After all, he could see shadows, and it was motion activated.

He grasped a lock of hair and chuckled. Had she really rustled up this wig just for him? This was almost as good as the time she’d let him arrest her in the shower. Or when she’d handcuffed him to bed. Or when she’d come over, wearing nothing under a raincoat.

“It feels so real.”

“Of course it’s real.”

He rubbed the strands between his fingers, his loins still firing. As he brought silky waves to his face, another series of jolts pulsed into his bloodstream. He breathed in, finding the scent was more like shampoo than the neutral scent he’d expected from a wig.

“You’re good,” he murmured in admiration. She must have brought a boom box, too. That’s why the bawdy-house music was playing. It wasn’t coming from another apartment, after all. It was all part of Sheila’s act. Slowly untying the belt of her jacket, he flicked open buttons, then pushed the garment off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing what felt like a tight cotton blouse. “I almost believe you’re Gem O’Shea.”

“You had doubts?”

“In my line of work, we’re not known for our trusting natures.”

“Can you trust me to give you the ride of your life, sailor?”

“I think I can manage that.”

She started unbuttoning her blouse. In the darkness, he sensed, rather than saw, the edges open.

“You didn’t take the money from the table,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Paying me, are you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Clasping his hands, she brought them to her chest and placed them on her breasts. Slowly, he traced the lace edges of the bra cups she swelled to fill. She was spilling out, and thrusting her chest, too, as if begging for his touch. Her quickening breath urged him on, making him want to touch between her legs to make her climax.

As he opened her bra’s front clasp, his own chest constricted. Light-headed, he swallowed against the sudden dryness of his mouth and pushed aside the cups. After licking his own fingers, he trailed slippery swirls of saliva on the distended tips of her breasts. Capturing one with his mouth, he squirted wet heat until she muttered something senseless. Her hips suddenly wrenched. As he sponged her, he lifted his hips, rubbing her until she was bucking. Her hands flattened on his chest, as if to slow him down, and her long delicate fingers curled, tugging wildly at strands of his chest hair. He leaned back on the pillow.

Her voice was husky. “How much are you paying me?”

“Not nearly what you’re worth.”

“Is this your first time on Angel’s Cloud?”

“Yeah.”

“And did you request me? Or was this just luck of the draw?”

“Absolutely intentional.”

“You heard good things about me?”

“I heard you’re the best.”

“Hearsay’s of little matter. Am I the best?”

He was about to explode and he wasn’t even inside her yet. “You’re convincing me of it right now.”

“I didn’t expect to find you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Naked. In bed. And…so hard.” She shivered as if to emphasize her point.

“Is that a crime?”

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

“You can keep me locked up for a long time.”

The music seemed to surge then, and he gasped in protest as the heat of her lower body left his, at least until he realized she was only stripping off leggings. As soon as her legs were bare, his hungry hands sought flesh. Disappointment filled him when he found her panties still on. By the feel of it, it was a tiny silk thong with a string waistband. She straddled him again, her knees on the mattress. Just her scent was enough to make him beg for mercy.

Overcome, he grasped her back, hugging her, then nuzzled her face. The music seemed to be coming right through the walls as his tongue stroked the scanty fabric. When she flung back her head to take the pleasure, long hair whipped behind her, and when her back arched for the intimate kiss, his rigid tongue dove for her clitoris, soaking it. Using a hand to steady her, he pressed his mouth to her, making her writhe.

Not even air passed between them as his tongue did its magic, vibrating. Under damp panties, her cleft opened all the way, and both her hands raked into his hair, digging into his scalp. She moaned, then shuddering cries came in a steady stream. She was wet, his kiss was wetter, and in a second, her panties were drenched, but he didn’t think she’d come yet. She was holding back.

“Come.” He murmured the word against the silk. “Now.”

But she only cradled his head tighter. No wonder it had taken her so long to get here, he thought vaguely. Where had she found dance hall music on such short notice? And whatever equipment she’d brought, so she could play it? She’d done all this for him—the wig, the music, the late-night rendezvous. And now he was going to make the effort worth it for her.

Curling his fingers over the string waistband, he fisted his hand, yanking her nearer. Then he ripped the waistband. He was still tearing the panties when his mouth fell to her flesh, covering her completely. She was creaming, hot and slick, and she gasped.

Thighs braced his sides, shaking uncontrollably, her knees threatening to buckle as he tongued her, but she was still holding back. This really wasn’t at all like Sheila. What had gotten into her tonight?

“What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. “What’s going to make you come?”

“You…inside…” Her utterance was broken. “I want…I want…”

He couldn’t wait for her to spell out the rest. He was too swollen. Painfully thick, his erection was pulsing, and just a hair-trigger touch would make him explode. Blindly reaching, he grabbed a condom and roughly kicked away the sheet. A moment later, he grunted softly, voicing the agony only she could relieve. Quickly wrapping his arms around her, he urged her to lie beside him. She was naked and quivering, burning up.

“What?” he whispered raggedly, dragging kisses across her cheeks, willing to give her anything.

“Fuck me,” she whispered softly, the words barely audible.

It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. At first, he wasn’t even sure he’d heard right, but now his heart hammered with increased desire. The words hadn’t sounded dirty at all, not like a curse, just needy. Even sweet. He’d never heard so much frustrated desire in a woman’s voice. Hell, the more he knew Sheila, the more he discovered vulnerability he’d never have guessed was there, and it was starting to get to him. She was like a difficult case that never seemed to add up. This really didn’t seem like the same Sheila he’d had sex with before, and it was intriguing him.

Maybe he was falling in love with her after all.

Mutterings emanated from nowhere as she molded to his body. He whispered sweet nothings in return, then peppered kisses into the wig. Urging her onto her back, he kneeled, turning her so he could gain the deepest possible access. Silken thighs parted, and his heart stuttered. Burning and throbbing, he teased her, parting the cleft with his erection. Catching drops of her natural lubrication, he stroked, wishing his own sex wasn’t sheathed.

When he could take no more, he placed his hands on her thighs, parting them farther still, wishing the light was on so he could see everything. Crooking a hand under her knee, he raised a shapely leg, then everything seemed silent. It was as if the music had stopped, although it hadn’t, or as if their panting breaths had calmed, although they were both breathing harder than ever.

She arched, silently begging.

He thrust hard, and she parted like a river, much tighter than he remembered. He’d never felt so big, thrusting harder and filling her. She sobbed as she stretched to take him, flinging her arms around his neck. When he was in all the way, he rocked his hips, then he rested and just felt the bliss, sighing.

Her heart was hammering against his heart. Her breath mingled with his breath. After a long moment, he withdrew and thrust again, staying skin to skin.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered as something primal grabbed hold of him. Her possessive nails were dragging down his back now, and her claiming lips, teeth and tongue were suckling his neck. She was pulsing all around him, and with her first orgasm, she cried out, a wrenching twist of her body coming in tandem with a sob that shook his emotions. Her second orgasm sent a shudder through him, then palpitations. By the third, he was putty in her hands. She was cooing like a dove as he went over the edge, gasping once, his mind losing itself to darkness.

He’d never know how many seconds had elapsed. But when consciousness came again, she was still there, wrapped tightly in his arms, making sweet, soft sounds. Slowly, their breathing evened. Multiples, he thought. Now that was like Sheila. After a long moment, a smile tugged at his lips. “I think my hangover’s gone,” he whispered.

But she was fast asleep.

He laid in the dark for a long time, only now realizing that the music she’d brought had switched off. He hadn’t even noticed. As a cop, he was usually very alert. On the job, he had one of the highest arrest records at his precinct, but when it came to sexy women, he always lost his head. He might be a cop, but he was a man, too.

He glanced down, unable to see her in the dark. Hair had fallen over her face, obscuring it, and since the wig wasn’t bothering her, he let it lay. Maybe it was time to fess up, he thought. After all, he had taken Sheila home to meet his folks, hadn’t he? And he didn’t do that with every woman. Oh, maybe he and Sheila hadn’t seemed to have much in common at first, but if sex was this good, surely they’d find areas of compatibility, wouldn’t they?

He couldn’t believe how content he felt right now. As if all was right with the world, and he’d arrived exactly where he was supposed to be. As if he was home. He didn’t remember Sheila fitting quite so perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

His smile broadened, turning whimsical. Maybe Gem O’Shea’s ghost had a hand in this. Maybe Sheila wasn’t the brightest, maybe she didn’t get most of his jokes, and she’d never be able to keep up with him in a verbal sparring match. But that didn’t really matter, did it?

Of course it didn’t, he thought now. It was amazing how only an hour of sex could change a man’s thinking about a woman. Earlier tonight, before he’d gone to bed, he hadn’t even been thinking of Sheila as a potential mate. But now…

With her, sex was hotter every time. Tonight had been the best by far. She’d gone to so much trouble to please him. She had to be crazy about him. In the morning, he’d make a huge move and tell her he felt the same way, he decided.

And then he slept.