Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

Whatever else he was, he was a smart man, and a savvy, probably even an ethical, lawyer. I didn’t think he would lie to a cop during a homicide investigation, not even to help a friend.

Well, whatever had happened with Bonnie, it was lost to me. Too bad. I would have liked to know what it had been like, screwing her. I drove back toward the farm, put the top down again, took a leak by the side of the road and got back into the car to drive to Headquarters. I put my hand on the stick.

God almighty, it began to come back.

We took a sip of our drinks and then exchanged names and discovered we both lived in Bridgehampton, although on different sides of the tracks. “You weren’t born here,” I said.

248 / SUSAN ISAACS

“Which means you must have been.”

“Right. Where are you from?”

She must have said the West, or Utah, because somehow—and this came back so vividly—we got to talking about trout fishing. It turned out that she could tie her own flies.

I said, I’m not much of a fisherman. I’ve only gone for fluke and blues a couple of times, but maybe we could go together one day. And she said, Night’s better for trout, and smiled and added, Tell you what. Give me a call when you can tie at least three leader knots as easy as you tie your shoelaces, and I’ll take you to the perfect mountain stream. I said, Can’t I give you a call before that? and she flashed me a beautiful smile.

Just as I was thinking to myself, This is one incredible woman, somebody pushed to get closer to the bar, knocking me into Bonnie. Oh my God!

Electricity. Magnetism. Whatever the hell it was, I couldn’t believe it was happening. We stood there, body against body, unable to pull apart, like victims of an uncontrollable mob, crushed together. Except we could have parted, without too much trouble. We were just being jostled by a crowd of ordinary, pushy New Yorkers. But I was so aroused, and the pressure felt so good.

And clean-cut Bonnie—courteous (“Nice of you to pay for my beer”), amiable, humorous, lover of mountains and fisher for golden trout—was as hot and irrational as I was. Her hand slid between my legs. Jesus! In the dim, smoky light of the bar, in the press of bodies, in the dehumidified, perfume- and aftershave- and mouthwash-scented air, in the noise of raised voices and clanking glasses, she was tuning out everything—and going for it. Not just to provoke me, but for her own pleasure, which, of course, became my pleasure. She let out a small, low sound. She was going to be a noisy one, a wild one.

MAGIC HOUR / 249

“Let’s get out of here,” we both said at the exact same time.

Normally, when that happens, you laugh, but we had crossed some boundary and gone where there was no kidding around.

What happened next? We took my car to her house. I must have been in a white heat, because I couldn’t remember any conversation or anything about her street, or the downstairs of her house—only following her ass up to the bedroom and pulling off her clothes the minute we passed through the doorway.

We were just starting, but both of us were so inflamed we tore at each other, groaning, the way people do in that moment right before the end. We parted for a second; Bonnie’s hands were trembling, and she couldn’t manage my buttons, so I undressed myself. She watched me, spellbound, and I became so excited by her intensity I couldn’t finish the slow strip I’d begun. I threw off my khakis, my undershorts, my shoes.

Bonnie moved close to me and touched me for a second, to verify that what I had wasn’t going to go away. Then she moved in even closer. She raised her hips, straddled me. No teasing, no foreplay; we were way past that. I pushed in right away and we stood, her back against the bedpost, screwing our brains out.

She came first. I lowered her onto the bed. I wanted to finish on top. Her arms and legs wrapped around me, and we became the two halves of a greater person.

I’d never had sex like that before. It wasn’t that I was voluntarily letting go; it was that I had no control. Just when I thought that I’d ridden out the last wave, that I could catch my breath, slow things down, speed them up, subdue her, another, bigger wave knocked me senseless.

250 / SUSAN ISAACS

At last, her whimpers and moans turned to shrieks of pleasure. I joined her. I heard myself screaming so loud it scared me.

We lay there on top of the white popcorn bedspread, not knowing what to say to one another. It was that moment where my foot or my hand would inevitably begin to drift along the floor, searching for a sock or my shorts. Except I couldn’t move. And I didn’t want to go. Finally, Bonnie said:

“Think of a way we can get over the awkward silence.”

“Tell me more about fly-fishing.”

“You need an eight-foot glass rod,” she murmured. “Don’t let them talk you into bamboo.”

I held her lightly, running my hand up and down her back.

Her skin was like velvet. A breeze that had a hint of autumn in it fluttered the white lace curtains.

“This is wonderful,” I said.

“I know.”

“I meant the breeze.”

Suddenly she noticed the window was open. She sat up.

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“We were kind of loud. Just watch. One of my neighbors will think I was being murdered and call the police—after she serves the carpaccio.” I started to laugh. I hadn’t told her what I did for a living. “You won’t think it’s so funny when you hear the sirens.”

“Want to bet?” I pulled her back down, so she was lying facing me. “I’m a cop. A detective on the Homicide Squad.”

“No. That would be too interesting. You’re not.”

“Of course