Demon Rumm by Sandra Brown

couldn’t distinguish them any longer.
She tried to reach him, but her feet wouldn’t move. They
were stuck in the sand. “Get out, get out, Charlie, there’s
still time.” But he didn’t because the crowds—which had
sprung up out of the desert—were wildly applauding his
courage.
    The flames consumed the cockpit until she couldn’t see
him anymore. She couldn’t scream. Her own breath seared
her lungs.
    The hot sand scraped her knees when she collapsed into
it. “No, no, no, no . . .”
    Rylan wasn’t asleep. When he heard the faint, muffled cries coming from across the hall, he was out of bed like a shot. He stepped into his discarded cutoffs but didn’t even take the time to fasten them as he ran to her bedroom door and flung it open. The wedge of light allowed him to see his way clearly to the bed where Kirsten was thrashing in the throes of a nightmare.
    He didn’t stop to think about it. He didn’t pause to consider his options. Calling for Alice never crossed his mind. There was no hesitation on his part as he dived across the bed and gathered Kirsten against him.
    Her response was immediate. Her rigid body went limp. Her hands, which had been spasmodically clutching the sheets, reached around the back of his neck, where she groped for and held onto handfuls of his hair. He didn’t mind. He hugged her tight.
    “Shh, shh. I’m here. It’s over.”
    She held on tighter, burrowing her face in the hollow of his shoulder. He wasn’t certain that she was fully awake, though she had begun to cry. Her tears were warm and wet. They trickled down his skin. He hated them, loved them.
    The nightmare must have been hideous to have produced the twisted expression of horror he’d seen on her face before she’d buried it in his shoulder. He wasn’t going to dismiss the nightmare with platitudes about it being only a bad dream. Bad dreams were hell for the dreamer. For as long as she needed him, he would stay with her, until the demons were banished.
    His hands were gentle. He smoothed them over her head, securing it beneath his chin. His palms skimmed her bare arms and shoulders, at all times keeping her pressed close to his chest. Shudders rippled through her. The dream might have ended, but the terror lingered. She snuggled against him.
    Her sobs finally subsided, but she made no effort to move away. “Poor baby,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re drenched.”
    She didn’t stop him when he raised the hem of her nightgown and used it to dab at her perspiring neck and chest. He tried to do it in a detached manner. But when he realized that the nightgown was all she had on, it was difficult to keep his touch impersonal. His unhurried ministrations elicited a soft purr from Kirsten. Finally, regretfully, he let the nightgown fall back into place, draping her hips.
    He slipped his arm around her middle, and only then realized that her entire torso was damp with sweat, tangible evidence of her nightmare. Using both hands, he pressed the fabric of her loose nightgown against her body to act as a blotter for the moisture that had collected on her skin.
    She felt so frail beneath his hands, no larger than a child. He thought he could probably span her rib cage with his hands. But when his fingers brushed the underside of her breast, he felt a womanly fullness that made him ache. He couldn’t stop himself from exploring further.
    He used his hands to support her breasts. He felt the sudden cessation of her breathing and prepared himself to be shoved away. Instead, to his immense pleasure and surprise, Kirsten clenched her hands tighter around his shoulders.
    His heart was slamming into his ribs and into the body he held against him. He pressed the small, full mounds of her breasts, kneaded them. She didn’t pull away, but actually leaned into his caress. He answered the hungry little sound she made with a groan of yearning. Her sweet lips moved against his neck, kissing it. The kisses grew more