You fall 'til you break. That's in his head for no reason until he realizes that he wrote it for Derek Storm, the last thing the guy would say before he took a bullet in the head. There's no reason for it to hit him now and he wonders if he's dreaming; dreams are always disjointed, like reality's disjointed, and he could have sworn he was sleeping in a chair ten minutes ago.

The hand on her stomach slides around to the small of her back, working her camisole up the mattress, his knuckles bumping over her spine. Her skin is soft and impossibly warm. His hands are greedy for more of her and they manage to ruck the bottom of her camisole over the tops of her bare breasts. The side of his palm forms to the outside of her breast; they're too close -- too needy for contact -- to break away completely but it's the impression of her body that's got him going in high gear now. He's hard almost instantly.

His teeth gently scissor her bottom lip, breath coming a little faster as she bends beneath him.