Too soon, I feel the ache in my belly that I know is another orgasm, and I pant out, “Shane,” trying to get him to slow down, but he answers with a deep thrust, and then another, and his tongue—his talented, demanding tongue—licks into my mouth, and I explode. I tumble over into the depths of pleasure, and my sex clenches around his shaft, and the sensation of him inside me, still pumping, still pushing, is almost too good to allow me to breathe. Then he is shuddering, a low, guttural growl escaping his lips, so raw and animalistic that it can only be described as pure sex.
When finally we collapse together, we don’t speak or move. We hold each other, absorbing everything that has happened between us, but I do not feel anger from him. I don’t feel accusation. I feel … us. I feel closer to him than I ever have and I don’t know how that’s possible. I lied to him.
He lifts his head, kissing my forehead in a tender act I feel as readily as I did that orgasm, but this time in my heart. “Stay still,” he orders. “I’ll get you a towel.” He lifts off and out of me, and I can already feel the sticky warmth of his release, but there is so much more going on with me in this moment. I start to shiver, and I do not believe it’s from the cold air blowing from somewhere in the room. I hug myself and images I’ve suppressed for weeks on end come at me. My father’s casket. My mother’s casket. And that night. The blood. So much blood. Nausea and panic overcome me, and I shoot to a sitting position, hunching forward.
Shane is there instantly, pressing the towel between my legs, and then his shirt is suddenly over my head, falling down to drape my body, a shelter that I want, but cannot have. A cold breeze blasts over us again, and he glowers in its direction. “Why the hell is the air on in the middle of the winter?” He stands and walks toward the thermostat in all his naked, leanly muscled glory, his backside a work of art. He is perfect, and not just his body. The way he controls everything around him. He is sex, power, and passion.
He adjusts the thermostat and grabs his pants, shoving his legs inside them before snatching up my sweats and bringing them to me. “Put these on so you can warm up.”
I don’t argue. Why would I? He’s protecting me, and in this, I can actually accept the gesture. Reaching for my pants, I maneuver to pull them on and then he is on the bed in front of me again, and in his eyes, there is possession I should reject, but there is more. There is this sense of him feeling I am his to protect, to please, to hold on to, and somehow, that feels right and good. But I am wrong to feel this, to jeopardize his safety.
“No,” I say, as if he has spoken those things, my hand settling on his chest, his heart thundering beneath my palm. “I can’t pull you into this. It’s wrong.”
He covers my hand with his. “You aren’t pulling me into anything. I’m here of my own free will.”
“You have to have plausible deniability. You have to, Shane.”
“Nothing that is spoken between you and I goes anywhere but you and I.”
“If you were put on the stand that would change. You have a legal obligation. A code of honor.”
“My code is to protect those I love and care about, even my family, who as you know, don’t even deserve it.”
“I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“I am,” he assures me. “And I should have found out the truth a long time ago.”
“I didn’t tell you because—”
“You didn’t have to tell me. I should have seen your fear. I did see it, but I let it lead me to the wrong conclusions. I was so damn wrapped up in my family’s war that I didn’t let myself know what it meant.”
“Let’s keep it real, Shane. It meant I was lying to you. You will never trust me again. Not when everyone around you lies and cheats, and cuts each other’s throats just to watch the other bleed.”
“I’d bleed for you. That’s what you don’t seem to understand.”
“I don’t want you to bleed for me. That’s what you don’t seem to understand. That’s the whole point. Damn it, Shane. This is as real as it gets. This is not about something you can fix.”
“Tell me. Tell me and let me try.”
“Murder. It’s about murder.”
CHAPTER SIX
SHANE
Murder. It’s not a word I expected to hear from Emily’s lips. That she has spoken it and that I am this surprised is a come-to-Jesus-moment for me, and not because of a murder I don’t believe she committed. Not unless it was self-defense. It drives home how right Emily was about how the lies and deception of my family have shrouded everything else before me, including her.
“You’re not saying anything,” Emily says, her fingers curling on my chest beneath my hand. “I bet you’re sorry you came after me now.”
“What I’m sorry for,” I say, “is not seeing how much you needed me.”
“I don’t understand you right now. I said the word ‘murder.’ How can you be this calm?”
“Overreacting doesn’t solve anything.”
“Damn it, Shane,” she hisses, shifting to rest on her knees. “This isn’t me inviting you to solve anything. It’s me telling you why I kept you out of this. This isn’t a problem you can fix. You can’t fix this.”
“I told you, ‘can’t’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”
“It needs to be. Let me say this again. Murder, Shane. This is about murder and you have to distance yourself, something I should have done for you already.”
I reach in my pocket and pull out my money clip to remove the hundred on top, before sticking it back in my pocket, then I grab her hand and press the bill against her palm. “That’s a gift.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“It’s not my money now. It’s yours. Now give it back to me and tell me I’m hired as your attorney.”
She blanches. “No. No, that is not happening. You can’t be my attorney. We practically live together.”
“We do live together because you are never going back to that apartment.”
“You already went to my apartment?”
“Yes. I did, and I saw how you were living. And from this point forward, my home is your home. You live with me now and not because of what I saw in that apartment. It’s the natural next step for us.”
“It’s fast.”
“But it was going to happen anyway. Hire me, so you can talk to me without worrying.”
“No. There are ethical codes for attorneys. Your family might cross them, but you don’t.”
“Representing you is within those ethical codes as long as we were together before you hired me and I disclose that information under the necessary circumstances, which I will.” I take the money back from her. “I accept the job.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
She shifts and pulls her knees to her chest under my shirt, successfully creating a barrier between me and her. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”
My hand slides under the T-shirt to rest on her naked ankle. “Like I told you in the bar bathroom. Not a chance in hell. I’m in this with you now, which means it’s time to give me real answers.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“So are you but it’s time to talk.”
She inhales and lets it out. “You’re right,” she agrees. “I know you are, but I don’t even know where to start and I don’t think I want to see your face when you realize all the wrong moves I made. I think. I’m not even objective anymore about what happened and how I got into this.”