Maybe, permission.
Whatever it is, I greedily take it, my fingers testing the waistband of her shorts with a quick swipe before slipping beneath her T-shirt. Her breathing turns raspy as I memorize the ridges of her spine first, and then move my hand around to her flat, hard stomach.
Her own hands have found their place on my shoulders now, and they claw and tighten as my fingers venture upward to settle between the swell of her breasts, the lace of her bra itchy against my palm.
Her hands disappear from my shoulders and, a moment later, that lace material loosens, giving me access to her ample breasts. “Since you’re taking your time . . .” She smirks, her fingertips returning to my body—to my chest this time—to softly drag over the ridges of muscle.
I’ve never been nervous with a girl, but with Gracie my gut is rolling with nerves as I push her bra aside and cup her breast, full and heavy within my palm. My thumb grazes against her peaked nipple, eliciting a soft gasp from her against my lips. I’m desperate to see Gracie naked, to trace every one of her curves with my fingers, my tongue.
Yet sudden, rare fear holds me back from making a move.
Fear that she’ll change her mind on a whim, that I want this way more than she does; that, in the end, I won’t be what she wants. I fight desperately to chase that fear away by pulling her mouth into mine, to kiss her like I’m convincing her that I am what she wants. All that she will ever want. I kiss her like I want her to pine over me. I kiss her like I want her to remember this moment in case we never have another chance.
She melts into my body, her hands sliding down to my stomach, hot skin pressed against hot skin, her thumbs teasing my belt line. I feel myself swelling more, and I grit my teeth against the wish that those nimble fingers would make quick work of my buckle and zipper and slide farther down.
Gripping her firm backside, I lift and carry her into a corner, pinning her to the wall with my hips. It gives me easier access to her body and I take it, lifting her shirt high enough to take one of her nipples in my mouth, the delicious scent of peach-scented body wash that lingers on her skin making me inhale deeply.
Gracie moans my name softly, tightening her thighs around my waist.
This is going too far, much too fast. If I take her to my bedroom, I already know I’ll be inside her in minutes like some fool who can’t control himself. So I stay put in these cramped quarters, instead sinking to my knees and maneuvering around, until I’m sitting on the floor with my back to the wall and Gracie is straddling my hips, her eyes wild with need.
“Gracie, I think we should slow down and . . .” My voice fails me as she peels her shirt over her head and shrugs her unfastened bra off, leaving me to gape at her naked breasts, heavy and heaving with each quick breath. I knew her body would be beautiful, but she’s utterly perfect. “You’re . . .” I can’t even get the words out, admiring her bared top half while I run my hands up her muscular thighs, my finger slipping beneath the hem of her shorts. I manage to stop at her panty line, and it takes everything in me to not go farther, to not find out if she’s in the same predicament as I am. And I am in a terrible predicament—I don’t want to rush with her, and yet I’m about to explode, the anticipation too much.
Hooking my hands around the backs of her knees, I pull her body flush against me. “We’re not doing this yet,” I whisper against her lips, my arms folding around her body to hold her close to me.
“You sure about that?” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm.
I hiss as Gracie rolls her hips, pressing hard into me.
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I missed that last part,” she murmurs, cocking her head in mock concern, grinding down on me again. And again, her hips rolling in an erotic dance, the swell of her breasts brushing against my chest.
I hadn’t expected this version of Gracie—seductive, playful, forward.
Who am I kidding? I’m doomed to be a fool.
My head falls back against the wall and I close my eyes. “You wicked woman.”
Gracie’s delightful deep-bellied laughter answers, and she leans in to trace the edge of my neck with her tongue.
I groan as she pushes a hand down between us, to smooth over my length.
“What is that?”
“Uh . . . what do you mean?” That’s a question I’ve never had a girl ask me before, in this particular situation.
Her ragged breathing slows. “No, I’m serious, Noah. It looks like . . . blood?”
Finally I realize she’s intently focused on her fingertips, rubbing something between them. I follow her gaze to the hardwood floor beside us, to the dark crimson smear. It’s definitely fresh blood.
“Did you cut yourself?” Gracie’s hand begins prodding me as she searches.
“No. And that’s a few hours old, at least.” I can tell by the dark line that’s formed around the original drop.
“Maybe Cyclops cut himself?”
“He was outside all day. Besides, the pantry door was closed.”
Throwing her bra and shirt back on, she climbs off my lap and heads out to the kitchen, whistling for him. Meanwhile, a sinking suspicion begins to settle into my stomach.
I stand to get a better look at the floor. That’s when I notice the second blood spot. And a third.
All surrounding my mother’s safe.
Fumbling for my wallet, I fish out the safe combination. Careful not to smear the remaining blood spots, I quickly dial the numbers. I throw open the door.
Four guns still hang in their slots and, while I never counted the boxes of ammunition, it looks like they’re all accounted for.
Everything seems normal.
That is, until I crouch down to inspect the bottom shelf more closely, and spot the brown lunch bag. It’s crinkled with age and handling, and stuffed in a small gap between the ammo and the shelf, at the back.
Did I miss that before?
Did Silas miss it too?
Swallowing against my growing anxiety, I use the hem of my shirt to ease the bag out.
Inside is a handgun.
A Colt .45.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, instantly aware. That’s got to be Abe’s gun. Has it been here all along?
Or did someone break in here today and plant it? If they did . . . how? No one has this combination except me.
Either way, someone was definitely in this house while we were out.
I grab my mom’s Glock and, checking the chamber to make sure it’s loaded, I charge for the backyard, hyperaware of the fact that the alarm was set when we left, which means that person circumvented the system. Someone with the equipment and the know-how to do it.
I find Gracie outside, talking to Mr. Stiles over the fence.
“ . . . he was making one heck of a racket earlier.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to be gone—”
“You can’t leave dogs outside for hours, unattended!” my neighbor, with his hands on his hips, his gray hair mussed and standing on end, scolds Gracie.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes in a placating voice that’s so foreign to her. “He’s normally a quiet dog.”
I tuck the gun into the back of my pants and then ease in behind Gracie, settling my hands on her shoulders. Missing the feel of her hands on mine.
“He was barking because someone broke into my house,” I explain.
Gracie tenses. “What?”
“A robbery!” Shock fills Mr. Stiles’s weathered face, the thought of it happening in our peaceful neighborhood appalling. “But don’t you have an alarm?”
“We do.” And common, dumb criminals won’t get past it. But seasoned cops with a history of sneaking in and threatening widowed women are another story. Still, for them to gain access to the safe . . .
“Well, I can’t blame the little guy for all the noise, then.” Stiles’s gray eyes search out Cyclops. He frowns. “What’s he got over there?”
“I don’t think I want to know,” I mutter, following Stiles’s gaze to the far corner of the yard, where the dog is furiously digging in the garden. “Hey! Stop that!”