She laughed softly, sliding her arms around his neck. “No parole?”
“Not a chance.”
Then he kissed her—not a polite morning kiss, but the deep, hungry claim of two people who knew the world was waiting outside with a knife.
She was acutely aware of how his shirt felt against her shoulders. Without a single stitch of her own clothing beneath it, the sensation was overwhelming; the thick fabric brushed against her with a rough intimacy, teasing her every time she moved. When he pulled her closer, his hands sliding under the hem to find the small of her back, the friction of his warm palms against her nakedness made her stomach flip. There was no lace or silk to act as a barrier, nothing but the stark, electric contact of his touch.
He hooked his hands under her thighs and hoisted her upward. The shockingly cool granite hit her, and Eleanor let out a sharp cry that was instantly swallowed by his mouth. He stepped deep between her knees, crowding her back until she was forced to wrap her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back.
Reid pulled back just an inch. He didn’t kiss her again. Instead, his hands went to the first button of the shirt—his shirt—at her throat.
He unfastened the first plastic disc, his knuckles grazing the hollow of her neck. Then the second. He was slow, agonizingly deliberate, his eyes locked on hers as if he were daring her to look away.
“Two years,” he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration as he popped the third button. “Seven hundred days of watching you walk into that courtroom and wondering exactly what you looked like under those suits.”
He reached the final button and flicked it free. With a slow, steady motion, he pushed the fabric open, brushing the substantial cotton off her shoulders until it hung uselessly at her elbows.
Eleanor’s pulse stumbled, ribcage straining, as she sat there, completely exposed to the morning light and his dark, predatory stare. She knew better than this. She had built her life on being the most prepared, most disciplined person in the room, yet here she was—undone on a kitchen counter by the one man who could ruin her reputation with a single word. She felt the reckless thrill of it—the deliberate choice to let go of the wheel and see just how fast they could crash.
Reid didn’t move. He just looked at her, his eyes traveling over every inch of her.
“God, Eleanor,” he growled, his voice rough and raw. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined. And I have a very vivid imagination.”
He leaned in, his hands sliding back to her waist to pull her flush against his bare chest, the friction of their embrace finally breaking the tension. He didn’t just kiss her; he claimed her, his tongue demanding entry as he anchored her to the stone.
Eleanor let out a broken moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, her entire body arching into him. She was lost in the feel of him—the roughness of his hands, the scent of espresso and skin.
“Reid,” she whispered, her voice fracturing as his head dipped. He trailed his lips along the slope of her shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder. He nipped at the skin there—a sharp, possessive catch that made her breath hitch. Eleanor’s entire body tightened, her toes curling against his calves.
“I’ve got you,” he growled against her neck, the vibration of his voice humming through her entire body.
The phone on the counter skittered an inch across the granite. The buzz was a low, insistent vibration that refused to be ignored. The screen flared:
[INCOMING CALL]Sheriff Burke Scott
[INCOMING CALL] Unknown Number
“Don’t look,” Reid whispered against her, his chest working as he struggled for composure.
“I have to,” she said, though she didn’t move, her legs tightening around his waist for one last second of heat.
The mountain sun was high now, burning off the morning mist. The sanctuary was shrinking.
Because in Sylva, the truth didn’t just come out in court. Sometimes, it came for you while you were still wearing someone else’s shirt.
28
Monday Morning
Reid Calloway knotted his tie with a care that bordered on ridiculous, even by his own standards.
He’d tied thousands of Windsor knots in his life—half-asleep, one-handed, in the dark. This morning, he’d already redone it twice.
The bathroom mirror threw his reflection back at him: white dress shirt, navy tie, dark suit pants waiting on the bed. District attorney, Jackson County. Same as every Monday.
Except he couldn’t quite wipe the stupid grin off his face.
He tugged the knot up, smoothing it with his thumb.
