Page 155 of Show Me

I roll her onto her back, settling between her thighs, and she helps me push my shorts down, her hand wrapping around my cock.

“Jesus, Ruby,” I growl between clenched teeth.

After drawing down the condom, she guides me. The first slide into her is unbearably slow, her heat gripping me, pulling me deeper. We both shudder. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, urging me closer.

I move slowly, drawing almost all the way out before sinking back in, watching her face, the way her lips part, the way her eyes flutter shut then open again, finding mine. She's so tight around me, pulsing with each thrust, and I feel every shiver, every clench, every time she squeezes me like she's trying to keep me inside her.

“Look at me,” I whisper, and she does, her gaze locked on mine as I rock into her, deeper now, her nails scoring my shoulders, her breath coming in soft gasps that match the rhythm of our bodies.

She comes first, her back arching off the bed, her inner muscles clamping down on me so hard I see stars, and I follow her over the edge, burying myself to the hilt, my forehead dropping to hers as I spill into her, both of us shaking, both of us breathless, both of us still tangled together in the dark.

When I press my forehead to hers, she doesn't pull away. Her eyes close, her breath brushing mine.

“Thank you for staying,” she murmurs, softer this time.

“I’m here.” And I mean it. I pull her back into me, my hand sliding along her back, keeping her close as the quiet stretches around us.

No rush. No urgency. Just the slow, steady pull of something that doesn’t need a name to exist. And for once, I don’t try to define it. I just stay.

Interlude

The Watcher

The kitchen is dark. One lamp glowing somewhere deeper in the house. From the edge of the trees, the truck sits in the driveway. Still there. Again.

A muscle tightens. The notes should’ve been enough. The gifts. The attention. The pressure. She was supposed to pull away. He was supposed to step back.

Instead, he keeps showing up. Keeps staying. Keeps acting as if he belongs here. The yard sits quiet beneath the motion lights. The cameras blink beneath the eaves. Steady. Predictable. Watched long enough to understand their patterns.

A slow breath fills cold lungs. The cameras weren't supposed to matter. Neither were the locks. Neither was the truck. Yet every time the distance should’ve grown, it shrank instead—the living room curtain shifts. A shadow moves across the window. Then another. Too close.

The jaw flexes. Enough. The hand slips into a pocket. Fingers closing around something familiar. Something taken. Something chosen. The weight of it settles comfortably in the palm—a reminder. Proof. A second item waits nearby. Protected from the weather. Carefully kept. For the right moment.

Movement begins. Slow. Measured. Deliberate. Avoiding the lights and avoiding the cameras. The pig pen comes first. Then the truck. Still parked where it doesn't belong.

The watcher pauses. Studies the house. The windows. The places where light leaks into the darkness. Then bends.

A few careful motions. Nothing rushed. Nothing careless. The message left exactly where it needs to be for both of them.

The watcher steps back. Waits. Listens. The night remains silent. No doors opening. No lights changing. No alarms. A bitter satisfaction settles low.

Morning will come. The door will open. And this time, they'll understand not just that they're being watched. That they were never as protected as they thought.

The truck remains. The house remains. The cameras continue their silent sweep. And from the darkness beyond the reach of every one of them, the watcher stays long enough to be sure.

Chapter Eighty-Two

Ruby

I lie still, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it is. My brain feels slow, heavy with sleep. Then I hear movement in the kitchen. Cabinets opening. A coffee mug setting on the counter. Xavier. A small smile pulls at my mouth.

For someone who claims he doesn’t like relationships or labels, he’s made himself at home here pretty fast. I drag myself out of bed and pull on a hoodie before padding down the hallway. It was nearly morning before we made it to the bedroom, and my neck holds the irritation of sleeping on the couch for half the night.

And then everything that happened after that.

The smell of coffee hits me first. Xavier stands at the counter with his back to me, pouring a second mug.

“Morning,” he says without turning.