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When he ran his hands under her sweater, up her back, she boosted up to lock her legs around his waist. “You have the best ideas.”
Tonight, she wanted the heat and the movement, the fun of being able to give and to take. His hands on her body, his lips on her skin, lingering, lingering until everything in her ached and burned.
For more. Still more.
All hunger and greed, she rolled with him, urging him to take more, still more, even as she did.
She was like a brush fire under him, over him, around him. Hot and quick and dangerous. He told himself he let her set the tone, the pace, but he wasn’t sure he had a choice. Tonight, she consumed.
Urgency elicited urgency. He, breathless as she shuddered under him, gripped her hands with his. As he drove into her, he watched her face, watched the shocked pleasure flash over it. Watched her eyes go opaque as her breath caught, then released on a moan.
Though she shuddered, she moved with him, beat for beat on a fast, reckless climb. At the crest, their entwined fingers vised together, and held tight.
At three, the clock sounded, and Sonya slept on. Trey lay awake beside her listening to the music drifting up the stairs.
And from somewhere deep in the house, the sound of a woman weeping.
It surprised her when Cleo stopped in the library doorway before nine the next morning.
“You’re up early for Cleo.”
“I want to give the painting some time today, so gotta get started. Trey’s already gone?”
“He’ll soon be taking his first appointment of the day. Meanwhile, the Doyle Law Offices website is going live in five, four, three, two, one.”
“And the crowd cheers,” Cleo said, and stifled a yawn. “Need coffee.”
She came back in ten minutes with a mug.
“I just texted with Corrine Doyle. She strikes me as a woman who lines up her ducks.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s accurate.”
“It looks like this duck is posing in her Ryder yoga outfit tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. She moves fast. Is that good for you?”
“Suited both of us. She’s arranged to use the little yoga studio in the village, and I can run some errands after.”
“Should I go with you? I should go with you.”
“You should not, because then you’d be all, maybe you should do this, do that, look this way, look that way.”
“I would. I couldn’t help it, but—”
“She’ll send you the best shots. Go back to work.”
“We should talk about what you’re doing with your hair.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” Cleo called back, and kept walking.
Sonya considered different pitches for changing Cleo’s mind. She even debated the chances of insisting—and killed that thought in its infancy.
Still, she fretted about it until, shortly after her midday walk, she got files emailed from Corrine Doyle.
In the first she found a dozen photos of Eddie on a bike. He wore a suit and tie, a backpack. She’d blurred the background enough he might have ridden on any street anywhere.
Young man riding to work, she thought.
