I stopped. Buried my nose in Sloane’s hair and sought comfort in the feel of silk against my skin.
“Did you love your dad, Abe?” Her voice was tiny.
“I loved him most in the world,” I whispered. “He was my hero, until, of course, the day he wasn’t. And my heart loved him for many years longer than it should have, given what he did to us.”
She was quiet, fingers twisted in my sweatshirt. “It’s easy to barricade your heart after its been broken. That’s always been my preference.”
We’re the same, don’t you see?
“We are partners in barricades, Ms. Argento,” I said softly. “That day on the beach, watching my mother grab this second chance at life with abundant zeal, I felt this hope, this hope that we can overcome monumental loss and find the person that transforms our weaknesses into strengths, our flaws into interesting imperfections. Jeanette has done that for my mother, and vice versa.”
She stroked the collar of my sweatshirt, almost absent-mindedly. “I’m sure they’re very proud of you.”
“They most certainly are. Although they’d prefer me to be married—yesterday, if possible. They have also kindly requested that I provide them with grandchildren.” The clock declared it was approaching 3:00 a.m., the witching hour. No wonder I felt so verbose. It felt like Sloane and I were the only two people in the city of London right now.
“I can see you being a dad.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“You can?”
Her head nodded against my chest. “Yes. A good dad, too.”
My fingers traced patterns through her hair, sifting, caressing. “I’ve never thought about it. Doesn’t feel like a life that’s available for me.” She was silent for a moment, so I asked, “Do you want to be a mother?”
Her entire body went rigid again. I tightened my hold on her and didn’t push.
“I don’t feel like that’s a life available to me,” she echoed. There was such longing in her voice I briefly forgot how to breathe.
“Have you found a girlfriend like that yet?” she asked. “Someone who turns your weaknesses into strengths?”
I thought about this woman curled against my side. Sloane’s mysterious charm had literally stunned me the night we met. Her skill and talent and sense of justice mirrored my own in a way that was tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure. And combining all of that with this—this softer, more vulnerable woman buried behind her own barricades, well…
What was I to do except want her with a desire I’d never known possible?
“No,” I said. “Whether I’ve met a woman like that is another story.”
Her fingers left my collar, grazed the un-bruised side of my jaw. I felt that seeking touch radiate throughout my body. “What would you do if you met that woman?”
“I’m not sure,” I said quietly. “Perhaps steal her business card to keep her attention.”
Her gentle laughter against my chest set my heart ablaze. A moment later, the storm moved over us, thunder growing more subdued.
I felt the relief infuse in her limbs, felt her muscles begin to relax. After a long few minutes, Sloane unfurled herself from my embrace. She wore a giant shirt, legs bare, braid messy.
She was so fucking pretty.
Her legs stayed close to mine, but she kept our upper bodies apart, which was a good thing. “When I was seven, my parents left me alone, overnight, in this motel during a thunderstorm. We were staying in the Midwest, and all night the weather channel was reporting a possible tornado touch down. Green skies, hail. The electricity went out, and rainwater came in through the shitty bathroom window. I was little, and all alone, so I spent the night terrified a tornado was going to suck me right up. That I was going to die.”
I watched her closely, grateful to receive this story and already pissed her family had left her there. “Where the hell were your parents, Sloane?”
“They were out, I guess,” she said, distracted. Until she caught my eye as lightning flashed. She let out a long, steadying exhale. “My parents are con artists. Grifters. I was a con artist too, until I escaped when I was seventeen with the help of my high school teacher, Mrs. Oliver.”
It was a challenge to neutralize my expression. The full truth of her unconventional childhood didn’t surprise me as much as it devastated me. Yet the puzzle pieces tumbling together made sense: her lack of community, her real loneliness, her stalwart independence, her charm.
“Did your parents use you for certain cons?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, voice soft. She was quiet again. I sat there, our legs entwined, and let her sit with her past. “Wasn’t until high school that I realized not all children had to help their parents earn a living the way that we did. By lying, by cheating. I literally did not know that we were strange or that my home life was so unconventional.”
“How much school did they let you have?” I asked.
She tilted her head, braid tumbling to the side. “Limited. I’d go in three-month-long stretches in whatever town or city we were stuck in. Then I would try and teach myself when we were on the run. My junior and senior years were my first consistent schooling, but I was still behind my other classmates.”
I had so many questions. Instead, I sat quietly. Waited. Eventually she said, “It’s why I’m a good pickpocket. Children have small and nimble fingers.”
Fury built in my veins like the clouds outside. I stifled it, again. We would have time for her to tell me the types of criminal acts her parents had forced her to endure. Tonight was about thunder and lightning and the sudden violence of storms.
“What happened when your parents came back that next morning after they left you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They probably just told me to shut—”
Every muscle in my body stretched taut. “They told you to what?”
“To stop talking,” she amended. “Kids have nimble fingers, but at the end of the day, my parents weren’t interested in any of the other aspects of me being their daughter.”
Another head tilt, staring at the rain outside. Watching for the next lightning strike.
“My existence was absolutely, 100% a mistake and an accident. I just think they discovered quickly how much more sympathy, how much less suspicion, we have of parents with children. And we never suspect children of wrongdoing. So.” She shrugged. “Sloane Argento is the name I was given when I was born, but I’ve also had many, many others, been many, many others.”
“And Mrs. Oliver, your teacher?” I asked. “How did she get you out?”
A genuine smile lit her face. “Mrs. Oliver—Debra—helped me a lot my junior year, saw potential in me when I was used to pretty much being ignored. By my senior year, I knew I couldn’t keep doing what my parents were asking of me but had no viable options to leave. I’m sure my parents have biological family somewhere. I’ve never met them, though.”
No friends, no family, no parents. Her skittishness towards meeting Codex made more sense now—the fact that this woman felt like she could open up to me, a near stranger, was evidence that this secret of hers was a true gift and I’d need to receive it wisely.
“I told Debra my story, and she took me in that last year. Helped me report my parents to the police. They’re technically considered on the run, but I’ve heard nothing about their whereabouts in ten years. I don’t really care, to be honest. I don’t consider them to be parents so much as two criminals that dragged me around.” She peered out the window one last time. The rain was slowing, gentle against the windowpane. Almost soothing now. “Debra was the one who helped me get my GED, get that full ride to NYU. She changed my life.”
“And where is she?” I asked.
Another smile. “She and her husband and their three dogs moved out to Colorado a few years back. We call each other once a week. I guess…” A pause. “I guess she’s my family. Actually, Humphrey reminds me of her. They’re both so sure of their place in this world. You’re the o
nly other person I’ve ever told, besides Debra.”
“And I won’t tell a soul,” I said, voice firm.
“I know,” she said. “Besides, if you did, I’d track you down. I am a private investigator, after all.”
“I enjoy being tracked by you, as you recall,” I said.
Her smile was just for me this time and just as dazzling. I was more than tempted to keep asking her questions, keep peeling back the intricate layers of that captivating life of hers. But she and I had bared too much of our souls already lately. And if Sloane was like me, she probably felt out of sorts and exhausted. I didn’t want to push her, push us, into vulnerability so deep, and so uncharted, we couldn’t find our way out.
There was another flash of lightning, another threatening roll of thunder. She closed her eyes. “Must be coming back.”
“We’ll keep the lights on,” I promised. “And I’ll stay up with you.” I grabbed the remote from the side table, flipped the television on. “I’ve heard Love Island is basically streamed twenty-four hours a day in London.”
The screen winked on and revealed a trio of couples running down a beach. She let out a laugh, looking delighted.
“You’re not tired?” She was getting comfortable back against the headboard.
“Not at all,” I said lightly. I sat near her without touching.
The lightning flashed rapidly. Just as thunder struck, I said, “Should we take bets on who’s going to make it?”
Her wince at the sound this time was smaller, briefer. Replaced by a sexy grin. “Detective versus detective,” she mused. “I bet our investigative skills and ability to read body language should help.”
“Surely two people with advanced understanding of human nature can guess who’s going to make passionate love to each other,” I said mildly. She snorted, head falling to her knees.
“Surely,” she agreed. She turned her head. I could barely make out her face beneath a curtain of hair. “Thank you, Abe.”
Her gratitude wasn’t necessary. And the more Sloane revealed her secrets, her fears, her sweetness, the faster I was falling for her.
Which was—surely—going to be a problem.
31
Sloane
I woke a few hours later—disoriented, unsure of the time. Hazy morning light filtered in through the curtains, and the alarm clock read 7:18 a.m.
And Abe Royal was asleep on top of me.
I had nodded off eventually after our third episode of Love Island. As the storm ebbed away, he kept me laughing with his dry humor. We didn’t speak again about my parents or his father, my past or his. He kept things light and distracting, reading my needs perfectly.
For which I was unbearably grateful.
My body, my muscles, even my heart felt tender. Last night had been a true unburdening, and it was actually painful. Every time I’d laugh at a joke, I’d catch him watching me with a cautious, but obvious, affection. A friendly affection that respected my boundaries.
It appeared he had also read my boundaries and needs as we slept. Deep down, I wanted this man with a blinding lust, and my subconscious had made sure we found each other. Abe’s head rested on my breasts, my arms holding him there tightly. My bare legs hooked around his waist.
His hand had slipped beneath my white sleep shirt, palm hot on the bare skin of my ribcage. His long fingers were splayed there, barely brushing the sides of my breasts. Every time he exhaled, his breath caressed my nipples, already hardening through my shirt. And against my hip I could feel his cock, hard and heavy.
No fucking no fucking no fucking, I chanted. My fingers caressed his hair. His fingers caressed my bare skin. What had he said last night? My attraction to you is all-consuming.
His back muscles flexed beneath my wandering hands. His head moved slightly, breath hot on my collarbone.
No fucking no fuck—
“Sloane.” The man’s voice in the morning grated like boulders. It literally dripped with sex.
“Abraham.”
“It appears we’ve broken our rule,” he said. “Again.”
My thigh moved higher around his hips. His palm skated down my ribcage, exploring.
“We can’t be trusted in our sleep,” I said, smiling against his hair. If this was wrong, and we’d declared it to be wrong, why did it feel so deliciously good? We were melded to each other in what was essentially a sleepy weekend cuddle. And my body was on fucking fire.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. He turned his face, dragged his open, hot mouth along my skin.
“Please don’t be,” I gasped. His fingers traced the swell of my breast. Tentative. I wanted more. Harder. Rougher. I wanted dirty from Abe Royal. “I’m probably at fault here.”
“Why is that?” His nose caressed my throat. I actually whimpered.
“Based on our positions, I’d say I captured you.” I tightened my hold on his body to prove my point.
His laugh was low, sleepy. “Is that so?”
“I broke the rule.” I traced the shell of his ear with my finger, and he shivered.
“I’m fairly certain I was a willing participant.” He cupped my breast inside my shirt, rolling my nipple beneath his palm. My entire body arched clear off the bed with a breathless, grateful moan. He responded with a frustrated-sounding growl against my neck. “Why did we have this goddamn rule again?”
“I don’t know,” I panted. I gripped his hair. Gave it a hard tug. His open-mouthed kiss became a bite at my throat. His ragged groan became snarl-like. “I can’t remember why we made it.”
“Distractions.” Abe’s tongue lapped at the mark he’d left. Then he bit me again. “We can’t be distracted right now, Sloane.” His thumb circled lazily around my nipple. My eyes fluttered closed.
“Uh huh,” I sighed. His mouth moved lower, hovered over my shirt-clad breasts. He nudged his nose against my nipple. Sucked it right into his mouth.
Through my fucking shirt.
I didn’t even recognize the sound that clawed its way from deep in my body.
“And this… this is a distraction.” My legs rode higher on his hips. He settled his body more firmly onto mine, face against my breasts. One hand was still palming, kneading, my breasts beneath my shirt. The other was languidly stroking up and down my thigh, teasing it higher until he could hook it over his shoulder. He increased his suction, sending hot, electric jolts to my core. “And this will only lead to devastation.”
“A distracting devastation,” he murmured. “Remind me why fucking you is going to devastate me again, Sloane?”
I couldn’t fucking remember. I couldn’t— “Because if our fucking is anything like our kissing, there’s no going back, is there?”
He stilled completely. I gripped his face with both hands, needing to anchor myself to him through this once-in-a-lifetime feeling I’d never experienced before.
“No,” Abe said. “There’s no going back.” He kissed my palm. “The problem being, not fucking you is now the distraction. I’m not sure I could focus on this case right now if it was a matter of life and goddamn death.”
I traced his bottom lip with my thumb. He nipped it with his teeth. Beneath his hips, my legs began to shake—a sure-fire sign of impending orgasm for me. My hips rolled, mindless. He noticed, his eyes burning into mine. His lip curled back into a snarl, and his composure was this close to snapping. I’d craved this from the moment I’d seen him, restrained as hell in that tailored suit.
“If we hadn’t been interrupted at that bar,” I said, “I would have gotten on my knees right there and—”
“Sloane, don’t.” His hand landed over my mouth. Hips pinning me harder. “I’ll lose my damn mind if you say it.”
I arched my brow, defiant. I snatched his hand from my mouth, wrenched my hips up, had Abe Royal on his back a moment later.
As his look of surprise turned wolfish, I pressed his hands into the mattress and lowered my sex onto his erection, straining at his sweatpants. “Sucked your cock.” I whis
pered the words against his mouth. But when he reared up to capture my lips, I kept us separate. Just like that night, before our kiss, when Abe made absolutely sure I was prepared for what happened next.
“Do to me what you will,” I said. “Fuck me until we can’t stand and I’ve forgotten my name, your name, the date, and where the hell we are.” I dropped my mouth to his again. “Ravage me, Mr. Royal.”
32
Sloane
I released Abe’s wrists, preparing to be ravaged. Like our first kiss, he held my face tenderly, fingers sifting through the strands of my hair draping around us.
“We’re doing this, together,” he whispered. “No matter what.”
My answer was a slow, sincere smile that I saw reflected on his face. “Partners.”
He kissed me with an aching reverence. An adoring morning kiss, a lingering feeling, spreading a soft desire through every nerve ending in my body. When he finally pulled back, I was absolutely breathless. He wrapped my hair around his fist and tugged. Not gently. I hissed, every muscle going taut with anticipation.
“Sloane.”
“Mr. Royal.”
Another sharp tug. I moaned.
“I am past my ability to fuck sweet. Regardless of the sweet ways I feel about you.” I sighed, smiled, arched a little as his fingers kept pulling. “So if you want me to ravage your body, I am more than willing. But only if you’re —”
“Yes,” I said. “Please. Yes. Please.”
He sat all the way up and crashed our lips together. We were voracious, starved—it was a kiss without mercy, a kiss without barriers. My mouth was consumed. I could only receive the full force of his skillful lips. And they were skillful.
Abe was a man whose competence met no insurmountable barrier. He was, quite simply, the best. Holding my face still and kissing me, kissing me, kissing me, and oh god it was too good. Every moan from my lips made Abe wild.
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 22
