Текст книги "Sinful Desire"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

He doubted anyone else could, but it was in the small details, from the way she cleared her throat before she spoke to how she briefly fiddled with her hair on stage. Sophie was not a fiddler. Or a throat-clearer.

All the more reason for him to tie her up to a chair tonight, or maybe blindfold her for the first time. Yeah, he liked the image of that. He suspected that was just what she needed to clear her mind, and rid her body of all that stress.

Great. Now his dick was hard in his tuxedo pants.

He excused himself from his clients, found his way to his seat, and waited for Sophie to join him and his hard-on.

When she did, he brushed his lips to her neck then whispered something dirty in her ear about what he wanted to do to her later. She shivered slightly.

Slightly.

That was all.

Something was wrong with his Sophie.

* * *

She wanted to vomit.

She wanted to hurl.

To crawl under the covers, pull them over her head, and pretend she’d never offered to make that damn jacket.

She should have baked a pie instead. Made a homemade card with construction paper. Knit a scarf.

That damn dog jacket was tormenting her. Its secrets hounded her. She repeated the names—T.J. Nelson, Kenny Nelson—over and over in her head all day.

Then the other names.

John. Ryan. Ryan. John.

Like a pendulum she swung back and forth, seesawing between the two men. She couldn’t last much longer in this state of suspended secrecy. She hardly knew how Ryan had ever managed to keep things locked inside his head. It was painful. It hurt her skull to have this knowledge that she needed to share sealed in her mind.

Her stomach clenched. Evil butterflies swarmed her belly, the nightmarish, haunting kind.

As the orchestra swelled during the gorgeous piece of music, she clutched her belly. When Holden joined in on the piano, she dropped her head to her knees. Ryan rubbed her back and whispered, “Are you okay?”

She shook her head. She clasped her hand over her mouth then whispered, “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

She took off.

In the bathroom, she washed her hands over and over, as if that would somehow give her the answer. Instead, it only gave her exceedingly clean hands. When she pushed open the door to leave the restroom, she found Ryan waiting in the hallway. The sounds of Beethoven playing from the ballroom could be faintly heard.

“You’re worrying me. Are you pregnant?”

She laughed. Deeply and maniacally. Oh, but it would be easier in some ways if she were.

But as she met his gaze, the pendulum stopped swinging. She had her answer. It came in his presence here, his pursuit of her tonight, his clear and real concern for her. It came in the facts, too. It was his mother’s pattern; it was his family story.

“I lied to you,” she blurted out.

He furrowed his brow. “About what?”

She grabbed the lapels on his jacket and pulled him to the end of the cavernous hallway, standing against the gold-trimmed, scalloped wall as she confessed. “I lied to you about the pattern. I did make it this morning. But it’s not a pattern, Ryan. It’s a code. A hidden code of addresses. And those addresses match names of people who lived there years ago. Do the names T.J. Nelson and Kenny Nelson mean anything to you?”

He froze. His face turned white. His lips parted but no sound came. Then, he managed words, and they sounded dry and cold as he whispered barrenly, “What did you just say?”

She repeated the names.

“T.J. and K,” he hissed, his eyes full of fire. He stepped back, his hands shooting behind him to grab the wall. As if he needed to hold onto something. “How did you know those names?”

She quickly explained what happened that morning, reversing the steps, then calling Jenna, then finding the addresses from years ago. “I don’t know what it means,” she said, her voice rising with desperation. Maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe everyone would have a good laugh at Sophie’s half-baked code-cracking. “I might be overreacting. Maybe I’m just going crazy. It’s possibly nothing at all. But if there’s a chance that it means something, if there’s a chance that these are the two names that John has been looking for—”

* * *

He cut her off.

There was no question in his mind. There was not a chance in hell he’d enlist Sophie in sweeping this under the rug. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t overreacting. He might be shocked to the bones, but he was dead sure of one thing.

There was no way he was keeping this to himself.

“Let’s go get John.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Treasure Island glittered across the Strip.

The glass of the window cooled his forehead as he stared at the hotel across the street from the room at the Venetian. Sophie had rented this suite for the event. The orchestra members had used it as a green room before going on stage, and now for Ryan it was a waiting chamber.

The gold-colored hotel shone brightly back at him. Ryan could still remember when Treasure Island opened twenty-two years ago. He’d been ten and his father had taken him to see the towering structure, one of the Strip’s first spectacle hotels.

To his young eyes, Treasure Island had seemed majestic, a true giant among its neighbors. He’d gazed skyward with that childlike sense of awe, his father’s arm around him as his dad had pointed out the original skull-and-crossbones marquee. They’d wandered down the Strip to a cheap buffet, then returned in time to see one of the nightly pirate battles in Buccaneer Bay in front of the hotel entrance. Canons on the ships had lit up with flames, and swashbuckling pirates had whipped out swords and fenced to the death.

Now the pirate theme had been mostly washed away and the nightly battles had ended years ago, though the manmade lake still edged the property. Ryan had seen so many changes in this city. He’d watched it morph from the Stardust and Circus Circus style hotels to the mega casinos and their star wattage of today. Through it all, the city was his home, and always would be.

And through it all, too, he’d been a fucking mule, carrying secret names in a goddamn dog jacket.

He’d held onto that pattern all through high school, college, the army and beyond. Stowed it safely away because he’d thought it meant something to his mom.

Something real. Something about hope, the future, and another chance.

It was supposed to be her redemption.

What was it really, though? Was it her own notes that she’d never had a chance to toss away? Names of users? Names of dealers she owed money to? Or worse? And if so, had he been simply in the right place at the right time when she was arrested and she’d thrust it into his hands, whispering that he should keep it safe for her?

She knew he’d do what she asked.

He was her favorite.

He was the only one she could ask.

Latent rage roiled inside him, rising and twisting through his veins. He breathed out heavily, an angry plume, like a dragon. The lights on Treasure Island flickered, and he snapped his gaze away, staring at his black leather shoes as his emotions shapeshifted again.

Now, he was flooded with shame—so much shame at having been deceived.

Because dammit. She could have asked him to throw the fucking thing out instead. Lord knows, he would have. He would have crumpled it up on the way to school the next day and chucked it in a trash can. At least then he wouldn’t have carried it around like some sad sack year after year. He wouldn’t have held onto the patternless pattern like a fool, running his fingertips over it as if it were a symbol of her freedom someday.

When it seemed more like a glaring piece of evidence.

A lie, now exposed.

What else had she told him that was a lie?

He wanted to know so badly his bones vibrated with coiled tension. He wanted to know who those men were. He wanted to know what role they played in his father’s death.

The tension in him spiked, and he pressed his fingertips to the dark window.

Eighteen fucking years and counting without the man. This night. The end of the pirate’s show. The opening of the Wynn. The rollercoaster at New York New York. The Ferris wheel. They were milestones. They were markers in time. They were all the moments Thomas Paige had missed.

When the door creaked open, he turned around, straightening his spine and lifting his chin, ready to stop guarding the secrets his mother had asked him to keep. John and Sophie walked into the suite.

“Sophie said you had some new details,” John began, cutting to the chase as he motioned for Ryan to take a seat on the couch. Sophie sat next to Ryan, and John opted for a chair.

“Thanks for taking the time out of your night,” Ryan said, then drew a deep breath, letting it fuel him, letting it feed him as he proceeded to tell John about the pattern that was never a pattern. He traded off with Sophie, and she weighed in, too, explaining her role in the discovery and then sharing the names.

T.J. Nelson and Kenny Nelson.

To say John’s eyes flickered with some kind of hope was an understatement. Marshall’s words rang in his ears. The detective would probably give a right arm for those names.

“Are those the guys you’re looking for?” Ryan asked, his body taut with anticipation. John had kept his lips shut the first time they’d talked, holding all the cards, telling him little. Ryan swallowed, hoping the information exchange would flow both ways tonight. “Because you asked me when I first met you who she was associating with at the time. You said you had new evidence and were trying to determine the validity of it. Is this the evidence you wanted?”

“I can’t say for sure, but this is as close as we’ve come, and it lines up with my leads,” John said, and Ryan released a deep breath, relieved this wasn’t a fool’s errand after all. John continued, “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but I really appreciate you sharing this—”

“I did nothing.” Ryan pointed to Sophie. “She figured it out.”

John cracked one of the first smiles Ryan had ever seen on the detective’s face. “I like to say she’s my code breaker.”

Sophie waved them off. “Hardly. There’s more to it, but the other rows are going to take more time to figure out.”

“I might need you as a consultant on this case then,” John said to Sophie.

“You know I’ll do whatever I can, and whatever you need.”

“This is a good start and I appreciate it.” John turned to Ryan. “I want to let you know we’ve been looking for Stefano’s accomplices, so I’ll share what I’m able to.” Ryan leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his ears eager as John spoke. “We believe that Jerry Stefano did not act alone the night of the murder. We believe he had help. We believe he had both a broker who arranged for his hits, and a getaway driver who, of course, drove him away from the scene of the crime that night. At the time he was questioned, Jerry repeatedly claimed that after Dora Prince hired him, he acted alone in the crime. He steadfastly stuck to this statement for eighteen years and remains wedded to it. But we have reason to believe that he never gave up the names of his accomplices as a sort of exchange. In return for protecting their own, these two men had a pact to look out for Mr. Stefano’s child, who was born shortly before he was incarcerated.”

Information came fast and furious, like bullets. But they didn’t wound him—they didn’t nick him. Instead, Ryan dodged them because he understood what they were—facts. Not his heart. “Wow. That’s a lot of info,” Ryan said, rubbing his hand across his jaw as he took it in. “Do you think my mother protected their names, too, in some sort of exchange?” He furrowed his brow as he tried to make sense of his mother’s urging him to stay quiet about the drugs, and if her warning had something to do with the other men involved rather than with her quest to prove her innocence.

“I don’t have the answer to that. But this is the biggest break we’ve had so far in potentially finding the other men that we believe were involved in the murder of your father,” John said, and even though Ryan had heard those words countless times over the last eighteen years—murder of your father—they took on a deeper meaning then.

They echoed in his bones and resonated in his blood.

For so long, he’d protected the rest of his mother’s story. Kept it locked up in case the truth would ever set her free. But this was no longer about her. This was about finding everyone who was responsible for his father’s death.

“There’s more I have to tell you,” Ryan said, steady and even. Strong, too. He looked to Sophie, who’d been by his side the whole time, like a partner, like a rock, like his foundation. She had given him strength to speak the truth to her, and to speak now for his family. Her blue eyes were full of honesty, full of love. She’d said a few minutes ago I lied, but that was nothing compared to what Ryan had done his whole life.

The lies of omission.

The lies of protection.

He shucked them off. Shed them all. Everything was coming undone.

Scrubbing a hand across his chin, Ryan unraveled another secret. “I found my mother doing cocaine when I was thirteen. She told me she was stopping. She said she met her lover, Luke Carlton, in Narcotics Anonymous. She also told me Jerry Stefano was her dealer.” John arched an eyebrow, tilting his head at that bit of information. Ryan explained more. “She always claimed she’d been framed for the murder because she owed him money. That’s why she was taking on more work for the gymnastics team,” he said, serving it all up, giving everything to the one man who might be able to exact justice. A sense of freedom rushed through him as he answered each and every question John asked.

When he was done, Sophie excused herself for the restroom.

John thanked him profusely. “I know it’s not easy to share all that. But I’m grateful, and this will help. I assure you.”

“Find those fuckers,” Ryan said, looking him in the eyes.

“That’s my goal.”

“Are you going to talk to my mom about all of this?”

John nodded. “I will, but she usually doesn’t say much.”

Ryan scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

“And I’ll have to coordinate with her attorney, so it’ll be a few days.”

“I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Appreciate that.” John extended a hand. “By the way, it’s no secret that I wasn’t thrilled when I found out you were dating my sister. But she’s incredibly happy. And all I ask is that you keep it that way.”

“That’s my goal,” Ryan said, and it was number one on his to-do list.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sophie understood everything now. Why he visited his mom so much. The way the secrets had twisted over the years, like a string running through a labyrinth. Ryan had kept them all inside his head, locked up tight, clutching like a lifeline the wish of his one living parent.

Sophie’s place wasn’t to judge the guilt or innocence of Dora Prince. The state of Nevada had already done that. But her role, the self-appointed role that she embraced, was to be there for her man.

“I’m proud of you for speaking all those hard and terrible truths,” she said, as the town car driver took them to Ryan’s house after the event had ended.

“I barely know what to think anymore,” he muttered, staring out the window as the streetlights and cars streaked by through his neighborhood.

She dropped a hand to his shoulder. “You were brave to tell him.”

“Hardly,” he said, mocking himself as he turned to look at her. “If I were brave I would have said something years ago.”

She stared at him levelly and shook her head. “You didn’t know what you were dealing with. You still don’t entirely know. That’s why it’s brave. You took a chance.”

When they reached his home, Ryan took a moment to thank the driver and wish him a good night. Once they were inside his house, she grabbed his shoulders, then cupped his cheeks. “You said something now. That’s all that matters.”

He swayed closer to her, his eyes floating closed, his hold on gravity seeming precarious.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

She took his hand and led him to his couch, holding him close. Johnny Cash leapt on the cushion and curled up at their feet. Running her hands through Ryan’s hair, she let him rest his head in the crook of her neck, sensing what he needed right now was a safe landing. She wanted to be that for him. She wanted to be everything he needed.

“I just…Soph…if she…I don’t know.” His words beat out a staccato rhythm of what was said and unsaid.

“I know.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

He sighed heavily then pressed his lips to her chest. It wasn’t sexual; it wasn’t the start of something dirty. It was a gesture of the familiar, of comfort, and she was glad he found it in her.

“For so long, she’s said one thing to me. She said she was set up. She said she was framed.” His voice was low and sad.

Her heart ached. It cried for him—heavy, mournful tears for what he had borne all those years. “So you go see her and you ask her. You tell her you need to know for your own heart.”

He shook his head. “She won’t tell me. Talking to her is like pulling teeth.”

She brushed a kiss on his forehead. “Then you find the answer in yourself,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him. He held her tight.

They stayed like that, curled together, him in his tux, her in her dress, nestled snug on the couch, a ball of fur by their feet. They talked more, whispered confessions and admissions, hopes and wishes.

“There were days when everything felt so out of hand. So beyond anything I could ever manage,” he said softly, and for a moment she understood that there was something more to his quest for control in the bedroom. With the way his life had spiraled, she suspected some part of his mind needed the solidity of that kind of dominance—sexual dominance. She kept that notion to herself though, not because it was a secret, but because it wasn’t her goal to psychoanalyze him. Whether that was his reason, or whether he simply liked it that way, she was happy to be on the receiving end.

“It was hard to manage because you carried so much. The weight of so many secrets. The pressure of so many things you should never have been asked to keep to yourself. Forget guilt or innocence or who was framed and not framed. You were fourteen. You deserved to be fourteen, not a secret keeper,” she said fiercely.

Then, when the conversation seemed to unwind, and it was time to move to something lighter, she sat up, straightened her hair, patted him on the leg, and said, “How about you teach me how to play pool finally? I believe that was one of the promises you made when I stayed here last weekend, and pretty much the only one you failed to deliver on.”

A sliver of a smile crept across his face. “I failed to deliver on something, did I?”

She nodded. “I’m wretched at pool. Show me how to play.”

He stood up and offered her his hand. “Why do I have the feeling that after one game you’re going to be a pool shark?”

“If that’s the case, then maybe for this first round, we should simply play strip pool?” she said, running a hand between her breasts as if to demonstrate the possibilities.

A groan escaped his throat, and he looped his arms around her waist. He brushed his lips against her neck. She closed her eyes and smiled. All was not perfect. All was not completely right in the universe. There were so many questions left unanswered. But they had moved through something difficult together. Here they were, ready to slide into another moment in their night.

This love between them had ignited one evening at Aria in a flirty, dirty, and naughty way. Over the days, and the nights, that followed, their connection sparked and sizzled, then deepened. Tonight, he had been forced to stretch and twist in unexpected ways. But after all of that, the two of them had somehow managed to return to their core.

Flirty, dirty, and naughty.

They grabbed beers and headed inside his den with the pool table. He took a cue down from the wall and handed it to her, then grasped one for himself.

“Have you played before?”

She nodded. “A few times. All badly. I barely understand how it works. There are stripes, solids and an eight ball, and we hit them in pockets, right?”

He laughed. “Something like that,” he said, taking a sip of his pale ale and setting it down on the table. He removed his tux jacket and his tie, and tossed them on a chair in the corner of the room.

“Wait. You’re already taking off your clothes?”

“Consider it my handicap,” he said, then racked the balls.

He explained the basics to her, and she quickly processed them, since rules and games made fast sense to her. Her challenge lay in the execution. Sophie Winston wasn’t known for her coordination.

Still, she was determined, so she pulled back the stick, stared at the ball, aimed squarely, and missed it by a mile. She laughed and brought her free hand to her mouth. “Oops.”

Then she removed an earring, tossing it on his pile on the chair.

“Want me to show you how it’s done?”

“I do,” she said, and he moved to her side of the table, behind her, then pressed his hand on top of hers, his chest along her back. As he positioned the cue just so, she felt him grow harder. She wriggled her rear as he shot the ball.

And missed, too.

“Hey. Take off your shirt,” she said playfully.

“That wasn’t my shot! I was helping you set up.”

“Fine. Help me again,” she said in a flirty tone, and he lined himself behind her once more. She couldn’t resist. Screw pool. She dropped the stick, shoved all the balls randomly around the table, then turned around in his arms, and laced her hands around his neck. She moved her lips to his ears. “You win. Strip me.”

He wasted no time, unzipping her dress in a flurry and leaving it a silky puddle on the floor. She backed up to the table and perched on it, handing him the stick. “Show me where you’d touch me to land the shot.”

He gripped the back of her head, and whispered roughly in her ear. “Everywhere. Every-fucking-where on your perfect body,” he said, then stepped back to survey her, roaming his eyes up and down.

She wore only stockings, purple sheer panties, and a demi-cup bra that did lip-smacking things to her breasts, judging from how he stared. Cocking his head, he flipped the stick in his hand then lowered the wider end of the cue to her shoulder, touching her bare skin ever so slightly. “I’ll start here,” he said, then ran it along her arm, tracing a gentle path to her wrist. “Then kiss your wrist.”

“Like you did the night you met me,” she said, her skin heating up as he bent his head to her hand and placed a soft, sweet kiss that both sent her back in time and rooted her right here, right now.

“Then, I’d pay a visit to those lovely legs of yours,” he said, and brushed the end of the cue from her knees to her ankles and back up the other leg. When he reached the top of her thigh, he gently nudged her legs apart, inch by inch.

Scooting back on the table, she rested on her elbows, giving him a view of her bra, panties, stockings and shoes.

“Your belly,” he murmured as the cue strayed along her stomach, then up to one of his favorite parts of her. “Those delicious breasts,” he said, licking his lips as he stroked a line through her cleavage then darted back down to her waist, tracing along the waistband of her panties. She murmured, and even though being touched by a pool cue was not the same as this man’s touch, she still grew hotter.

Then she burned when he brought the cue to the side of her ass, and whacked her lightly with it. She gasped and moaned, loving the way he knew precisely when to spank her and make her want him even more. “There, too,” he said, then bent his head to kiss her rear.

Loving, too, that he knew when to kiss the spot he’d marked.

When he raised his face, he brought his mouth to her ear. “Spread your legs wide for me.”

Heat raced through her. She let her knees fall open, savoring the reaction in his eyes when he stared at the scrap of La Perla fabric that barely covered her. “And what about here?” she asked curiously, running her hand between her legs.

“I’d play you there so good,” he said, his eyes shining with desire. He followed her with the pool cue, lightly touching her heat, her swollen clit. She arched up, angling for more contact, and he began stroking her with the pool cue. “You like that, beautiful?” he asked, his eyes blazing at her as she rocked into him.

“I’ve told you, Ryan. I love everything you do to me.”

“I’m not even the one doing it.”

“You are,” she said as she unclipped her hair. “You are doing it to me. Only you can touch me like this. Only you can do this to me.”

He stroked faster, rubbing her expertly through her purple panties with the pool cue. Her blond curls spilled behind her on the table, and she let her head fall back as he masturbated her with a pool stick. Like a wooden sex toy that he controlled, it set her on fire. Closing her eyes, she caught a perfect rhythm, like a surfer does a wave, and she rode it, rocking her hot center into the wide end of the pool cue, seeking friction with the wood, until her vision turned black and hazy, and she dug her nails into the green felt, coming in her lingerie on his pool table.

She moaned happily, and opened her eyes to find him stripping. He’d set the pool cue down on the table.

“I think I’m in love with the game of pool now,” she said softly, running a hand along the wood he’d used to get her off.

His eyes blazed darkly. “I’m not done with that,” he said, and her gaze followed him, as he grabbed her hands, lifted them over her head, then pressed the cue into her palms. “Hold it in place. Restrain yourself.”

Sparks sizzled across her skin at his command. She gripped the cue hard over her head, as he tugged off her panties in seconds, leaving her stockings, shoes and bra untouched. Pulling her hips to the edge of the table, he lined her up with his hard cock.

“I have never wanted to fuck you so much,” he said in a growl.

“Take me, wreck me. You can’t ruin me. You can control me all you want. You won’t break me. I’ll still be here,” she said, knowing it was what he needed, and what she wanted, too.

* * *

He slid into her without mercy.

She moaned the second his cock made contact with her heat.

Then he took over for her hands. He gripped the pool cue and clasped his fingers through hers, pinning her with the wood and his weight.

With her restrained like that, flat on her back on his pool table, he fucked her harder and rougher than he ever had before. He didn’t hold back as he held her captive. He slammed into her hot pussy over and over, his beautiful woman writhing and moaning, panting and screaming, and completely and utterly giving herself to him.

Arching up. Meeting him. Inviting him deeper.

His body jolted with each thrust, his heart pumping hard and wild, and this—this pleasure, this harsh fucking wasn’t just control for him. It was a relinquishment, too. He might be restraining her, but in doing so he’d revealed his hand. He’d shown her his cards. They were all for her, every single one turned up Sophie.

“It’s you,” he groaned, and she locked eyes with him, her gaze holding him tight, sending him to another plane of pleasure—one ruled by more than the physical. By the intensity of how he felt for her. By all the love that he saw in her eyes. “It’s all you. I fucking love you so much,” he said as he took her.

“It’s the same for me, Ryan.” Her breathing turned ragged, and her words drove him on. The tension in him rose higher in a fury of passion and love, in a storm of mind-blowing pleasure that spiked in him. Because of how he felt for her, heart, soul, mind and body. He didn’t look away. He simply couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on her the whole time as he took her deeper. Her moans and groans and cries were the sexiest song he’d ever heard, the scent of her skin and the smell of her lust were intoxicating, and the hot, tight grip of her body sent him into a red-hot, fevered frenzy.

He’d never been more turned on, he’d never been harder, and he’d never wanted to come so intensely.

But there was so much more at play than pure desire.

He’d never loved someone like this. He needed more closeness. More connection. No barriers. Nothing but skin and hands and limbs tangled together.

He let go of the stick, then uncurled her fingers from the cue and yanked it away, letting the wood clatter loudly to the floor. “Just you and me,” he said. “Just you and me.”

Instantly, she raised up and flung her arms around him, clutching his back, digging her nails in, and God, fuck, hell, it was unearthly; it was heaven on earth. His arms snaked around her, and he gripped her, pulling her, yanking her, bringing her as close as she could be. On the edge of the pool table their bodies coiled together like flames, consuming each other with wildfire.

He breathed her name, over and over, like a fucking mantra—the woman he adored.

She cried out, shuddering beneath him as she hit the edge, her glorious sounds the key in the ignition that set him off.

The tension inside of him snapped, and he came hard.

They collapsed in a landslide of pants and moans, of groans and grunts.

And also, something else.

Something that felt like peace in her arms, as he gave himself up to whatever this was with Sophie, because it felt as if it had the potential to be the rest of his life.

“Sophie,” he murmured in her ear, as she sighed happily and ran her fingers down his sweat-streaked back. “The way I feel for you is beyond control. And I don’t want that to change.”

Everything else was shifting. Everything else was cracking. She was his one constant.

* * *

She didn’t wake up as he went for a run with his dog. Nor as he showered. And not as he brewed a pot of coffee. She didn’t wake up, either, when Johnny Cash barked happily as Ryan let him take a quick post-run dip in the pool. And she barely rustled as he leaned over her, brushing a soft curl from her sweet, sleepy face to kiss her goodbye.

She murmured something then shifted and yawned.

“Hey, beautiful. I need to go,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

She stretched her arms over her head. “I better get out of here then, since you’re leaving.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. Stay. Sleep. You like your morning sleep.”