No One But You (Silver Springs #2)(86)

“You don’t have to,” he said, and she put her legs around his hips to make it easier when he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

“Wait. There’s so much that could go wrong for us...” she said.

He didn’t wait. She wasn’t committed to refusing. He could tell by the fact that she didn’t stop him when he pulled off the sweatpants he’d loaned her. “There’s also a lot about this that feels right.” He could understand her hesitancy, the fear she had to be feeling that she might be making another mistake. But practical concerns were difficult to remember, and even harder to heed, while deluged with so many hormones.

“Okay, one more time,” she said. “Then that’s it.”

“No.” He was done fighting. As far as he was concerned, they were in a relationship. Whether that would turn out to be good or bad, for either one of them, remained to be seen. But there was no going back. The fact that they were once again straining to come together, when it had been only a few days since the first time, proved that.

“No?” she echoed, sounding a little panicked.

“It’s too late. All we can do now is go for it—and hope for the best.”

Putting her hands on his chest, she pushed him far enough away to be able to look into his face. “That terrifies me as much or more than anything related to Sly.”

“I understand. But think of this. Maybe it’s meant to be. Maybe finding each other will be the one good thing to come out of all the shit we’ve been through.”

“It’s just so fast, too fast...”

“We’ve been trying to make it go slower. We just...can’t. So I say we let go—grab hands and jump off the cliff, enjoy the fall.”

She laughed again. “Is that supposed to convince me? That sounds as ominous as it does exhilarating!”

“To me, it just sounds exhilarating. I don’t want to miss out on what might be the best thing to ever happen to me. Do you?”

She ran her hand over his cheek in a gentle caress. “No,” she said, and with that the tempo of their lovemaking changed. They were no longer in such a hurry. Giving themselves permission to feel something deeper than the physical created a completely different kind of experience—one even more fulfilling.

*

Sly sat in Dawson’s living room, listening to the rhythmic creak of the bed overhead. Dawson and Sadie were so busy he probably could’ve used his shoulder to bust open the back door—splintered the whole damn thing—without drawing their attention. Instead, he’d been careful, oh so quiet as he used a screwdriver from Dawson’s own toolshed to dig away at the dry rot in one of the window frames until he’d made a hole large enough to reach his hand through and release the latch.

Dawson might notice the damage in the morning. Or maybe he wouldn’t. There’d been so much vandalism that he hadn’t been able to repair it all. Either way, Sly didn’t care. Dawson and Sadie wouldn’t be able to prove a damn thing. He’d been wearing gloves when he used the screwdriver—was wearing gloves now. And if it ever came down to an extensive evidence search where a strand of his hair or some of his DNA was found in the living room, so what? He’d been here before—with the chief of police, no less. He could’ve left hair or DNA then as easily as now. He wasn’t frightened. He was too livid to be frightened—so livid he could hardly see straight.

Squeak, squeak, squeak. As he listened to what was going on upstairs, he tapped the tire iron he’d used as a lever to help open the window against the palm of his left hand. The blood was rushing through his body so fast he could hear the roar of it in his ears. Even a month ago, he would never have dreamed he’d find himself in this position, had never considered the possibility that another man could come between him and Sadie. She’d always been his—since she was old enough to date.

Then Dawson had been let out of jail and, just when Sly felt as if he was making some progress toward putting his marriage back together, everything had fallen apart. Now, here he was, listening to another man take his place between her legs.

He stared at the tool in his hand. He wanted to use it on them. Get rid of them both so he didn’t have to think about them ever again. Put an end to his own torment that quickly, that easily. Even if he became the prime suspect, no one would be able to prove anything. Then there’d be no one to pay the fire inspector who was coming to town, and there would be no worry that some hotshot might be able to find what their own far less experienced department could not.

Look what you’ve reduced me to, he silently berated Sadie. An arsonist. A man who wants to commit murder.

And she thought he’d ruined her life. She had no idea what she’d done to him. He’d never be the same.

Unable to take the sound of that bed squeaking any longer, he decided to put an end to it. Imagining the humiliation he’d face if the arson investigator somehow proved he was responsible gave him the perfect excuse to do what he wanted to do anyway.

He stood up, but before he could reach the stairs, a pair of headlights flashed through the front windows of the house.

Someone was here.

Panic surged through him, clearing his head. He had to get out. Now.

Taking the screwdriver and the tire iron with him, he hurried to the back door, let himself out and slipped into the darkness.