A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(54)

“Drew, I can’t, I can’t stop, I -- ”

“Don’t, baby. Don’t stop. Go. I’ll be here when you come back. Right here,” he says, reaching down between us, his thumb stroking the spot where I need him most, my body rising high, a thin cry making lightning shoot through me, Drew’s other hand on my hip, pinning me in place with a near-brutal rhythm that makes me come and come and come until I can’t even ask him to stop. I am shaking and crying but it’s good, so good.

So Drew.

I fall forward, slumped on his body, my ass in the air and my torso curled in a weird way as I protect my shoulder. He’s panting, too, and it feels like all the marbled muscle in him has gone still. My hair covers the fine grooves of his ribs, his skin shining with a sheen from exertion, and as I rest on top of him, I realize it’s this – the shared recovery after the unraveling – that makes for connection.

We aren’t intimate because we find other people attractive.

We find other people attractive because they choose to be intimate and share their soft underbellies.

He plays with a piece of my hair, stroking it from my neck, his words hard to hear as he says, “We’ve been to hell and back.”

“Yes.” I sit up. He moves quickly, helping me to settle down, supporting my arm so it doesn’t hurt. Then he rests next to me, pulling up the warm covers, burrowing in. I’ve been holding my body and breath, tense with aftershocks from sex, and I release.

I relax into him.

“That was the best sex we’ve ever had as husband and wife,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“Oh, c’mon,” I tease. “We can do better than that.”

“Next time.”

“Promise?” I yawn, the day hitting me at once, my eyes unbearably sleepy, lids impossible to hold up.

“Yes,” he says, kissing my temple. “Are you happy?”

“Completely.”

“Satisfied?” His hand finds my thigh.

“Fully. In every way possible,” I insist, laughing.

“Then I did my job.”

We’re out in seconds.

We don’t dream.





Chapter 21





Lindsay



The gentle tap on the door seems too timid for a true emergency. I’m naked, we’re sticky, and my mouth is dry, like someone blotted all the moisture out. Forgetting momentarily about my broken shoulder, I start to sit up, then let out a tiny scream.

Drew is off the bed, feet on the floor, hand on his gun in under a second. He holds it pointing down, but every muscle in his naked body is flexed, ready to act.

“What? What’s wrong?” He’s so precise. It’s shocking. As he scans the room, he’s so serious, so deadly, the laugh dies in my throat.

Drew stretches up, body honed in on the hotel room door, where someone on the other side says, “Drew? It’s Adam. We have a situation.”

“Who’s Adam?” I ask as Drew shoves his feet into his suit pants, skipping underwear, buttoning the pants but not bothering with the belt.

“Old buddy,” he says as he marches to the door, gun tucked into the waistband of the pants. I almost laugh, because it looks so weird, right there above his hot, hard ass.

The door opens. I sit up, feeling exposed and vulnerable, my shoulder such an obstacle. The two have a conversation in low voices, then Drew says thank you, closes the door, and comes into the room.

Holding an iPad.

“Your parents are waiting to FaceTime with us, Lindsay,” he says.

I point to the iPad with my good hand. “You mean now?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Yeah. Gentian tried, but apparently Harry figured it all out pretty quickly. Someone at the license bureau knew who you were and called him, wanting money to hold off on going public. You know how it works.” He’s cynical. He should be.

I do know how this works.

“My parents are live on that?” I point to the iPad.

“Yeah. I’ve got them muted.”

“Oh, Mom must be flipping out.”

He turns the screen to me. I pull the covers up, making sure I’m decent. Mom is screaming at the screen, her perfectly-coiffed blonde head like staring at a cream-colored snowball on fire. She’s in a red rage.

I can’t help it.

I start laughing.

Drew sets the tablet on the nightstand, face down. “Let’s get ourselves set up,” he says, offering me a few pillows as I sit up. “Do you want a shirt?” he asks as I settle in, propping up my slung arm on an extra pillow.

“No,” I respond, pulling the covers over my breasts, tucking the sheet under my arms. “Screw it. Screw them.” I hold out my ringed hand and he takes it. He’s wearing a simple gold band the Elvis impersonator sold us for fifty bucks. I like how our hands look together.

“Okay.” He looks at his own unclothed chest. The light smattering of hair across his pecs is just enough to make me want to touch him, to feel it tickle my palm. I hold back. His bruises are fading, like mine, but they tell a story.

They’re memory in the body, stored until it can heal. Then the memory moves on, living solely in the mind.

“Ready?” he asks. We’re next to each other on the bed. Drew turned on the nightstand lights. We hold hands. He takes his knees and props them up, placing the tablet on them.