You’re the only 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.