up the painful energy.”
“I am grieving.” She yanked at the red bow on the gift, her vision blurring. “I just don’t have to drown in it. I’m channeling it into my revenge. That’s how I’ll free the pain.”
She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t.
“Mike was such a sentimental gift-giver.” She ripped off the glittery paper on the small box. “This is going to break my heart.”
“It’s not going to break you.”
With an aching chest, she opened the package and removed a lightweight ball of newspaper. Her hands trembled as she carefully tore away the wrapping and revealed the gift inside.
A hand-painted egg.
“Oh, Mike.” Heaviness invaded her limbs as she soaked in the gorgeous, familiar brush strokes. “He made this.”
“He painted it?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes burned. “He was so artistic. He designed a lot of my tattoos, including the swallow on my chest.”
She rolled the hollow, fragile egg in her palm, examining the detailed illustration of the same red swallow sitting on the limb of a cranberry tree.
Searing pain rose through her throat. Her gasping prompted him to inch closer and wrap his warm strength around her.
“The bird…” Her voice broke. “The bird represents my mother, and the cranberries… That’s Shannon. Or maybe it’s him and me, too. The three of us used to dance around the house, singing songs by The Cranberries. Our favorite was ‘Ode To My Family.’ Shannon loved the band, and though Mike would never admit it, he loved it, too. He always sang the loudest.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, and more followed.
Cole positioned her with her back against his chest, holding her and wiping the wetness from her face.
“I really hope he didn’t spend his last night on Earth emptying this damn egg and painting it.” Her heart hurt unbearably. “He was supposed to get laid.” She choked on a sob. “He wasn’t supposed to die.”
She let herself cry for a moment before swallowing it down and repackaging the gift. “He knew how much I wanted PaulVer to give me an Easter egg. After a year of trying and failing, I was so frustrated with myself.”
“So he gave you an egg himself.”
“Yeah.” She set the package on the nightstand and twisted around, straddling his lap. “I’m okay. The pain feels really heavy, and everything around me has slowed way down, like I’m trying to move through thick mud. But you keep me centered, focused. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m here for you.”
“I keep picturing his body lying there in the snow. He’s just lying there alone, cold, abandoned. I don’t have any religious or life-after-death beliefs, but I can’t bear the thought of him shoved into a refrigerator drawer, anonymous, forgotten.
“His body was moved to a funeral home and will remain there until you decide—”
“How do you know?”
“Last night at the apartment, after you fell asleep, I called Romero. He took care of it.”
“How?”
“Digital records. He hacked into the Coroner’s Office and changed the orders for the body’s final destination.”
“Oh my God, Cole.” She stared at him, overcome with indebtedness and adoration and…more. So much more.
Deep inside, beneath the sorrow, something was building, thickening, and growing unstoppable.
“Thank you.” She framed his gorgeous face with her hands and kissed him. Her pain, devotion, desire—she poured it all into the warm union of lips and tongues.
He groaned, breaking the kiss, and they stared at each other. They stared as if they were both expecting some form of emotional breakdown from her. When none was forthcoming, he curved his hands around her hips and hauled her impossibly closer.
“I want you to be happy.” He kissed her slowly. “And naked.”
His tongue stroked. Her breaths shortened, and his fingers traveled everywhere. Caressing turned into grabbing. Soft nipping into passionate biting. Heartbeats accelerated, pounding harder, growing louder.
She met him lick for lick. His cock hardened, swelling against her leg as his hands roamed, worshiping, tearing at her shirt. She twisted to tug the garment over her head, exposed and bare.
He looked at her, panting. She looked back, wanting.
She needed his body pressed against her. His warmth. His protection. His talented fingers deep inside her. His beautiful dick. His possessiveness. The taste of his kiss. The heat of his mouth. She needed him.
“I’m addicted to you,” she breathed.
“I don’t want to be an addiction. I want to be the love of your life.”
Then he was on her, his mouth attacking her breasts and his hand between her legs, shocking her with three assertive fingers delving into her wetness. There was no warning, no warm-up. The