Page 72 of The Golden Hour

“Take me to bed, Finn McCowen,” I say against his lips.

He lifts his head, distress in his face. “There’s something I need to tell you. About this place. I want to be honest with you. A few years ago, I was here with—”

“I don’t care.”

To punctuate, I shut him up with a kiss. My fingers find his hair and tug, pulling his mouth more firmly to mine. But it’s not enough. I want moremoremore. Releasing his hair, I fumble for the button on his pants.

“We can slow down,” he whispers, strained.

“No!”

“Thank God.”

I yank the button free and lower his zipper. My hand dives under the waistband of his boxers, finding hot, silky skin, thick and hard for me. He grunts, his head falling back as I wrap my fingers around him. My name comes from his lips as a whisper of supplication.

Staring up at him, the tight brow and closed eyes, the strong, smooth column of his throat that swallows convulsively, I revel in my own power and the deeply feminine knowledge that I’m not just any woman. His surrender and pleasure at my inexperienced touch mean one thing.

He’s mine.

What we are or aren’t doesn’t have to be defined. This is enough. This is everything.

His mouth finds mine again, breath sucking breath, our tongues entwined in lazy exploration. My body’s tight, needy hum reaches a painful pitch. I’m barely aware of my begging whispers, of him taking control, undressing me, stroking my newly bared skin like an unearthed treasure.

We stumble into the bedroom. Fall naked to the sheets. My limbs receive him. My body and heart welcome him home. Each thrust of his hips drives past the limits of my body into the fabric of my being. Creates a permanent space for him. For us.

His voice in my ear murmurs, “I need you,” but my heart knows what he can’t say and whispers it back.

I love you, too.

38

I watch her sleep. Sometimes she twitches, or a small frown puckers her brow. I wonder what she’s dreaming about. If she’s having nightmares or if her mind is finally resting. But I know.

Neither of us will rest peacefully until this is over.

Her head is on my bicep, a leg thrown over my thigh. Soft, thick hair drapes over the pillow. She breathes low and deep, her lips slightly parted.

And it hits me.

I’m in love with the daughter of the man who killed my father. And there’s not a damn thing I want to do to change it.

I’ve probably always been a little in love with her, a seed planted that day in the courtroom. We were both lost and alone. We were the same.

My obsession was an angry, uncomfortable one through my teenage years. Via late-night Internet searches, I watched her grow up. Become beautiful in a way my hormone-soaked brain couldn’t handle. Unable to reconcile my shameful desire with my loathing, she became central to my plans to destroy her family. I told myself—believed—she was as evil as her father. I would use her, betray her, and be justified in doing so.

The lies I told myself…

When the news of her abduction broke, I drank for a straight week. Twenty-five years old and devastated for a reason I couldn’t confront. Couldn’t believe. How could I grieve a girl I’d never met, whose family had ruined mine?

My father’s voice comes into my sleep-deprived mind. The last words he spoke to me before he left that night, before I snuck out of my room and into the back of his car, then witnessed the last minutes of his life.

“I need you to do something for me, son.”

“What?” I was curt. Annoyed with him for working crazy hours lately and forgetting he promised to take me to batting practice yesterday.

His hand rested heavily on my back. I almost pulled away, but even with how mad I was, I liked how it made me feel. Like nothing could hurt me.

“Always take care of your mom and sisters. But don’t tell them. Strong women don’t appreciate men thinking they need protection.”

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