“No trying.” His teeth scraped along her skin, his voice a feral growl. “Just doing.”
Her entire body arched, the world tilting as the sensation slammed into her. She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as the tension snapped, white-hot pleasure crashing over her in waves.
“Laurel . . .” His own voice was rough, strained, his body locking up as he followed her over the edge.
They collapsed together, Huck’s weight pressing her into the cushions, his breath ragged against her neck. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, harsh and uneven.
Finally, Huck lifted his head, his eyes glittering. “You back with me now?”
Laurel blinked, her mind still struggling to catch up. “What?”
His grin was lazy, satisfied. “I told you I’d pull you out of that head of yours. You’re welcome.”
She laughed, her body feeling lighter. “You’re a dangerous man.”
“Not to you, Laurel Snow.”
Laurel didn’t argue. Because he was right.
Chapter 23
Hours after he’d taken her on the sofa,Huck crossed his living room and handed Laurel a glass of cabernet. His fingers brushed hers, and he was glad he’d taken her out of her head for a short time. She was so damned focused, her eyes remaining narrowed and distant even as she took the glass.
“We’ll probably need it.” He dropped down beside her on the old leather couch. It groaned beneath his weight, same as it always did. He kicked off his boots and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and caught Laurel’s glance dropping to his socks. She had that half-exasperated, half-amused look she always got when she noticed the holes near his toes. What was he supposed to do? Buy new socks every time a toe popped through? Hell, they were still good. Mostly.
He reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The damn show’s theme song blared through the room, all dramatic synth and overly sharp violins meant to set the mood. Huck rolled his shoulders, the tension already curling up his spine like barbed wire.
Rachel Raprenzi’sThe Killing Hour. The title flashed across the screen, stark and bold, making sure everyone knew this was meant to be important.
Rachel appeared, perfectly coiffed and styled, draped in a navy blue suit with silver jewelry that glittered too much under the studio lights. Everything about her was calculated—from her soft blond hair to the way she widened her eyes to feign sincerity. To anyone else, she probably looked polished and genuine. To Huck, she looked like a vulture.
But the star of tonight’s show was Abigail Caine.
She sat beside Rachel, posture flawless, hair swept up into a messy bun that was anything but casual. Her green dress softened her appearance and made her look delicate and even breakable. Huck noted the details immediately. The muted color scheme, the soft pink of her nails instead of her usual dark polish. It was a costume, and she wore it well.
But the eyes were the tell. Always were. Abigail’s eyes were too sharp, too calculating. One blue, one green, and both trained like loaded weapons. She was playing everyone in that studio.
“Interesting,” he muttered, taking a hefty swallow of his wine. It tasted expensive, rich and smooth, but he couldn’t appreciate it. His jaw had already started clenching from the instinctive reaction to smelling bullshit. “This is going to suck. At least your mom and Monty are out of range. How many miles between Genesis Valley and St. Thomas?”
Laurel snorted. “Six thousand, one hundred, and fifteen kilometers.”
“What’s that in miles?” he drawled.
“Thirty-eight hundred,” she murmured absently.
He needed to get her out of her head. “How many people in the last week did you see who wore both purple and blue?”
She blinked. “I’m fine, Huck.”
“So answer the question, Ms. Genius.”
She rolled those spectacular eyes. “Twenty-seven.”
He paused. “That’s a lot.”
“Not really. Blue and purple are the school colors for the middle school, and I saw the soccer team on the field the other day preparing for a match.”
Of course she had. He grinned and focused back on the television.
