Page 41 of Wicked Ruin

I will remember every second of it because we both know there will never be, can never be, another night like this.

The sun is coming up soon, a tiny strip of light peeking underneath the pulled blinds.

It’s time to go. Fuck it all to hell.

The later it gets, the more of a risk we run. I need to bring her home and make sure nobody sees, make sure she's alright.

But for now, I lie still and take inventory of the room, delaying the inevitable. I want to burn this night into my memory.

I smile thinking about how she lined up the miniature bottles on the bathroom counter last night, smelling each one with the same focus she gives everything. Her laugh at the front desk. The way she nearly lost it when I said “James and Mary Murphy,” pressing her lips together with that particular look she gets when she's fighting a smile.

I'm not going to think about that. I'm not going to think about how beautiful she is when she comes apart on my mouth, or the way she holds me like we were made for each other, or the sound of her voice when she gives herself over completely. She makes love the way she does everything—alive, unencumbered, entirely herself.

She stirs and makes a small sound, not quite awake. Her fingers curl against my side. Something in me responds to that, and I lean in closer.

I need to get us up. I need to find my phone, get back to where we parked, and back to our lives before the city wakes and someone spots us. Outside this room, my life is pawing at the door, ready to break it down.

She opens one eye. “How did you get so handsome overnight?”

I grin, bend down, and kiss her forehead. Goddamn, why does she have to make this so hard?

“Oh,” she says, soft and delighted. “Forehead kisses. I love forehead kisses.”

“What don’t you love?”

“Hmmm,” she says with a little smile, her eyes closed again. “Cold chips and scratchy clothes. You?”

I sigh. “Cowards. Goodbyes.”

Her fingers find mine in the quiet and squeeze.

Her face in the first moment of waking is so honest and unguarded, as if she hasn't remembered yet to put anything back in place. “How long have you been awake?” she asks with a yawn, her voice rough with sleep.

“A while.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

I shrug. “A little. You?”

“Hardly any,” she says, “but it was worth it.” A wink, then another yawn. “Today's my day off. I can nap. Can you?”

“I’ll manage.”

She leans over and kisses me, slow and unhurried, and somewhere in the room my phone buzzes, over and over, relentless. Probably Seamus.

Already, it’s over. We’re over.

I extricate myself with difficulty because I don’t want to leave her. She leans on one elbow and watches me, and I can tell by the little pucker between her brows that she’s concerned.

Predictably, it’s Seamus. A text, not a call. I climb out of bed and read it with my back to her, my voice low and unhurried when I say, “Give me a minute.”

Seamus

Her name is Valentina Esposito. Italian-American. Strong family connections. Twenty-four. Her family is eager to move on this. Details in person.

Goddamn.

He sends me the sum of what her family is offering us, and my brows rise in surprise.