Page 76 of Once Upon a Lie

I slide my fingers into her hair before moving them down the curve of her spine and grabbing her perfect ass in my big hands.

Fuck. She’s perfect. Why does everything about her have to be so fucking perfect?

“Shane . . .” She whispers my name like a prayer, and it’s only the shake in her voice—trepidation and excitement unbefitting of a crime boss—that pulls me back in check.

If I keep going, I’ll go all the way, and she doesn’t even know who the hell I really am.

When I finally pull back, I’m breathing hard and so is she.

Her pupils are wide, her lips are swollen, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks so open, so vulnerable, that every defense I’ve built cracks clean down the middle.

“We shouldn’t,” I say quietly. “Not yet,” I lie because I don’t know what the fuck else to say to let her down without breaking her spirit. Clearly, this isn’t a her problem. It’s a me problem.

Everything is a me problem at this point.

In another world, where her father wasn’t some goddamn gunrunner, and I wasn’t an undercover detective, we’d be perfect. We’d be magic.

But our reality is what it is, and it’s my moral imperative to keep her from getting destroyed in the process.

Before she can say anything, I adjust her body against mine so her back is pressed against my chest. My cock is still hard, practically ready to hammer nails, but I ignore it as best I can.

“Glad you’re here tonight.” I bury my face in her hair.

“Me too,” she whispers.

“Good night, Teeny.”

“Good night, Shane.”

Slowly, after what feels like an eternity, her breathing settles against my chest and I can feel her body relax into sleep.

I lie there long after, wide awake.

I don’t think I’m just in deep anymore; I think I’m far too close to drowning.

26

Valentina

Friday, October 22

2:00 p.m.

I tell myself not to think about his hands, his breath, or the quiet way he whispered Good night, Teeny like it was something tender and seductive all at once, but it’s useless.

I can still feel the warmth of his body against mine, the way his cock was hard against me when we were kissing, and I can still taste the hint of minty toothpaste on his tongue, and as a result, everything today feels a little off balance.

“Earth to Teeny,” Alfred says, waving his menu in front of me. “You’ve been staring at that poor order of shrimp and grits like it owes you money.”

Shit. I have to get it together.

We’re at Savannah’s Café for lunch to commemorate Avalyn’s birthday—the first stop of many in the tradition of spending October 22 of every year going to all of Avalyn’s favorite spots and celebrating her—and I didn’t leave Sunnie and Cher in charge of the afternoon rush at The Hole Story all by themselves so I could ignore Alfred and get trapped in my own head.

He deserves my attention, so I snap to it.

“I was thinking,” I say, cutting into my shrimp and grits, “about how much you said Avalyn loved this place.”

“And?”