Page 84 of Wraith

All of it is perfect.

And when the check comes and Wraith pays in cash and we stand to leave, his hand finds the small of my back and guides me toward the door.

The night air is cool when we step outside. The sun has set while we were eating, and Main Street is lit by old-fashioned streetlamps that cast pools of amber light on the sidewalk. A few shops are still open, their windows glowing warmly.

“Want to walk around a bit?” I ask. “Check out the stores?”

Wraith checks the time. Then he looks up at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken.

“Actually,” he says, “I was thinking we should head back to the motel.”

The way he says it, with heat in his gaze, with the slight pressure of his hand on my back.

I know what he’s suggesting.

And despite everything worrying around in the back of my mind, it’s perfect.

Because I want him.

Want to go back to that cheap motel room and make love to him in my new dress. Want to feel normal and loved and like maybe this really could be our future.

I want to believe that hope is enough.

“I’d love that.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

June

The motel room key sticks in the lock like it always does, and I have to jiggle it twice before the door swings open. Inside, the space looks exactly as we left it — an unmade bed, cheap curtains, the faint smell of industrial cleaner mixed with our own scent from this morning. But stepping into it now, after dinner and wine and wearing this dress, it feels different.

It feels like coming home to something that could be ours.

Wraith closes the door behind us, and the lock clicks, and that sound makes my pulse quicken. When I turn to face him, he’s already watching me with an expression that’s softer than I’ve ever seen. Not the calculating look or the dangerous intensity. Just warmth. Warmth and want mixed with something deeper.

He crosses to me in two steps and cups my face in his hands. His palms are warm, slightly rough from years of work and violence, but gentle now. So gentle it makes my throat tight.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Simply beautiful.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s different from earlier in the thrift store changing room. That was urgent and hungry and edged with the thrill of possibly getting caught. This is slow. Deliberate. His lips move against mine as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. His tongue slides against mine with patient exploration.

I melt into him, my hands coming up to rest on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. It is steady and strong and real. When he deepens the kiss, angling my head with his hands, I make a small sound that’s pure surrender.

His hands slide from my face down to my shoulders, my arms, my waist. Everywhere he touches feels like it’s waking up, nerve endings firing in response to his fingertips. When he finds the zipper at the back of my dress, he pauses.

“May I?” he asks against my lips.

The question catches me off guard. He’s asking permission. Not assuming, not taking, just asking.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”

The zipper slides down with a whisper of metal teeth separating. Cool air hits my spine and I shiver, but not from the cold. From anticipation. From the tenderness in how he’s doing this — slowly, carefully, like I’m something precious.

The dress loosens around me, and he helps me step out of it. Catches it before it hits the floor and drapes it carefully over the chair.

I stand in front of him in just my bra and the knowledge that I’m not wearing underwear because he pocketed them earlier. The memory makes heat flood through me, but I don’t move. Just wait as his eyes travel over me, taking in every detail.