Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
She shrugged, took another sip of beer. “I like people. I think that helps. Everybody has bad days now and then, but most people are pretty decent, you know what I mean?”
“That’s a surprisingly optimistic standpoint for somebody who deals in unsolved violent crime,” I said.
“Maybe. There’s a lot of ugly out there. I’m sure you’ve seen more of it than me,” she said.
I nodded, knowing she was right.
“But still,” she went on, “I’ve seen a lot of good. Some of these women—the tragedy of their deaths, the lack of answers, the families who just want to know—that’s tough, and it’s dark, and it hurts. But then there are the people—mostly cops, sometimes social workers, sometimes family members or people like me—who keep looking, who never give up, who fight for the truth, for answers, for justice. With little reward, but they keep going because they know it’s right. And that—” She lifted her hands like they were the scales of Lady Justice and moved them up and down. “It balances everything out. We can’t stop bad things from happening. Doesn’t mean we can’t do good.”
I wanted to make a crack about her optimism, but I didn’t. Because this wasn’t some shallow mantra or slogan to brighten her day—this was Sylvie walking into the darkness, carrying a light, looking for others with their own light. A flash of rage at whoever had blown up her van hit me. There were shadows under her eyes that he’d pay for, once we found him. But that wouldn’t be tonight.
“It’s not that late,” I said, changing the subject, “but I’m half dead.”
“I know,” she said, picking up on my thought. “The clock says it’s too early, but I could still go to bed. Feels like I need to store up my sleep.”
I nodded. Both of us could use a solid eight hours.
“I’m going to make some tea.” She stood, grabbed both of our empty plates, and pushed back her chair. “Do you want any?”
“Sure,” I said, realizing I didn’t so much want tea as I wanted to prolong the minutes left before bedtime.
I packed up the leftover casserole, slid it back in the fridge while Sylvie filled the kettle and washed our plates and silverware, storing them neatly in the drying rack. She pulled out a box of herbal tea and set up two mugs with two tea bags, and turned, maybe to ask me if I wanted honey or sugar.
I never found out because she was right there, standing in front of me, her damp hair waving off her face, that rosebud mouth so close, and I didn’t have it in me to step back.
Her hand came up and rested on my chest, right over my heart. “Are you okay? Today was a lot.”
The concern in her eyes broke my restraint.
My hand came up, skimming her jaw, my fingers diving into her thick, cool hair. I tilted her face to mine and took her mouth, her full lips as soft and sweet as I’d expected. When her tongue flicked out, I was lost, pulling her closer, molding her body to mine. She moaned in the back of her throat, and I feasted. This was what I’d wanted—not just her holding me, making me laugh, but tasting her, feeling her mouth move under mine, the soft breath in her throat.
Her hands slid around my back, her head tilted up, mouth moving eagerly, fingertips finding the hem of my shirt and gliding up to spread across my back, digging in, pulling tight until we were plastered to one another.
I wanted—
I wanted. Period.
I wanted to strip off those pajamas, to lift her up and lay her back on the counter. I wanted to hear that moan—not trapped in the back of her throat, muffled by our kiss, but set free, deep and needy. I wanted to hear her come because I’d brought her to that. I wanted to watch her eyes bright with pleasure, hungry with need, her body moving over mine while I cupped her breasts, tasted her, possessed her.
And at that thought, I lifted my head. One kiss and I’d gone from lust to a depth of need I’d never known before. Because one kiss wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I stepped back, drawing my hand from her hair, my lips from hers. I couldn’t resist tracing one fingertip down her cheekbone to stroke across her lower lip, swollen and damp from our kiss.
“Sleep well, Sylvie,” I said and strode down the hall to my room, not trusting myself to wait for that cup of tea.
Chapter Sixteen
SYLVIE
Eli walked down the hall to his room as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
He shut his door, and I exhaled, rattled in the best possible way.
I’d thought about kissing him. Wondered, maybe even wished a little when I let myself, but I hadn’t expected that. That was something altogether different than anything I’d ever experienced.