Or she was tempted. She wasn’t really about to do it, but she was closer to it than she was comfortable. Shit. How often did she get pissed when people tried to—or did—meddle in her background? She had plenty of things that she’d rather not have dragged out right in the open.
Actually, pissed didn’t even touch on how she felt when people started meddling. There were some secrets she had that she’d just as soon take to her grave.
Besides, what was she going to do—general search for kids with the name Clayton . . . five years old . . . hey, she knew he had a birthday in September. That would really narrow the focus.
“What’s up?”
Guiltily, she jerked her hands away.
One of her coworkers, Alex, stood on the other side of the desk, eying her.
“Nothing.” Guiltily, she powered down the computer. “Is everybody pretty much done?”
“A few more wrapping up downstairs.”
With a nod, Ressa picked up the little paperweight, carefully cradling it in her hand.
“Did somebody bring you a gift?”
“Yep.” She displayed it, feeling as pleased as if she’d received chocolate and flowers.
“Who is it from?” Alex eyed it, his head cocked.
With a smile, she said, “Clayton . . . the little doll who shows up at reading hour.”
“Ahhh . . . your shadow.” He grinned knowingly. “That kid has a major crush on you, Ressa.”
She grimaced. “Geez. That’s great to hear.”
“You’re going to break his heart when you transfer out this summer.” He tsked and shook his head. “You might want to break the news sooner, rather than later.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Not much you can do about it.” Alex gave her a sympathetic look. “You need the transfer so you can be closer to school—these are the chores of being a parent . . . or a guardian as it were. Your cousin needs you.”
Ressa nodded, her thoughts drifting to the child she’d been taking care of for so many years. “I know. Neeci is why I’m doing it.”
Still, a heavy ache settled in her chest as she looked down at the molded heart she held. Funny . . . she was just now realizing how fragile it was.
Chapter Four
Week Thirty
Sheets twisted around him.
Dream and reality blurred together in that surreal way they did in that short time just before waking.
The twisted ropes of cotton weren’t really cotton. They were long limbs, warm and golden brown. That mouth, always slicked with colors that made him think of sinful wines or lush fruits, moved against his. It was a seductive red today and as he fisted his hand in her hair, she sank her teeth into his lower lip.
“Trey . . .”
That was when he knew he was dreaming.
She’d never called him by name.
With a groan, he rolled them, putting her body under his, determined to enjoy it as much as he could, for as long as he could. She laughed against his lips, a husky sound that tripped down his spine. Who knew that a woman’s laugh could be so erotic?
She might as well have reached between his legs and cupped his balls.
And then she was reaching down, one hand closing around his cock.
“Don’t,” he muttered, tearing his mouth away. “I . . . fuck, I can’t.”
“You can’t what?” Ressa smiled up at him, dragged her hand up, then down.
“I can’t . . . this. I just . . .” He shoved away from her, but she followed. Her hand milked him and he groaned, because the pleasure was there, leaving him hovering on an edge between pleasure and pain.
“I think you can.” She sat up and he found himself staring up at her. Her breasts—or least the image his dreaming mind had conjured up—were full, her nipples a deep, deep brown. While she continued to pump her hand up and down his cock, she used her other hand to reach out, grab his wrist and bring it to her breast. “Touch me . . . you know you want to.”
Want? “You think that covers it?”
“You never have done it.” She lifted a brow. “Why is that?”
Any answer he might have given was lost, because she gave a slow, thorough twist of her wrist as she dragged it back up. Then she caught the fluid leaking out of his cock, smoothed it around the swollen crown.
He hissed out a breath.
She did the same and he didn’t realize it was because he’d plucked at her nipple. “I’m sorry . . . fuck, I hurt you—”
“No.” She shoved her breast into his hand. “Do it again.”
Instead, he shoved upright and caught the tip in his mouth.
That warm, soft laugh echoed around him before fading into a moan. He settled between her hips and then the dream . . . shifted. Rolled.
IcantIcantIcant!
Her hands cupped his face and she rolled up against him. “Make love to me!”
He was buried inside her.
He went to pull out. Felt the smooth, sweet glide of her pussy against him and he shuddered.
“Sweet fucking hell,” he breathed out. Then he drove deep inside her.
She cried out his name.
He might have sobbed out hers.
And moments later, he came awake just as he climaxed, one hand wrapped around his cock while the other twisted in the sheets.
Shuddering, Trey lay there, half-stunned.
“Son of a bitch.”
He’d just orgasmed for the first time in more than six years.
“Son of a bitch.”
* * *
“Are you just going to bite the bullet and ask her out?”
He glared at the phone on the bathroom counter. Razor in hand, he leaned forward. “Travis? I’ll listen to your advice on my love life when you listen to mine.”
“I don’t have a love life.”
“Exactly my point.” He finished one pass down his jaw, rinsed the razor off, started another. “Look, it’s just . . .”
He stopped, because there was only so much he was willing to tell. Even his twin. He sure as hell wasn’t about to share certain humiliating details.
Unaware of the thoughts circling through Trey’s mind, Travis pushed on. “Just nothing. It’s been almost six years since Aliesha died. I know you’re moving past that—or have moved past it. So it’s not her.”
“Don’t.” Even he heard the biting warning in his voice.
Travis’s sigh came over the line. “I just worry about you, man.”
“Same goes. And hey, I’m not the one who’s working myself into an early grave, right?” He could still remember how Travis had looked in San Francisco when they all met up for their annual get-together. Mom insisted it wasn’t necessary, but she still had that light of complete delight in her eyes when they all descended en masse, ringing the doorbell to the house their parents had lived in for years.
Travis had looked like somebody had dragged him, sopping wet and close to drowning, out of the Pacific.
“I’m not working myself into a grave,” Travis said, his voice grim. “I refuse to die doing this shit work.”
There was an edge to his twin’s voice, one Trey hadn’t heard before. “Everything okay with you?”
For a moment, there was just a taut, heavy silence. Then Travis sighed. “Yeah. I’m just . . . tired. I need a vacation. I’ll take care of that. Soon. But let’s talk about this librarian. Who is she? What does she look like? Fess up.”
“We’re not in high school anymore, Trav.”
“Too bad, because then I’d be able to figure this out on my own. Come on, I’ll just work it out of Clay.” There was a sly note in Travis’s voice.
“Bastard.” Trey finished up shaving and rinsed the foam from his face, using a towel to dry off. His hair hung in his face, too long, desperately in need of a trim. “How about I give you something else to hassle me over?”