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But when she had to do a cocktail party at three and then a di
Sometimes she wished she’d never told Ha
“. . . that easy.”
That voice made her pause.
Sharon.
Speak of the devil.
She paused in the hallway, head cocked as she listened in.
The next voice had her shoving a door open and she gaped at the young woman sitting across from Sharon Hightower—the woman responsible for the money she now had in her bank account.
She didn’t know who was more surprised—herself, or her cousin.
Kiara recovered first, smiling widely at her. “Hey, Ress!”
“Kiara.” She set her jaw. “What are you doing here?”
Kiara stood up, nervously smoothing down a red dress that looked suspiciously familiar. It looked almost dead like the one she owned. “I came by to see if you wanted to grab di
She turned her attention to Ha
“Yeah. And she’s smart and she doesn’t need to do this.” Fury pulsed inside her. Fury—and fear.
“Oh, come on . . .” Sharon spoke to Ressa for the first time, a pleasant smile on her face. “It’s harmless. Look at what it’s done for you.”
* * *
If she was as smart as she liked to think, Ressa would have punched Sharon Hightower in her pretty, perfect nose.
But she hadn’t.
Sighing, she snuggled deeper into her pillow, still clutching her phone like a talisman. Now . . .
The knock on the door caught her off guard.
Swallowing, she looked down at the workout gear she had on, her heart slamming hard against her ribs. Her head spun, bile churning its way up her throat, compliments of the memory of that night. She’d thought if she pounded away her grievances on the treadmill, she’d feel better, but no luck.
There was another knock, harder this time and she swore, rising from her bed and moving toward the stairs. Whoever that was, he was going to wake Neeci up—
He.
Her heart lurched up into her throat.
Even though her gut told her who it was, wariness had her approaching the door slowly, and she clutched her phone tighter as she paused a few feet away.
It was past ten now. Fears from childhood, old but not forgotten, rose up. A girl didn’t grow up the way she had without learning more than a little caution.
From several feet away, she called out, “Who is it?”
And at the same time, she moved to the antique table near the door and grabbed one of the ugly metal sculptures that Bruce had loved to collect. She always made fun of them, teased her stepfather about them, but after he died, getting rid of them had seemed impossible. Now, the solid weight of it felt good in her hand.
The sound of Trey’s voice made her heart race all that much harder. “It’s me.”
“Trey . . .” Her mouth went dry. Bracing one hand on the door, she leaned in, staring through the Judas hole centered on her door. He had his head bowed and it looked like he mirrored her pose, one hand braced on the door while he waited. Waited for what?
Dread twisted, shifted.
Aw, now . . . what is this shit? Don’t I have enough going on?
Hard times, girl, they will make you or they will break you . . . the echo of Mama Ang’s voice came up from the recesses of her mind, and she squared her shoulders before she reached out to unlock the door.
Face expressionless, she opened it, pondering the bottle of wine she had in the fridge. She couldn’t think of too many things that would have him on her doorstep this late.
Looked like the twin brother had gone and ratted her out.
The son of a bitch.
* * *
Trey had pla
But as the door slowly opened to reveal her standing there in clothes that skimmed her thighs and hips, a tank that drooped over one shoulder, leaving luscious skin and all those fucking sexy tattoos bared, every thought he had drained away.
Should they talk?
Yeah.
She seemed concerned about whatever secrets her past held. He had some shadows of his own—shadows that had haunted and strained his life for nearly six years. Should he explain those?
Oh, hell, yeah.
But all he could think about was the sad, somber look in her eyes.
What’s hurt you?
He wanted to ask—no, demand. Then he wanted to kiss the misery away and make it all better.
One hand clenched into a fist as he let his gaze roam lower, over the gray tank, the tattoos he’d kissed his way across, the curve of her breasts.
His gaze caught and lingered over the heavy-looking metal sculpture she held in one hand.
“You always answer the door with pieces of art in your hand?” he asked.
She glanced down, a frown drawing her mouth tight.
“Ah . . . no.” She shook her head and turned away, putting it down on a table a few feet away. “Come on in.”
He came inside, easing the door shut, studying the tension that held every line of her body tight.
She still stood with her back to him and he was a breath away from going to her when she spoke. The tight sound of her voice froze him in his tracks.
“Is everything okay? You’re out kind of late.”
“No.” You tell me, he thought. But then he decided to let it go. For now. Reaching up, he trailed a finger down her nape, watched as she shivered. “Everything’s not okay. It’s been four days since I saw you. Four days since I kissed you. And way too long since I made love to you.”
He heard the soft catch of her breath and that was all he needed to lean forward and press his lips to her neck, brushing aside the thick tail of her hair where it rested against her skin.
She practically melted against him, some of that tension draining out of her body. Sliding his arms around her, he pulled her back against him. Lust bit into him as her butt pressed up against his cock, but he gritted his teeth, forced himself to think past the need.
“Ressa,” he murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice was unsteady as she answered. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”
She was lying. He knew it.
As she turned in his arms, he studied her face, saw the darkness in her gaze, the misery. “Talk to me,” he said, rubbing his lips against hers. “You look like your world is coming apart.”
“No.” She curled her arms around his neck, leaning against him. “I just . . .”
She leaned in, licked his lips.
Groaning, he gripped her hips, tried to ease back. “Ressa, wait . . .”
“No. You’re right. It’s been too long. I need you.”
He clung to sanity by his fingernails. “Where’s Neeci?”
“In her bed. Asleep. Nothing wakes that child once she’s down,” Ressa said, pressing her mouth to his neck. He felt the hot brush of her lips against his skin. She spoke again, and this time, her words were a plea. “Make love to me. I need this.”
He couldn’t have denied her anything in that moment.
“Your room . . . Where is your room?”
She waved toward the stairs and the two of them half staggered, half ran toward them. Halfway up, he took her down and pressed her to the steps, feasting on her mouth and shuddering at the taste, the feel of her. Thoughts of regret, fear, hesitation faded away. Thoughts of control faded away.
He cupped her hips in his hands, her skin burning hot through the thin material. Against his chest, her breasts went flat and that was good, but not enough. He caught the tank top she wore and started to drag it up.