Her Silent Revenge novel Chapter 73

she says.

There's still a smile in her voice. I can picture it without looking at her, the way her eyes crinkle and she bites her bottom lip when she's overthinking.

"Then it's decided," I say.

"Yeah." She pauses and there's a rustling sound as she sits up. I glance across at her, but she's watching the shimmering pool like she's imagining diving in. "Patton," she starts and pauses again. "Thanks for this."

"You're the one doing me a favor, honoring my jackass request," I tell her. Her lips curl into another smile, and she looks away to hide it. "Just don't tell the guys I have eleven toes or an extra nipple or something."

This time, her laugh comes straight from her belly. The warmth makes me laugh, too.

And our combined laughter echoes into the afternoon and melts under the silent, staring desert sun.

For the first time in ages, I remember how to relax.

Dinner goes down without a disaster.

She's remarkably good at playing the glamorous girlfriend—Dexter, eat your fucking heart out—and it's a solid trial run even if it's just the two of us.

She's attentive and kind. I enjoy watching her reaction to the overpriced French-inspired modern cuisine more than I do the food itself.

In another life, I'd call it a perfect night.

Until now, crumpled up on a fine plush mattress that feels worse than a prison bed.

It's so dark I can barely see past my nose. The only light gleaming in comes from the distant stars on a moonless night. They all remind me I should be long asleep.

Instead, I'm here, flat on my back with Salem gently snoring away at the other edge of the bed, fighting a hard-on that could hit a home run.

Torture.

My brain sprints in a hundred directions, yet it always comes back to the same place, the same urge to take a great big bite of the forbidden fruit next to me.

If it wouldn't wake her, I'd get up and creep down to the gym, where I'd beat my muscles to exhaustion and pass out in the locker room.

But I'm trapped here, staring at the goddamned ceiling with ten thousand dirty thoughts stretched out for miles.

And damn, the girl can sleep.

I know she wants me—the kiss she gave back told no lies, dammit—but clearly the thought of sharing a bed isn't doing the same thing to her as it is to me.

Small relief. I think I'd be doubly screwed if Salem wanted it too, lying there wide awake next to me, but at the same time—

Fuck.

I try to wrench the oversized blankets from her, but sleeping beauty is apparently a lot stronger than any waking human.

She has them in a death grip, and yes, she hogs them all. There's no getting them back.

What the hell ever.

I'll beam my frustration into the darkness, I decide, waiting for the sandman to show up and knock me out.

When I wake up next, it's still dark and I'm warm.

Everything about her feels like a formula patented to trigger every dormant bad habit I have.

Six years ago was long enough to start forgetting before she walked into The Cardinal.

But now—now, I'm stuck here and my dick knows what it wants to do about this.

About this proximity.

About us, with every inch of this disgustingly large bed to defile. She shifts in her sleep, and I half hope she'll wake up.

Not because I want her to move, but because I don't know what will happen if she doesn't.

Don't think about that, you upside-down fuckhound.

Think unsexy thoughts. IRS audits.

Dexter's kale lunch wraps.

Arlo putting his sticky little hands all over my aquarium, smudging up my precious view.

Then she turns her face closer to mine.

The night changes to dusk, just enough to make out her silhouette in detail. I can't tell if she's having a pleasant dream or a nightmare. All I know is that if her leg moves up any higher, she'll encounter something I can't plan for.

My cock jerks, anticipating her touch, her heat.