Page 115 of What She Saw

“I’ve accepted the wheels of justice can move slow.”

“But you hate it?”

“What I hate is when good work is undone, and bad people are set free.”

“You have no doubts about Colton? At the trial, his attorney made a decent argument that Taggart planted the evidence.”

“Colton is slick. He’s a salesman at heart.”

“What was he like when you interviewed him?”

“Charming. Almost pleasant to be around. He’s popular with the guards and the inmates.”

“Are you sure he’s guilty?”

He was silent for a moment. “He’s never proven otherwise, despite the lawyers who he charmed into taking his case. And until anyone proves otherwise, I don’t want him released. His doctors say he’s sick, but who knows. He could still hurt someone else if he gets out. He’s had thirty-one years to think about what he’d do to everyone who wronged him.”

His intensity was attractive. The air between us crackled. At least it did for me. I couldn’t read him well, which made him more interesting. “This is a first for me.”

“What?”

“I’ve learned to key off others’ emotions. But I can’t read you.”

Another unfathomable half smile. “Nothing to see here. I’m a simple creature. I want a bad guy to stay in jail.”

“You’re not simple. Not by a long stretch.”

“Is this the part where we talk about feelings?”

My laugh rang genuine. “God, no.”

“So, what’s the point of this banter?”

“Sexual tension, Grant. You’re not feeling it?”

Blue eyes darkened. “The Dance Studio doesn’t close for hours. And there’s a hotel down the street. That direct enough for you?”

“It is.”

The hotel was generic, uninspiring, but it was clean. I let my backpack slide off my shoulder to a chair angled by a small round table. Grant closed and locked the door behind us.

The two double beds were covered in a light green-gray-blue bedcover. The nightstands were polished. But the buttons at the base of the lamp were ringed with dust.

I removed my shirt as I kicked off my shoes. When I faced Grant, he stood still, staring at me. I stepped toward him.

My fingertips skimmed the top of his belt buckle, and I kissed him on his lips. He tasted like the mint he’d grabbed as we’d walked out of the diner.

His hand came to my waist, and he pulled me toward him. My fingers slipped below his belt to his erection. Orgasm was something I could feel. I’d been so stunned by my first, I’d avoided contact with men for a while. Like a drug addict’s first hit of heroin, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life chasing the highs.

His hands slid to my breasts and squeezed. Energy shot through me.

He removed his shirt as I unfastened his belt buckle. His pants slid to the floor. He yanked back the bed covering, and I landed on clean white sheets. I shimmied out of my jeans and kicked them aside. The mattress sagged as he climbed on. Hovering above me, he kissed me on the lips. I skimmed my fingertips down his flat belly and wrapped my fingers around his erection. The phantom fist, always in my chest, tightened.

My heart pulsed faster. I could have been speeding down a highway, slipping into a stranger’s home, or climbing on a roof as I searched for an adrenaline release. Impatient, I guided him to me. He pushed inside me. My nerve endings tingled.

A grunt rose in his chest as he filled me. I pushed my hips up toward him. He pumped. My fingers slid to my center. Soon we were both panting and riding a big wave.

The crash came, as intense as it would be fleeting. When I came, he came. And for a moment, my heart pulsed. Okay. This was acceptable. This was what people felt.