Page 27 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

One of the guards checks my driver’s license again. Then he walks back to Slade and uncuffs him.

“You are no longer in the custody of the state of Texas,” the guard says. He bends down to remove the cuffs around his ankles. “You will report to your parole officer within one week of your release for further instruction.” The man hands Slade a booklet and a cardboard box.

Slade nods, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Yes, sir.”

The guards wait in silence. Slade stays still for a full beat, before moving toward the passenger’s seat of my car. Without the cuffs, he looks somewhat normal. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans with a scuffed-up pair of tennis shoes. He opens the door slowly. His musky, masculine scent rushes at me, and a familiar longing returns to my chest. It comingles with my fear in a way that makes me a little nauseous.

“Can I get in?” he asks, keeping his gaze on the floor.

“Yes, of course.”

He climbs inside. His shoulders are so wide, he can barely fit and has to lean into the center console to get the door shut behind him. In the last six years, his biceps have grown to be as big as tree trunks, and his pecs are defined, even under his T-shirt.

“Thank you for coming to get me.” He closes the door, trapping me in with his alluring scent, his shoulders mere inches from mine.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt attraction to a man, I’m too overwhelmed to speak. My heart pounds, and I have to mask the deepening of my breath.

Slade’s guards point toward the exit. I shake my head to clear away all the desires raging in my body, but it does nothing to cool me down. I grip the steering wheel hard and focus straight ahead, finally pulling out of the pick-up lane and driving toward the exit.

I can’t help but notice the way Slade is staring at me now—not with the wariness from before, but with a hunger that mirrors my own. He may not have written me while he was at Sciff, but his body stills wants me.

At least there’s that.

I slow down and hand my driver’s license to the guard at the last checkpoint. He scans my face, then Slade’s, before checking something on his computer.

“You’re cleared to leave.”

The last metal barrier lifts, and I drive away, my fingers still gripping the steering wheel. We’re at least thirty minutes away from anywhere I could plausibly drop Slade off. How will I survive his scent that long without completely losing my mind? I’m already hard, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

Slade pushes the button to lower his window. The wind whips through the car, diluting his scent.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I glance at him, waiting for him to explain what he’s apologizing for, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns away from me and sticks his head out the window, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

That should be a relief. At least he’s doing what it takes to maintain control over himself. But tears burn in the corner of my eyes. This is all too much. I not only want him, I also desperatelyneed him to want me back–to not ignore me the way he ignored my letter.

I was a fool to think that seeing him again would help me understand why our connection never faded.

I continue driving through the barren desert, still not sure what I should do. I don’t even know if I’m going in the right direction. Slade hasn’t told me where he wants me to drop him off. He still has his head out the window.

I bank to the right, pulling off the side of the road. The asphalt gives way to thick sand, which the Jeep sinks into. I stop once we’re completely off the road and slide the car into park.

Slade finally looks at me. He has this tortured expression that I have an irrational desire to kiss away. I yearn to make him happy—to change the world so I could be his and he could be mine. He reaches forward with trembling fingers and cups my jaw. I close my eyes at the contact, leaning into it like a cat. He lets out a strangled breath.

For one glorious moment, all the rest of the world fades away.

14

SLADE

For the last six years, Quin has been my everything.

He doesn’t know that, of course. The one time he wrote me to ask why I killed a man, I never wrote him back. I drafted dozens of letters, all with different lies about what happened, but in the end, I didn’t send them.

He wasn’t going to wait for me anyway. My initial sentence was ten years. I told myself it would be better for him if he had a clean break. But that didn’t stop me from reliving our time together over and over again during the dark nights at Sciff. When I felt lonely, I thought of his dimpled smile. When the food was particularly bad, I remembered the taste of his warm, soft bread. When my prison sentence felt eternal, I’d close my eyes and think of how well his body fit curled into mine.

And now here he is in the flesh. I couldn’t believe it when the guards told me he’d signed up to be my ride, and now…

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