Page 46 of The White Picket Fence

He chuckled. “Not on your life.” He rested his forehead against hers, the gravity of the moment sinking in. She was in his arms. In his bed. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

“Same,” she whispered. “Show me how much.”

So he did, kissing her until she was once again rolling her hips against him. He leaned over and turned on the light. “I want to see you.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it on a sigh. “No, you don’t.”

He wanted to insist, but she’d gone from passionate to miserable. “Why not?”

“I have scars. They’re not pretty. He...he cut me.”

Scars. Her attacker had cut her with her own knives. A part of him wanted to say fine, he’d turn off the light, but this was a big deal. “We said we’d communicate. Your scars won’t bother me. Your wrinkles won’t bother me.”

“I don’t have wrinkles,” she asserted, sounding mildly aggrieved.

That made him smile. “I do. I don’t care that we’re both forty-two years old. I’m not the boy you knew, Charlie. I’m older and not as toned as I used to be. But I’m here and so are you. You said you wanted me toseeyou. Let me do that. Let me see all of you.”

She nodded then. “Okay. Start as we mean to continue, yes?”

“Yes.” He kissed her until she was writhing against him once again. When she was panting and making the sweetest little sounds, he pulled her shirt over her head. And stared.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. And she was. Her breasts were fuller, her curves rounder. There were scars, yes. But not so many as he’d feared. He wanted to kill the man who’d put them there, but the bastard was already dead. He shoved his rage down, choosing to be in the moment. To be with her. “So beautiful.”

“You make me believe that,” she murmured back. “Your clothes, too.” She yanked his T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Humming, she ran her hands up his arms, caressing his biceps and his shoulders. “I dreamed of this last night. Dreamed of you.”

The rest of their clothes seemed to disappear, and then he was rolling a condom over his erection and sliding inside her.

It was like coming home. Everything felt so damn right.

He watched her as he began to move, cataloging every sigh, every hitch of her breath so that he knew how to make her feel amazing. And when she finally came, quietly chanting his name, he felt like a god.

His own release rushed over him in a wave from which he never wanted to surface. But eventually his heart began to slow and he rolled to his side, taking her with him. For long, lovely moments they just lay there, breathing in sync with each another.

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.” He went to the bathroom and dealt with the condom, then came back to a warm bed and a satisfied woman. She returned to his arms, her head once again resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That was perfect.”

“It really was.”

She pulled away to look down at him. “For real?”

“For real. No more pretending, Charlie. For either of us.”

She settled back against his shoulder. “Good night, Tino.”

“Good night, Charlie.”

CHAPTER7

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Thursday, March 31, 9:30 a.m.

“His last knownaddress was a dead end,” Vito said as he drove them to the prison. “Kevin Hale was released from prison and just disappeared.”

They’d been quiet for most of the drive, Vito deep in thought. As was Tino, although he might have dozed for part of the way. He’d held Charlotte all night, finally falling asleep shortly before dawn. His eyes felt like sandpaper.

“No parole officer,” Tino muttered.

---