Page 86 of The Woman at the Funeral

“I think we both have a little shaken confidence from all this. I’m almost afraid to find the laptop or tablet. To know what else he was hiding or lying about.”

“Yeah,” Nico said with a sigh as we raised an arm to hail a cab. “But that’s a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, I think we should order in and try to forget about all this shit for a couple of hours.”

“Forgetting sounds really nice,” I said as we slid into the backseat together, this time with Goya sticking his head out the other window, so we could sit close.

Nico’s arm slid around me, pulling me closer.

“It’s hard to believe, but there will come a time when we won’t be thinking about this all the time. When we won’t question our instincts or wonder how much wool was pulled over our eyes.”

“That will be a good day.”

“And until then, we can navigate these uncertain times together.”

“Yeah?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“Absolutely,” he said, pressing the side of his face against the top of my head. “I’m gonna be right with you through all this. As long as you want me here.”

“I want you here,” I said, my voice barely loud enough for me to hear.

But he heard.

He turned slightly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“Good. There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Nico

Back at the safe house, we did exactly what I said we would.

We ordered food. We ate together on the couch. We took Goya for a couple of walks.

Then she took my hand and led me down the hall toward the bed.

Her hands were all over me, taking her time removing my clothes, tracing over my chest, my stomach, closing around my cock.

We fell into the bed, bodies tangling, breaths syncing, moans mingling.

Everything was too much and not enough. Every second stretched. Every sensation built, compounded, then we both shattered under the pressure of it all.

Afterward, she let me pull her onto my chest, her body draped over mine, her fingers tracing over my chest, making little shapes and words that I couldn’t quite make out.

At some point, Goya woke up from his four-hour nap on his dog bed to come and hop up on the bed to keep our feet warm.

It was the most content I think I’d ever been.

Was there some part of me that was concerned that this was just distraction and comfort for Blair? Sure. There was a possibility that once this was all finally over and we went back to our lives, Blair was going to want nothing to do with me. Once she had time to really think about the whole mafia thing, the danger, the reality of what that meant I was often involved in.

She might decide she’d had enough of uncertainty with Matt and move on from me.

She might never grow to care for me the way I’d cared about her almost since the moment we’d met.

But the fear of losing her wasn’t a good enough reason not to fully immerse myself in her while I had the opportunity. To let my hands, lips, and tongue get to know every inch of her. To memorize her sighs and shivers. To revel in the way her face lit up when she laughed, and knowing I was the one to give her that brief moment of joy.

Maybe all we would have was a weekend, a week, a month together. But I was going to slow down time so it felt like a fucking lifetime.

That was part of the reason I found myself reaching for my phone anytime I caught her in a moment of unguarded beauty: standing in the window with her steaming mug as the sun streamed in, sitting on Goya’s bed with him, her cheek pressed to his head, in the kitchen flipping blueberry pancakes in one of those silk pajama sets I never thought I’d love as much as I did.

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