Page 60 of A Game of Deception
She did, her head thrown back in ecstasy, and I followed, spilling into the condom with a roar, waves of pleasure crashing over me until we were both spent.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns across the smooth skin of her back. The sweat cooled on our skin, and the silence in the room was heavy with the truth of what we’d just done. This wasn't just sex. It was a treaty signed in the dark.
“This changes things,” she whispered, her breath a warm puff against my skin.
“It changed the second I saw you the first day at the launch party,” I said, my voice rough. “This just made it real.”
She propped herself up on an elbow, her expression serious in the dim light filtering through the blinds. “We have to be careful,Xander. My father… and Diego. He was asking about me at the facility today, making comments.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. So she knew. Of course she did. “I know. I was there. I heard him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You werethere? In the admin offices?”
I couldn’t help but grin, a real one for a change. “I was conducting my little research.”
Understanding dawned on her face. “The file cabinet. That’s how you got my address.”
“It was a multi-pronged intelligence operation,” I said, enjoying the spark of reluctant admiration in her eyes. “Very professional.”
She shook her head, a slow smile finally breaking through. “You are going to be so much trouble, aren’t you?”
“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice dropping as I pulled her down for another slow, deliberate kiss. “I’ve been trouble since the day I was born.”
I woke up slowly,dragged from a deep, dreamless sleep I hadn't had in years. The first thing I registered was the scent. Not the stale smell of my penthouse, but something else. Something clean, with a hint of vanilla. Tara.
My eyes cracked open. She was gone, but the indentation of her head was still on the pillow next to mine. The events of the night before came rushing back—the raw desperation, the way she’d come apart under me. A slow heat spread through my chest.
I found her in the kitchen, wearing a t-shirts that hung down to her mid-thigh. Her back was to me as she stood at the counter, her hair a messy knot on top of her head. For a second, I just watched her, this woman who had consumed my thoughts for twelve years, first as a ghost of the past and now as a wildfire in my present.
“Morning,” I said, my voice a gravelly mess.
She jumped, spinning around. A faint blush crept up her neck. “Morning. Coffee’s on.”
“I’m starving,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Got any food in this place that doesn't require a medical degree to pronounce?”
A small smile touched her lips. “I think I can handle some eggs.”
As she turned to the fridge, I felt the need to move, to walk off some of the nervous energy buzzing under my skin. The apartment was neat, impersonal. Muted colors, modern furniture. It felt more like a hotel suite than a home.
"Hey, where's the bathroom?" I asked, heading down the short hallway.
"First door on your right," she called from the kitchen.
My hand was on the knob of the first door when I saw another one, slightly ajar at the end of the hall. Curiosity, or maybe just a subconscious need to know more about the woman I’d just spent the night with, pulled me toward it. I pushed the door open, expecting a spare bedroom or a closet.
It wasn't a bedroom. It was a goddamn command center.
One entire wall was an organized collage of my life. Press clippings, paparazzi shots, game stats going back to my rookie year. Red string connected dates and locations, a spiderweb of my personal history. A grainy photo of me from the night of the accident was tacked right in the center, my face a mask of youthful arrogance and stupidity. It was a shrine to my downfall.
The air left my lungs in a single, silent punch. This wasn't research. This was obsession. Every move I’d made, every mistake, every public triumph and private failure, all cataloged and displayed like a serial killer’s trophy room.
My blood ran cold. The heat from a moment ago turned to ice.
“Tara,” I said, my voice flat, dead. “Get in here.”
I heard a pan clatter in the kitchen. A second later, she appeared in the doorway, a questioning look on her face. "What's wrong?" Then her eyes followed my gaze to the wall.
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint. The carton of eggs she was holding slipped from her numb fingers and crashed to the floor, splattering yellow yolk across the hardwood. She didn't even flinch. She just stared at the wall, then at me, her expression one of pure, unadulterated horror. She hadn't just been caught; she'd been exposed.
