Page 65 of A Game of Deception
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of control, cupping my face to lock our gazes.
I met his eyes, drowning in the intensity I found there—the raw need, the vulnerability, the way he saw straight through to my soul. In that moment, with his body buried deep inside mine, the car rocking subtly with our rhythm, a terrifying clarity washed over me: I was completely, irrevocably in love with him. Not the obsession I’d nursed all those years, not the revenge fantasy I’d constructed, but real love—messy and frightening and exhilarating.
The realization pushed me over the edge, my release crashing through me with unexpected force, my walls pulsing around him in waves that had me crying out, muffled against his shoulder. He followed moments later, thrusting up hard one last time, spilling into the condom with a guttural groan, his face buried in my neck, my name a prayer on his lips.
We stayed like that for several minutes, our breathing gradually slowing, my forehead resting against his. The reality of what we’d done—having sex in a public parking lot in broad daylight, complete with accidental hazard lights and foggy windows—should have horrified me. Instead, I felt a giddy rush of liberation. I’d acted purely on impulse, driven by desire, and it had been hotter than hell.
“We should probably get back on the road,” Xander murmured eventually, though he made no move to release me.
I nodded reluctantly, and we dressed in silence—though not without a few more mishaps, like me nearly putting my shirt on backward, and him struggling to zip his jeans in the confined space. Once presentable, we moved to the front seats, and Xander started the engine.
As we pulled back onto the highway, his hand found mine across the console again. “No regrets?” he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
I squeezed his hand, offering a smile. “Not a single one.”
The rest of the drive passed in a comfortable haze. We talked about our favorite movies and dream vacations. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, being with him like this.
As we approached Naples, however, the mood in the car shifted. The reality of our mission reasserted itself, the weight of the past settling over us once more. Xander’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and I checked the address on my phone with increasing frequency.
“Turn right at the next light,” I instructed, my voice more clinical than it had been all day. “Then it should be the third street on the left.”
Xander nodded, following my directions without comment. We turned onto a quiet, suburban street lined with modest single-story homes. Palm trees and well-tended gardens spoke of a peaceful, middle-class neighborhood—the kind where people knew their neighbors and kept their lawns neatly trimmed.
“Number 1542,” I said, scanning the houses. “There. On the right.”
The house was unremarkable—pale yellow stucco with white trim, a small front porch with a pair of rocking chairs, a neatly kept lawn with a few decorative shrubs. A mailbox at the end of the driveway confirmed it: “R. Morrison” in simple black letters.
Xander pulled the car to a stop at the curb in front of the house. We sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the innocent-looking dwelling. It seemed impossible that the man inside held the key to the truth that had defined both our lives for twelve years.
“What if he’s not home?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“Then we wait,” Xander replied, his voice steady despite the tension showing in his posture. “Or we get a hotel room and come back tomorrow. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”
I nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady myself. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to us?”
Xander turned to face me, his expression serious. “Then we make him listen. This isn’t just about clearing my name anymore, Tara. It’s about finally learning the truth… for both of us.”
The conviction in his voice steadied me. He was right. Morrison’s words could change everything, but the prison of not knowing was worse.
“Ready?” Xander asked, his hand finding mine.
I met his gaze, drawing strength from the determination I saw there. “Ready.”
We got out of the car and walked up the driveway side by side. The concrete path to the front door seemed much longer than it actually was, each step bringing us closer to answers we’d sought for over a decade.
At the door, we paused, exchanging one last look. “We’re in this together,” he hissed.
I nodded, squeezing his hand before releasing it. Then, before I could lose my nerve, I raised my fist and knocked on Rick Morrison’s door.
17
XANDER
I didn’t knowwhat I expected when the door swung open, but it wasn’t this—a man who looked like he’d been carved from weathered stone, his silver hair neatly combed, wearing pressed khakis and a polo shirt like he was heading to a retiree golf tournament.
Rick Morrison had the eyes of a man who’d spent decades watching people lie to him. Those eyes swept over us now, narrowing slightly as he assessed the threat level of the young couple on his doorstep.
“Can I help you?” His voice had the neutrality of someone who’d conducted thousands of interviews, revealing nothing while taking in everything.
