Chapter 26
VAUGHN
The garden shed is barely larger than a prison cell.
The comparison comes and goes before I can stop it. Four walls, a sofa bed, a window, a bed. Like Riley’s room in the safehouse, only with floral bedding and a pleasant scent coming from a small dried bouquet on the window frame.
We convert the sofa so we can lie on it. Riley sits on the edge and takes off her sneakers. She places them neatly side by side under the window. Then she pulls her legs up and leans against the headboard.
"Your parents are good people," I say.
"My parents." She repeats the words as if she has to get used to the sound. "My real parents. It feels so strange to say that."
I sit next to her. The mattress squeaks under my weight. Through the window, I see the light in the Thompsons' kitchen, still burning. Loraine is likely clearing the plates. Howard is probably still sitting at the table, processing this evening that has turned his whole life upside down.
"Howard wants to punch me in the face," I say.
"He’s too polite for that, I think."
"He has very large hands."
Riley laughs. It’s a quiet, exhausted laugh, but it reaches her eyes. She turns her head to me and studies my face.
"You were different tonight," she says. "At the table. With my parents."
"In what way?"
"Human." She tilts her head. "You listened. Truly listened, not that analytical listening where you check every word for usable information. You asked Howard about his wooden bench, and you meant it."
"It’s a good wooden bench."
"Vaughn."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." Her voice is soft. "Thank you for coming along. Thank you for letting my father stare at you without looking away. Thank you for bringing Valentino sandwiches. Thank you for—" Her voice breaks slightly. "Thank you for bringing me here. To them."
I look at my hands. Hands that operated keyboards to steal Blackstone’s secrets. Hands that slid a postnuptial agreement into the inner pocket of a blazer while a drunken woman slept beside me. Hands that don't deserve what Riley is giving me right now.
"Riley—"
"Don’t say anything now." She slides closer. Her hand rests on my knee. "Tonight, I don't want to talk anymore."
"Then what?"
Her lips find mine in a kiss that falls like a silent rain—gentle, unhurried. This kiss demands nothing, conquers nothing, and proves nothing; it simply exists, warm and open, as if she were giving me the last remains of her walls with every soft brush of her tongue.
My thumb glides over her cheek, still salty from the tears of the evening, and she leans into the touch, letting her eyes close and exhaling as if something heavy she had carried for weeks was finally dissolving.
"I want to feel you," she breathes against my mouth, "not wild, not fast—just you, very close, very real."
Slowly, I pull her T-shirt over her head, letting the fabric slide to the floor like a forgotten skin. In the pale moonlight seeping through the small window and mixing with the golden shimmer of the distant streetlamp, her skin glimmers like polished moonstone.
My lips wander over her shoulder, lingering at the delicate hollow where her collarbone meets her neck, and dappling kisses on the seven freckles that lie like scattered stars on her shoulder blades.
With steady fingers, she opens my shirt, button by button, without the trembling from before.
The fabric slides off my shoulders, and her palms press flat against my chest as if she wanted to capture my heartbeat.
Her thumb traces the old scar over my ribcage, a rough line telling of a long-forgotten night.
"Where did that come from?" she murmurs.
"A knife. Nineteen. Wrong neighborhood, wrong time."
"Does it still hurt?"
"No."
"Liar." Her lips touch the scarred area, and a deep shiver rolls through me like distant thunder.
We undress and lie down on the sofa bed.
Lying on my side, I watch her while she rests on her back, arms loosely crossed over her head.
No hiding, no shame—just Riley, naked and fearless, her breasts rising with every breath, the dark peaks already firm and inviting, her skin covered in a delicate glow.
"You’re beautiful," I whisper.
"And dangerous, you once said."
"Both at once."
Her smile, crooked and disarming, pulls me toward her. I kiss her deeper, letting my mouth wander over her neck, down across her collarbone to her breasts. My tongue circles one peak, drawing it in, teasing it gently until a soft sigh rises from her throat, soft as wind in dry leaves.
At the same time, my hand glides lower, over the gentle curve of her stomach until my fingers reach the warm, silky moisture between her thighs.
I part her carefully, sliding two fingers inside her and letting my thumb glide in slow circles over her most sensitive spot.
Her hips rise toward me, her breath becomes deeper, softer, a steady flow drawing me in.
"Vaughn," she breathes my name.
While my fingers continue to dip into her in this leisurely rhythm, my mouth wanders lower, kissing her stomach, the delicate hip bones, the insides of her thighs.
She opens further, letting her legs fall apart, and when my tongue finally finds her most sensitive spot, as I lick, circle, and gently dip into her, a low moan escapes her, filling the silence of the shed.
I take all the time in the world, savoring every drop of her arousal, feeling her grow wetter, her internal muscles pulsing around my fingers.
Her grip in my hair tightens, her hips swaying in small, undulating movements against my mouth until her breath breaks into short, trembling gasps.
"Come to me," she whispers finally.
I straighten up and slide over her. Our gazes merge. In her green eyes shimmers something deep that I don't deserve—forgiveness, trust, a warmth that reaches deeper than anything we’ve shared so far. Slowly, I enter her, inch by inch, until her heat fully envelops me, tight and silky and complete.
We both close our eyes because the intensity of this moment can only endure one sense at a time.
I push deeper until our bodies merge seamlessly, and we linger like that for a breath, connected, breathing, feeling.
Then we begin to sway—slowly, deeply, in a rhythm that feels like the natural flow of waves.
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me even closer.
Her arms lock around my neck, forehead to forehead.
Every thrust is deliberate, prolonged, as if I wanted to savor every millimeter of her.
I feel her internal muscles encircling me, milking me, her moisture making our movements more fluid.
Her nails draw soft lines across my back as we lose ourselves in this timeless dance, skin to skin, heart to heart.
"Stay," she whispers at my lips.
"I’m staying."
"Promise."
"I promise."
Her muscles contract tighter around me, rhythmic and pulsing, and I feel her coming—quietly this time, not with a scream, but with a long, trembling exhale that sounds like pure relief.
Her whole body quivers beneath me, her hips pressing against mine, her inner walls milking me in undulating contractions.
I follow her, my climax rolling through me like a warm, deep wave that doesn't destroy, but carries.
I release into her, deep and hot. Afterward, we lie entwined on the old floral bedding.
Her head rests on my chest, my arm wrapped around her shoulders.
Through the window, I see the moon peeking through the clouds and disappearing again.
Riley breathes steadily against my chest. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my skin, circles and lines without meaning, except that they are there and touching me.
"Vaughn?"
"Hm?"
"Loraine’s cat is named Marvin."
"Yes."
"Marvin is a good name for a cat."
"Better than Pixel?"
"Different from Pixel. Pixel was the cat I wasn't allowed to keep. Marvin is the cat that belongs to my parents." She snuggles closer to me. "Someday I’d like to have a cat. When we have a home."
When we have a home. Not when I. When we.
I press my lips to her hair and close my eyes.
Tomorrow I have to tell her we need to move on. That Dominic Cross is following our trail. That the safety of this small house with the blue roof is only an illusion that will shatter in two days at the latest.
But tonight, a woman holds me in her arms, speaking of cats and a shared home as if both were a matter of course. And I hold her tight, thinking that I would be lying to her if I promised her that.