James doesn’t want to leave the Porsche, but when I tell him about the pasta he comes along, hunger winning out over sports cars…this time. He then goes down for his afternoon nap easily with a belly full of milk and carbs. I leave Nila, Frank, and Blue with him and meet Mulberry at the dining room table—it’s still covered in weapons. There is a duffel bag with cash and paperwork. Petey Poppins thought of everything we might need. From the avocado toast to phony identities to Mexican pesos.
Mulberry’s hair is on end as if he’s been running his fingers through it. Sunlight pours in the large windows that face the curved drive. I glance out at the cactus-dotted landscape and Senator Jackson’s assassination comes back to me in vivid bloody detail. I close my eyes, taking a breath and letting the vision pass, knowing I can’t let it go.
When I open them, Mulberry is watching me. I shake my head a little, brushing off the images and letting him know I’m fine. His eyes run over my face, then down my body. He nods, as if making some kind of decision, and then stands. Mulberry circles the table toward me and I straighten. His purposeful stride setting off warning bells.
Mulberry invades my personal space, his hands landing on my waist, his grip almost bruising. “What—” but I don’t get to finish the question because he’s kissing me.
I stumble back, and he moves with me. My back hits a wall and Mulberry keeps coming, pressing his body against mine, pinning me in place.
His touch is rough and needy, his kiss starving. It calls to some deep part of me. Some lonely desperate facet of my shredded soul. My hands roam over his thick arms, fingers dancing over the scarring on his neck, and then dig into his hair, gripping it, my lust rising violently.
This is the way it’s always been between us, as if we are unleashing on each other. As if we spend our entire lives holding ourselves back, containing our baser instincts. But with each other, like this, we can finally let go. Be all of ourselves.
“Fuck, Sydney,” Mulberry says against my mouth, pressing his forehead to mine and stilling.
My grip tightens in his hair. He better not be trying to stop right now.
He licks his lips and I watch his tongue—anticipation stealing my breath. I want to bite him, to hurt him because I know the sound he will make. And that sound will do things to me…
“What?” I ask, urging him to speak his mind so we can keep going.
“I…”
“What?” My voice is edged with impatience and I shift, wriggling my body against his.
He grimaces like it hurts him. “I want you.”
“Yeah,” I huff a laugh. “I figured that out. I’m a detective, remember?”
He groans a laugh and closes his eyes. “Oh fuck it,” he says, crushing my mouth again, whatever protest or concern he had clearly not as powerful as the pull between us, the heat and the fire that is us.
Mulberry’s hands push under my shirt and I raise my arms—he tugs it off and throws it to the side, his lips finding my collar bone. He drops to his knees in front of me and I look down at him. His eyes find mine. “I love you,” he says. The words pierce my chest, a deep ache starting in behind my heart. Grief unfurls its talons, trying to find purchase. So much time wasted. So many moments missed.
“I love you too,” I say, cradling his face in my hands, my touch gentle, the texture of this moment shifted to something else, something old and yet new. Grief settles, unsure of what to do when I don’t fight it.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” Mulberry says my thoughts out loud.
“You won’t.”
He nods, accepting my promise even though we both know it’s one I can’t keep. But when the father of your child rises from the dead and asks to keep you forever, you promise him the future no matter what fate has in store.
He kisses my belly, tracing a path up my body. My eyes slip closed and he scoops me into his arms. I let out a laugh of surprise as he carries me from the room toward the stairs. “What are you doing?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Taking you to my bed,” he answers, not looking at me, his full concentration on his end goal as he climbs the steps.
“You’re so sure I’m a sure thing.”
He smiles. “A man can dream.”
Mulberry pushes into one of the spare bedrooms, kicking the door closed behind us. He starts kissing me again before we reach the bed. Then we fall onto it together. He pulls me up to the pillow, one arm still under my back, his knees digging into the mattress.
My head hits the pillow and Mulberry slows, the urgency of his touch gentling. His eyes find mine and he swipes his thumb across my cheek. He’s just looking at me and I want to look away but also feel trapped in his hazel gaze. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he says, his voice reverent.
“I know.” I slip my hands under his shirt, my right fingers touching scar tissue. He jolts but lets me continue. I move slowly, pushing his shirt away so that I can see. Mulberry shifts, kneeling to pull his shirt off. His eyes are blazing when they find mine again. I sit up, touching his shoulder lightly. He tenses but doesn’t pull away.
My gaze roams over the scarring. It licks up his neck, down his shoulder, engulfing his bicep and forearm but not his wrist and hand. It arcs across his pectorals and down the center line of his body, petering out before it hits his pants.
“I’m not the same either,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” he agrees, his hand cupping my full breast. The other is wandering down to my hip, thicker than it used to be. My body is softer. “I like it,” Mulberry says. “I like how you feel.”
“Me too,” I say, kissing the silky texture of his scar, running my tongue along one of the rough edges.
Mulberry shudders.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“Yes.” There is no pain in the word, not even resignation. “But it’s fine.” His hand comes up and cups my cheek, leaning down so he can kiss me again.