I was grateful that Henry couldn’t see the effect those words had. Bed. Such a mundane word and yet I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since Mark. These past two years at Codex had passed in a blur of closing cases with Abe and stakeouts-and-tacos with Freya. I wanted to hunt down stolen books and trust my instincts again.
Take you home to bed.
“For all their faults, arguing over trash day and who didn’t load the dishwasher, I think Henry Thornhill would take very good care of a wife who just fainted from exhaustion,” I said.
The heat of his chest warmed my back. I slid one arm into the right sleeve, then the left.
“Yes, I think he would.” His deep voice set off goosebumps.
I knew how he would take care—bringing me tea, wrapping me in blankets, stroking my hair as I fell asleep. Our bed would be deliciously warm with the softest sheets, such a glorious contrast to the sensation of his hard body.
A husband like Henry would know how to wrap his arms around my waist in the morning; know how to wake me with his lips along my ear, my throat, my shoulders. A husband like Henry would know how to slip his talented fingers between my legs and bring me to a slow, lazy, decadent orgasm as dawn’s rays broke through our window curtains.
Henry’s breath caressed the nape of my neck. “Before we go,” he said, “I need you to know that I fully understand what you’re capable of. I know you don’t need my protection.”
His mouth lingered on my hair. A few tendrils of hair had caught beneath the coat collar. His fingers dipped beneath, freeing them, stroking the back of my neck.
“I liked that you stepped in for me,” I murmured. “Thank you.”
For one perfect moment, we stood there, not touching, just breathing in unison. When I finally turned around, Henry was right there. There was no one watching us—no case to work, no fake identity. I didn’t really need to step into his body heat, lay my hands on his chest, and brush my lips to his cheek. The scent of his skin, the play of muscle beneath his shirt, the muted sigh, low in his throat—it was a full body sensory experience.
I pressed my lips firmly now. A proper cheek kiss. “And thank you for catching me when I fell.”
“You knew I would,” he said, and there was no question about it. I had known he would. His large hand cupped my face, fingers sliding into my hair with a poetic devotion. I pulled back an inch, but that hand held me still, trapped my mouth close to his.
“I did know.” I beamed at him again, and his answering grin felt like a new beginning.
“If there are people fucking in here again, I swear to God—” A harried assistant stormed into the small room, forcing us apart. “Um…oh. Wait, were you—”
“We were just leaving,” Henry said curtly. “My wife and I had a splendid evening. Please give our regards to Ms. Whitney if you see her.”
As soon as he and I made it back outside to the busy city streets, the spell between us had been broken. Dorran and his limo were waiting for us, idling at the curb. Once inside, it was hard for me to meet Henry’s eyes—so I looked out the window instead. Avoiding the temptation I suddenly had to crawl across those seats and settle on Henry’s lap.
“I’ll, uh, call Abe,” I managed. “Give him the rundown on tonight.”
“Oh good,” he said. “We’re still on for tomorrow? Kicking my ass, so to speak?”
“Bright and early.”
We rode the rest of the way to Henry’s home in silence—and I distracted myself by counting every row home we passed. I didn’t need to make any more passionate mistakes this evening. When we arrived, he gave me a brief nod of goodbye.
“Good night, wife,” he said.
“Good night, husband,” I replied. I couldn’t begin to decipher his expression—but he held my eyes before slamming the door. As we drove off, I allowed myself a single glance out the back window, not surprised in the least that Henry Finch cut a striking figure beneath the glow of a streetlamp.
And that he was watching me too.
22
Henry
Delilah was the embodiment of agile strength.
She was blasting music and hadn’t heard me come in—didn’t notice me discretely watching her in skilled motion. Her stance was relaxed, left leg back, hands at her face as she jabbed at the bag. In the last week, I’d grown accustomed to Delilah in cocktail dresses and floor-length gowns. But there was something so intimate about her face, scrubbed of makeup, her loose tank top with a faded Temple University logo. Her bare feet and toenails painted chipped pink. It felt like I was seeing Delilah-on-a-Saturday-morning; the girlfriend I’d drag out of bed for brunch—then back to it for sleepy weekend sex.
She struck the bag so hard it rocked back.
All the blood in my body rushed south.
Something had changed between Delilah and me in that coat closet last night—a vital aspect had shifted. I’d been given a gift that I’d worked hard to earn. However small, I intended to hold on tight.
After a series of fast jabs, she spun around and finally saw me.
Her smile was astonishing.
“Hey,” she said, panting. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Didn’t want to scare you,” I said. “Have you taken out all of your aggression on that thing?”
She studied the punching bag, hands on hips. “I was planning on taking my aggression out on you, actually.”
She was joking—and so I laughed.
But she didn’t have to know what her sweet kiss had cost me—the effort not to haul her up against the nearest wall had probably taken years off of my life. Years and a bit of my sanity. The soft tendrils of her hair beneath my fingers had been as captivating as the gilded edges of a book. I’d had to stop myself from leaning in and smelling her.
And her lips on my cheek had been a seduction that kept me awake all night. Over and over, I’d reached between my legs to palm my cock, if only to quiet the persistent ache. I imagined those lips on my throat, on my chest. Wanted her beneath me—writhing as I pinned her down, scraping her fingernails down my back. Knew that if I ever got that woman into my bed, I wouldn’t stop making her come until she begged. But every time I let my fingers stroke, I stopped. Because it felt wrong in all the right ways to fuck my hand and fantasize about my beautiful coworker.
“Where do you want me?” I tossed my gym bag on the closest desk. Abe and Freya would be joining us in an hour, but until then it was only us.
“Take your shoes off and come over here,” she said. “I rolled out our old mats in case you fall.”
“Pretty big assumption that I’ll fall, right?”
“Pretty big assumption you think I won’t take you down.” She smirked. She indicated I should hold my hands out, so I did, letting her wrap my hands in protective tape.
“Tell me what you know about self-defense,” she said.
“Literally nothing.”
“Okay, newbie. I can’t speak for other private detective agencies, because I’ve only ever worked here, but Abe’s always valued having his agents be able to protect themselves.”
“Do you really think we’ll ever be in a situation where we need it though?” I countered. “Everything we’ve done so far has been safe.”