Brooke wore a strange expression coming out of the bathroom. Her face was bunched up questioningly, and she constantly pulled at the small necklace she wore. She walked out, unsteady on her feet, her hands shooting out and away from her, as if she had trouble keeping her balance.

Did I just mess up her walking straight? She looked a bit sex-stoned, and walking side to side. That shit right there made my chest swell. I watched her—ready to jump up and catch her if she fell.

She was quiet as she walked toward the bed. She had put my brother’s shirt back on, but it did nothing to hide her. It fit just as sexy as if she wore nothing. She pointed to my dresser, with a deep crease between her eyes, “Can I borrow a shirt? One that fits better? I, um…I should go clean my apartment, do laundry, and clean my apartment, you know?”

“I’ll help,” I said, pushing my body to sit up. My muscles felt like rubber, my hands still needing to slide over her skin. My mouth couldn’t get enough of her taste.

Brooke looked up from the drawer, one of my tee-shirts clutched in her hands, and her eyes wide. She didn’t say a word, just stared at me as I stood, letting the sheets fall back toward the bed.

She mumbled something and looked away, quickly.

I smiled at the burst of red across her cheeks. It felt good to have a woman in my bed like that, one that blushed after we’d just had sex, one who can’t walk straight, because it felt so good.

Naked, I walked toward the dresser, stopping to stand next to her. Brooke’s stare snapped away from me, eyes wide and stunned, boring her focus into the ceiling. I choked back a laugh, and slid in front of her, pushing between her and the open drawer.

She gripped my shirt tighter, her knuckles whitening as her blush darkened and traveled to the tips of her ears. “You really don’t have to—” she mumbled, and then stopped, looking too shy to continue the sentence.

“I know, Brooke,” I said, pulling out some clothes for myself to wear. “Thing is, I want to,” I said, cocking my head directly in front of hers, so she’d see I wasn’t just saying bullshit to her. It was understandable if she felt like I was just going to let her walk out of here without any questions answered—it’s what Captain Anderson did to her. But I wasn’t anything like that white shirt pussy bouncer.

Brooke looked up at me with the saddest expression I had ever seen, and my chest ached. Her lips moved to form words, yet no sounds came out.

“You okay?” I asked, sliding my thumb over her trembling chin.

“Yes,” she replied with a thick voice.

“Should we talk about what just happened?” I asked, trailing my thumb over her jaw and gently cup my fingers over her neck.

“Nope, no way. I’m still processing.”

“Me too,” I smiled, replaying her moans and the way she moved underneath me. I swore my dick was ready for another round. That feeling hasn’t happened to me in years. “But, I’m sensing you’re freaking out and at some point you’re going to need to tell me exactly what you’re thinking.” Leaning down, I brushed a soft kiss across her lips and felt the pulse in her neck thud wildly against the palm of my hand.

“I will. I promise,” she said, clearing her throat and stepping back. “Just give me some time to figure out…things.”

“Okay,” I said with a smile. “Take all the time you need.”

She had an hour to put her head back on straight--that’s exactly how long I was giving her.

We dressed in silence—walked past the mess in the kitchen without a word to one another—even drove quietly to her place in separate cars. I watched every move she made, every hand gesture, every sound, anything to try and figure out what her thoughts were in the solitude of her mind. She held her head high, chin up, but then she’d wilt and her shoulders would crumple in. She’d bite at the sides of her nails and rub constantly at the back of her neck. Her fists would ball up, open, to only close again fast. Whatever war she was fighting with herself, she seemed to be losing.

She walked ahead of me, eyes not meeting mine, and when we got to her apartment, her behavior only got worse.

For a while she was silent—storming through the house like a whirlwind—sweeping up every item that she deemed had been touched by the situation and slammed it into the garbage. Hours of silence turned into growls and curses mumbled under her breath.

“Brooke,” I said, grabbing her by the shoulders as she threw a full garbage bag clear across the room. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she snapped.

“So, you usually act like an out-of-control bitch when you’re home?” I asked, jokingly.

“Did you just call me a bitch?” she stammered, spinning around on me.

“You just threw a bag of garbage, a freaking heavy one, right at me. I wouldn’t call that being sweet and endearing.”

“What? I did?” she said, her eyes scanning the mess of the garbage that fell out of the bag. “Shit,” she said, collapsing down onto the couch and hanging her head in her hands.

I sat next to her and tugged at her arms until she was leaning over me, resting her head on my shoulders. “Let it all out, come on.”

“I’m just waiting for everything to fall down around me. My career is over. You don’t get it. And I’m asking myself if I’m falling for the same shit over and over again. Picking the wrong guy.” She straightened and leaned far away from me. “I think you’re perfect, but I thought Harris was too, do you understand that? I had no idea he was doing anything wrong. I just wanted more of him and most of the time I didn’t think it was wrong. That leaves me to question what the fuck is wrong with me? What if I’m wrong about you too?”

“No, you’re right, Brooke. Definitely. I am pretty perfect,” I answered, smiling.

“And you make a fucking joke out of everything!” she said, jumping off the couch and bolting into the kitchen. I sprang up right after her and followed her inside.

“I need space,” she murmured in front of me.

“For what exactly?”

“To process!”

“Process?” I asked, cupping my hands around her face and pulling her in for a kiss. She didn’t even hesitate—didn’t pull away—just kissed me as hard as I kissed her.

Then, she was gone, shoved away from me, laughing in a bitter self-deprecating way, “You want to fuck me, because you saw those photos, right?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I want to fuck you to erase those pictures in my head. In your head.” I gripped her wrists and slowly pulled her back to me. Her mouth opened and closed, struggling to find words.

I brought our bodies together until our foreheads touched, and she was squeezing her eyes closed and entwining her fingers through mine. Her breaths became shallow and her body languid, “I really wish you could,” she laughed bitterly and stepped back, turning away.

“Let me try,” I whispered, making her stop mid-step and hang her head low.

Stepping forward, I slid my hands around her waist, and brought her head back up against my chest. “Tell me want you want,” I said slipping my fingers around her waistband and yanking down her pants.

Her gasp was small, but her answer was loud. “You. Ryan. I want you.”

“Lean down over the table,” I said, lifting her shirt over her head and bending her forward over the table. She slid her arms over the surface and let out a small moan.

I leaned over her, trailing my lips over her spine. Her breath hissed out a cry with my name on it, and I was instantly hard. “Pull this knee up on the table, Brooke.” My voice whispered against her skin, as I gently pushed her right leg over the top of the table, keeping the other one on the ground, spreading her wide open for me.

I sank to my knees and feasted on her wet flesh until she was gasping and squirmy, pushing herself hard against my mouth.

“Please, Ryan. Please…I need…” she chanted over and over, stumbling over the words.

Standing up, I slid my pants down and buried myself inside her with a growl. “This what you need?” I said, thrusting myself deeper and faster.

“Fuck…yes…” She groaned, her breath heavy and rasping.

She arched her back leaning her palms on the table and moved herself over me, grinding and rotating, getting me closer and closer to exploding.

Sweat broke out on my forehead. It glistened over her shoulders and at the nape of her neck. “Harder,” she begged.

“Yes ma’am,” I chuckled, gripping onto her hips and pushing into her so hard and fast that she screamed out my name, pleading for more. Our pace quickened until she was convulsing over me in a rush of warm, wet heat until I couldn’t hold off any longer, collapsing with intensity over her.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, rolling out from underneath me. She grabbed for a towel from over her sink and balled it in between her legs. “I’m so damn dizzy; I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

Laughing, but pretty unsteady on my own legs, I scooped her up, throwing the stupid towel behind us.

“But, I’m all wet,” she laughed, trying to reach for the flying towel.

“Yeah, babe. You are, and it’s sexy as hell that it’s because of us.”

I carried her into her bedroom and laid her on the bed, kissing her softly on the lips. She settled under the covers, and I tucked them up to her chin.

“You’re not coming under the covers?” she asked, softly.

I looked behind me, trying to remember where the hell my clothes went.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, raising her head off the pillow.

“I figured you’re still processing.” I smiled, sliding my hand along the shape of her leg beneath the blankets.

“I am Ryan. I’m overwhelmed by all of this, but please stay,” she said sleepily. “For a little while.”

She fell asleep a little while after I agreed. Left alone with my own thoughts, I decided on a shower. Once under the hot jets of water, images of her filled my mind, but they weren’t the kind I wanted to be thinking. All I could think about was the look on her face when she sat in her kitchen as all the people she knew saw her raw and bare, beyond vulnerable. She held in more tears than she’d let out in front of everyone, and I was in awe of her strength in not crumbling completely.

She was ashamed and embarrassed, but she didn’t show any fear. She wasn’t afraid to be hurt or humiliated; she was upset about not being allowed to do the job she loved to do.

My shower didn’t last nearly as long as I wanted it to. Within minutes, the warmth of the water was gone and what felt like ice pelted me from above. Damn old houses. I’d have to talk to Dean about checking on the hot water heater.

I dried off quickly and redressed in the clothes I’d flung all over her kitchen. Looking at the table, I laughed, loudly. I’d forever remember her on it with her perfect ass in the air sliding over me every time we’d sit there from now on. Just wait until we had Dean here for dinner; I wouldn’t stop with the uncomfortable jokes. I lived for making people feel awkward.

Roaming around the apartment, I scanned over the belongings she had that weren’t ruined from the break-in. One entire wall of her living room was lined with shelves, holding books and picture frames, even some small pewter figurines. There was a triangular desk in a corner, home to her laptop, strangely untouched in the home invasion.

Looking at it from the corner of my eye, I noticed a yellow manila envelope on the floor—between the back of the desk and the wall. I pulled it up and turned it over, reading the label on the front. Brad Dietz, Private Investigator. Inside were another two pictures we’d missed. Personal ones, where Brooke’s back was arched and her eyes were lidded, straddling a faceless man in the backseat of a car. Who ever had these photos done was having Brooke followed by a PI?

Angrily, I tossed the pictures down on the desk. A strange red tint stuck to the tips of my fingers, and I brought them to my nose and sniffed. Spray paint. The same spray paint that was tagged all over her walls. I’m sure they’ll find prints on the evidence they brought to the lab. That shit was viciously sticky.

But why was someone following her? What did it have to do with Captain Anderson or the cadets? Was Anderson following her? Pulling out my phone, I quickly Googled Brad Dietz and saved his address in my browser. Was Anderson tailing her to see what she was doing? Who she was spending her time with? Was he jealous? Could the same person have killed the cadets or were they unrelated?

A soft creak in the wood floorboards caught my attention. When I looked up, Brooke was standing in the doorway, watching me. She wore a huge sweater that hung off one shoulder and a pair of ripped up jeans, making her look child-like and vulnerable.

“What are you looking at?” Her voice was haunted.

“More pictures,” I shrugged, pointing to where I’d found them.

She didn’t like that.

“Not the pictures really, the back of them. And the envelope I found them in.”

“Envelope?” Her hand clasped at her chest.

“Yeah, it’s got an address for a private investigator. I think maybe Anderson was having someone follow you.”

She stiffened, muscles suddenly rigid. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered the words, as if she herself was having trouble believing them.

“I don’t like this Brooke.”

Her skin paled and outside the whoop of a siren chirped.