London

The ringing chime crashes into our sacred space, and I tense, reality seeping in through the cracks. I let the call go to voicemail, but the ringing starts again.

“Ignore it,” Grayson says, and he’s doing everything in his power to convince me to do just that. He licks the seam of my lips, fondles my clit, deepening the ache in my core.

“I can’t. I know it’s him.” I don’t have to say his name. The sudden rigidness coiling Grayson’s shoulders denotes he knows that I’m referring to Agent Nelson. “If I don’t answer, he’ll send agents to my apartment and here, or he’ll come himself.”

With a grunt, Grayson releases me and moves back.

This is difficult for him. Grayson doesn’t yield to intimidation, but he’s intelligent; he knows when to rein in his defiant nature.

I stand and hurriedly situate my clothes before I pad to the office. My purse is on the desk where I left it. I dig out my phone. Nelson’s contact flashes on the screen.

I brace myself. “Agent Nelson,” I address him formally. No need for pretense at this point. We’ve moved past the games.

“London, how are you?” His voice sounds edgy, strained.

“Fine.” I’m as tempered as bulletproof glass—unbreakable. Until I feel the current of Grayson’s nearness from behind. “Has there been a development?”

“What? No. Nothing like that. I hadn’t heard from you since you got back to Bangor.” An expectant pause hangs between us, what he’s leaving unsaid. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right. I had to pull Silks and Mahoney from your detail due to low funding at the crime scenes in Rockland.”

“That’s all right. I understand. I really am okay. There’s no need to waste agency resources on me.” Grayson’s chest presses against my back, his hands tentatively settle at my hips. His deliberate eavesdropping is distracting.

“You are not a waste of resources. I want you to know that I’m dedicated to your safety—that it doesn’t come second to the agency, despite the politics.” When I don’t respond immediately, he adds, “Are you at home?”

“No,” Grayson whispers in my ear as his hands rove to the backside clasp of my skirt.

“I’m not,” I say, talking over the sound of Grayson lowering the zipper. The rough pads of his fingers trail in its cool wake, nearly stealing my voice. “I’ve stayed late at the office. I have a lot of things to catch up on.”

When telling a convincing lie, make sure that it’s partly the truth. I glance at the Dali painting and, while my skirt slithers down my legs, feel more than exposed. My research into Grayson’s past preoccupies more than my daytime career.

Nelson assembles my statement into his own understanding. “You’ll bring your sister home,” he assures me. “You’ve sacrificed too much time fighting the system. Let it run its course.”

I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions and the feel of Grayson sweeping my hair over my shoulder. He lowers himself to press his lips to the nape of my neck as his hand snakes around to my belly, fingers dipping beneath the lace trim of my panties.

“Thank you,” I manage. “I do appreciate all your help in this matter, Agent Nelson.”

A lengthy beat, where I’m hyperaware of Grayson’s mouth, his heated skin, his touch, then: “About what happened in—”

“It was nothing,” I say, startled back into the conversation.

“No, it was inappropriate. My ego was too bruised at the time to admit it, but…London, this isn’t my MO. I want you to know that. This never happens, especially on the job.” I hear his weighted sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Grayson pushes closer, his mouth at my ear. “Tomorrow.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I understand. In fact, it’s my job to understand. I think we should meet tomorrow. If you’re available.”

“I’d like that.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “When I get back, I have a number of things to wrap up in Rockland, then I’ll call you.”

“Perfect. Talk to you then.” I end the call before Grayson maneuvers me right into the crime scenes. I set my phone on the desk. “Why am I meeting him?”

I grip the edge of the desk as he sinks to the floor, his hands mapping my body along his descent. The abrasive rub of his callused fingers over the silk of my bra and panties snags the fine material. “Because he’s your target,” he says, his hand sliding back up the curve of my thigh. “And because the agent is obsessed with you. He’ll find a way to see you, regardless. Better to make it on your terms.”

“He’s not obsessed with me.” My nails dig at the wood as his fingers slip under the edge of my underwear, finding the erogenous spot that makes my voice quaver. “He’s obsessed with you.”

He nips my flesh before he takes the elastic trim between his teeth, tugging my panties away from my body and slowly dragging them down. This time, he doesn’t stop until they’re snuggly around my ankles.

“One and the same,” Grayson says, getting to his feet. He flattens his palm over my pelvis, his other hand clears a space on my desk. “We’re a package deal.” Then, with sure, swift movements, he turns me around and hoists me onto the desk.

I plant my hands behind my back, bracing for balance, as Grayson hovers above. A predator looming over his prey. My gaze sweeps the diagonal scars on his sculpted chest. The tattoo sleeves reaching up his defined arms. I had fantasies that consisted of a scenario much like this during our sessions…and the realization that I’m here, in my office with Grayson, sends a thrill racing through me.

“You like pinning me to desks,” I say, a taunt in my voice.

That slight dimple carves his cheek, his rare, devilish smile making an appearance. “I love pinning you. Period.” He palms my face delicately and tilts my head back as he kisses my lips, savoring me. The coarseness of the starchy uniform slacks rubs against my clit, increasing the throbbing ache between my legs to a sharp pain.

I latch on to his neck to bring him closer, craving all of him at once.

My needy response steals over him with a hard shiver of restraint, then he’s grabbing my ass, fusing our bodies together. He lifts me off the desk with hardly any effort, only breaking the kiss to say, “I want you in that fucking chair.”

The guttural rasp of his voice grates along my skin like his brusque touch, his Irish accent bleeding through. I wrap my legs around his waist, locked to him the way his inked puzzle pieces link together. Uninhibited. Shameless. I grind against the hardness trapped in coarse pants that ignites my senses. Loving the feel of his strained muscles as he carries me to the therapy room to make good on his claim.

He collapses in the patient chair with me on top of him. This is a sacrilege to my profession. I’m spitting in the face of my practice.

And it feels cathartic.

I clutch the headrest, my hair an unruly veil shielding us, as Grayson works my bra off to bare my breasts. He’s not gentle, nearly shredding the flimsy material with unfettered need. The pressure isn’t enough, we’re too far apart still, and he grips the fleshy curves of my hips and forces me harder against his erection. Like starved and depraved savages, we tear at each other. Never enough.

We communicate without words. On a carnal level. Whether we’re fighting or connecting. Challenging each other or submitting to our weaknesses. Conversing or fucking. None of it matters on a topical level—we delve deeper, exploring the cavernous abyss of our psyche, what some might call the soul.

For people with limited emotional range, this is a frenzy.

In a fit of emotive overload, Grayson could profess his love or kill me with an equal measure of indifference. Both would satisfy his overstimulated state, and return him to his comfort zone.

I could fear what I know he’s capable of, but I don’t. His intelligence dictates that he’d never chance a risk like he did today, by coming here. He went against the grain of his nature in doing so. He’s here to reconnect, to feed the hunger that drives both of us toward an unknown destination.

It’s thrilling.

Frightening.

And neither one of us are capable of derailing this course now.

Once I jumped the tracks, I belonged to him, the same way exposing his innermost thoughts makes him mine. It’s more than trust—it’s dependence. We can no longer survive without each other.

Even in the face of discovery. Even with the threat of death.

Lydia would never survive this.

He’d devour her just as he’s devouring me now.

As Grayson ravishes my body, exposing his primal male nature, craving my flesh—I feel powerful. He’s reduced the smartest people to idiots with his mind, and the feel of him losing control beneath me nearly makes me orgasm.

His fingers drive into my hair, gripping at the roots to bare my neck so he can taste me. His stomach muscles flex under my touch as I feel my way down to the closure of his slacks. A sharp hiss lets me know that he’s just as wild with need as I am.

My heart thunders as I pull the clasp apart and yank his pants open. His unguarded thrusts work him free of his boxers, and I wrap my hand around his hard length, loving the way that one action twists his expression. Creased in a mix of pleasure and pain, his eyes flare with a silent challenge.

Lifting up, I slide my sex over his shaft…all the way up to the tip, slicking the smooth skin with my wetness. His dark groan encases us, the agony unbearable as my muscles clench to offset the achy need to feel him inside me.

He bears the torturously slow tease only a few seconds more before he meets the roll of my hips with an eager slam of his, stealing my breath and carving a blistering path right up the middle of my body.

A pleasurable shiver skitters down my back, replacing the spike of pain, and I’m lost—giving in completely as he guides my body to his brutal rhythm.

“God, fuck…” He’s streaming unintelligible profanities, breaking off only to thrust deeper, grip me harder to him, become one.

When the need becomes too much, Grayson kisses me passionately, and his arms anchor around my lower back. He hoists us off the chair and moves to the floor, spreading me out so he can drive inside me once more, eliciting a throaty moan.

My nails sink into his shoulders as he hooks an arm beneath my knee, positioning me where he can fuck me as hard and as deep as he wants with no obstruction. Every time he pulls out, my body rebels, a fiery spasm rolling through my muscles, my veins liquefying with the pulse of adrenaline pumping through my heart.

“Don’t stop,” I say, my breaths ragged around my shaky voice.

The impending climax grips me, the pain all-consuming until he fills me again. Every single thrust sends me spiraling. I arch off the floor, my body tensing, and the feel of him hard against my flesh, following in my wake, detonates a resounding orgasm.

All sounds mute as the tightness pulls everywhere, then the rush. My skin prickles, and still he drives in, one last time, rock-hard and throbbing against my walls. So fucking hot—I wrap myself around him as he groans into my neck.

Our breaths are heavy, merging together in the sudden stillness. The cool air is a relief to my flushed skin. The weight of his body resting on top of mine feels solid. Comforting. Then I feel the wetness trickle from the corners of my eyes. Shock snatches the air from my lungs.

I dab my temple, coming away with a trace of tears.

Grayson pushes onto his elbows, his gaze fierce.

“Adrenaline,” I say in explanation.

But the deep groove between his brows reveals his disbelief. He feathers my dampened hair away from my eyes, his finger tracing the tear track. I hold his gaze, trying to glimpse his thoughts. He says nothing as he presses his lips tenderly to my temple.

The action is so vulnerable, baring his wonder at my emotional state, that I’m awed by his perception. I desperately try to bank my introspective anxieties and place my palm to his cheek, questioning whether this sudden insight is true connection, or curated sentiment.

“What do you feel?” I ask.

His glacier blue eyes flick over my face. “Fascinated.”

It’s an honest answer. Most men would either downplay the moment, terrified, or overblow it, seeped in insecurities. Grayson cannot experience the emotional pull, but he’s aware of it—he knows it exists between us.

I let my hand drift to his back, run my fingers over the tattooed keyhole between his shoulder blades, outlining the patterns and numbers. I’m fascinated by him, too. I was the first moment I saw him.

I skim my nails through his hair, feeling the scars that are now hidden. “How did it happen?” The question slips out, thoughtless.

And just as quickly, Grayson’s open expression shutters. I read the pain behind his eyes before he shifts his gaze to the wall clock. “That’s another session, doc.”

Then his comforting weight is gone. He grabs the T-shirt off the floor and offers it to me. I use it to drape myself as I head to the office bathroom, snatching my blouse along the way. When I reemerge, Grayson is again dressed in the security uniform and standing in front of the filing cabinet.

A thought flickers through my mind; a question of whether this is the first time Grayson sneaked into my office.

Doubt is a terrible affliction.

“Is there something you need?” I ask as I gather my skirt and underwear from their discarded location. I finish dressing, forcefully pushing doubts aside.

“Yes. I need you inside Nelson’s head,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re already close to him. I can handle Foster.”

“Fine. But I should go.” I check my phone. “If agents are watching, anything longer than two hours is questionable.”

Grayson inclines his head, watching me closely. He stalks toward me, the darkened office concealing his features until he’s right before me. “Stay close to him, but if he gives you any proof that he’s the copycat and that he’s becoming unhinged, leave. Get far away.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.” He takes the phone from me and sets it aside on the desk. “I’m not worried about your actions. I’m worried about what I’ll do.”

I squint up at him. I hadn’t considered Grayson’s reaction to a threat against me personally. He’s never before had to confront an emotional overload. If Nelson hurt me…what would Grayson be capable of? What would that do to him?

“I understand,” I say.

He grasps my neck, his thumb searching out the pulse of my heartbeat. “Sometimes the past is just the past, London. It doesn’t have any bearing on us now.”

This is in response to my question earlier, and my distant behavior now. Grayson may only be able to impersonate feelings, to blend into society, but that intense study into it makes him a master at deciphering others’ emotions.

I’ve invested countless hours into the study, also. I know that what I glimpsed in the therapy room signifies importance—some tie to his past that he’s desperate to sever.

For now, I nod against his hand, then move into his arms, savoring the last seconds I have with him.

We all have secrets, and I can’t judge too harshly. I’m keeping certain truths from him. Some variations on our trap, and my research into his past. I’ve made a decision that could crumble our already unstable foundation. As his significant other, my actions are considered a betrayal. As his psychologist, that betrayal is far more offensive. This could do irrevocable damage not only to him—but also to us.

But if he won’t give me the answers, I now know where I need to go to find them.

To his homeland. To the one woman who gave Grayson this dark life.

His mother.