Love the Way You Kiss Me (Love The Way Duet 1)

Touching her as little as possible, I maneuver the robe from her shoulders, sliding it down without disturbing her. Ella is so warm. So soft. Everything I want to do to her strikes me as I focus on simply removing the robe. My hands ache with the urge to touch her and feel exactly how soft she is. I want to skim my hands up under her nightgown to her tits. I want to drag a fingertip around each nipple until it pebbles for me.

I want to put my hand around her throat. Not to constrict her breathing, just enough for her to feel it. No. I only want to hold her in my grip. It would be good for her. Maybe that’s the assessment of a broken man who is searching for excuses, but I think it would. Here in the dark, in her bedroom, I think it would be good for her. It would give her a sense of safety. If she can’t be in control, then I’ll be in control for her.

I bow my head instead of shaking it and ease the robe over her hips, down her thighs, all the way to her ankles.

And then I pull it off.

I watch her a moment longer, ignoring every sordid thought I have, and then I leave, closing the door behind me. I leave her in her bedroom, with all its pristine shelves and empty surfaces. There’s practically nothing in there. Sparse as a hotel room. Ella is the room’s most interesting feature.

My heart beats hard with new adrenaline. My shift isn’t over, and my to-do list isn’t finished. In the rec room I sit down on the couch and slide my hand under the pillow. The little bottle of alcohol is half-empty. This can’t have been the only one, can it? She didn’t smuggle in a single-serving shot.

There were probably more.

If I want to find out, I’m going to have to ask Damon. We work two days on, two days off. Silas and Dane take the days in between. Damon works the day shift on our days and there’s no doubt in my mind that she drank at least half this bottle today while he was here.

For a split second, I wonder if I should inform him at all. Partly to protect her from his future precautions, but also because I’d much rather punish her myself. Without prying eyes and paperwork.

The glass bottle stares back at me.

Do I throw this thing out or leave it where it is?

I think of Ella’s pale face. The way she crawled toward me. The hundred other small things she did that beg for protection. That beg for a second chance. I’m not going to fuck this up for her. A powerful urge makes me stand up from the couch. I need to protect her.

I picture her here, facing off with Cade as he questions her about the bottle and how she got it and if she has more alcohol. He’d insist on a session with her and the Rockford Center professionals. Her cheeks would flush, and her eyes would dart to mine, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I wouldn’t be able to deny her an escape, even if this is what I’m being paid to do.

Fuck. Fuck.

Taking long, deliberate strides, I go into the kitchen and throw it out. Bury it deep in the trash can. We’ve cleared the house, so no one is checking the garbage. And no one will check this time. The deceit burrows into my chest and throbs there like a kind of infection, but what the hell else am I supposed to do?

My options are to call for backup, document this transgression, or take care of it myself.

I’m choosing door number three.

Four-count breaths. Four of them. If the situation worsens, I will follow protocol. But tonight I’m going to allow her this one thing. This one last barrier between Ella and the world we’ve created for her. I’ll gift her this secret.

Which means …

Back in the rec room, I open my laptop. It hums to life, the keys cool under my fingers. It’s been off for most of my shift, but it boots up immediately like it’s been waiting for me. In a way, it has.

I go into the program that manages the security cameras. It takes a surprisingly small number of clicks to erase the two hours of footage. That footage includes our conversation, me finding the bottle for the first time, and me carrying Ella upstairs in my arms.

Guilt tightens my throat. I don’t know what to feel more guilty about—doing my job in an unorthodox way, or the things I’m feeling for the woman sleeping upstairs. It’s a storm of guilt. It’s an old wound ripped open, over and over again.

When the files are gone, I check the feeds.