And just like I predicted, it doesn’t take me long. I scream out his name as I wrap my legs around him, coursing through my climax and unable to breathe or move.

As we both come down from the high, panting and practically tingling over every inch of our bodies, he collapses on top of me. My hands stay above my head, but I want to wrap them around him so bad it hurts.

But I don’t.

One step at a time.

Chapter Thirteen

Rafe

There’s no rope on my door when I get off the elevator. Every day this week, I get off the elevator after work to a rope hanging on my door. It follows with dinner together and more boundaries being pushed in the bedroom. I feel myself falling without a parachute and the wind in my face is too fucking nice to worry about the landing. What will come of all of this, I don’t know, but every night when I have her on my couch and in my arms, I can’t find anything wrong with what we’re doing.

I haven’t completely let my guard down yet. Her hands stay to herself, and my clothes stay on, but we’re moving toward something that can’t be undone. And I don’t know if I should be feeling as good as I do about it.

I also haven’t had much of a chance to ask about Ezra either. I assumed it would be easier to just lead into questions, but with the way things are going, it’s like I’m putting the sex—or almost sex—at a higher priority than the questioning.

And that’s how I know I’m really fucked.

Nothing—nothing—has ever come before my job. And now I’m letting Ezra slide because I’m too caught up almost nailing his sister. Sex is fucking evil.

For this reason only, I should be relieved that my doorknob remains empty when I get home, but it actually has me worried. My first assumption is that she is tired of my bullshit and tired of trying to help me with whatever it is I fucking need. But then I remember that I give that girl about five orgasms a day, so I can’t imagine that’s the problem.

When I knock on her door, it’s only because I’ve learned from years on the force to go with my gut. Always. If something doesn’t feel right, it’s because there is something definitely not right.

Immediately, I hear her mumble, “Oh, fuck.”

“Shelby?” I call, turning the door handle. It opens easily and I peek in. She’s standing in the kitchen with her back to the door, and she turns herself away from me when I walk in.

“What’s wrong?” My voice comes out in a heavy, demanding tone, and I don’t mean it to. She sniffles, and I notice the half-empty bottle of wine on the counter next to her.

“I’m fine,” she says, but I hear the difference in her voice.