Troy awoke in bed sometime later that night, convinced that someone was in the room with them.

Monica slumbered beside him. She had been asleep when he’d finally crawled into the sack around midnight, immersed in her new, dead-to-the-world stage of sleep that would have kept her unconscious even if a sonic boom had sounded outside their window. He had been grateful, actually, that she was asleep when he entered. He hadn’t wanted to encounter her accusatory glare.

If you’re really cheating on me, Troy, like I’m starting to believe you are, you’ll be the one packing your bags and getting out of this house . . .

He had no idea where she’d pulled insight that from, how she’d made the connection, and it troubled him. He had always been so careful, so meticulous in his deception, and she had never, ever questioned him. Until then.

It was a long time before sleep took him down.

But he was awake again, had emerged from another distressing dream about Grace. Someone was in their room. The only light in the bedroom came from the glow of their bedside alarm clocks, and the faint luminescence that framed the front window, the light drifting from a nearby streetlamp. Otherwise, it was too dark for him to make out anything but shadowy shapes.

Still, he felt a presence near the king-size bed, detected the displacement of air that hinted toward another occupant in the enclosed space.

The bedroom door was open, too. They slept with it closed. Always. Beyond the doorway, the corridor was dark as a cavern tunnel.

Blinking groggily, he twisted his head on the pillow. The bedside clock said 3:04. No one could be in their room at that hour. He must have been imagining things. He was on that blurry edge of unconsciousness, too tired to pull himself up and search the room.

Something shifted, just beyond the foot of the bed. The mattress creaked, and he heard the whispery sound of bedsheets drawn back.

And then he noticed a shape burrowing underneath the sheets, right between the juncture of his legs.

Am I dreaming?

Nimble fingers peeled away his boxers and freed his member. A soft, moist mouth closed over him, pulled him in deep.

A shiver coursed down his spine. Intense pleasure paralyzed him.

Using tongue and lips, the nighttime visitor worked him slowly, skillfully brought him to the throbbing brink of what promised to be a volcanic orgasm—and suddenly withdrew. The shape retreated down the bed.

He heard the whispery sound of movement across carpet. Gasping, trembling, Troy craned his neck, squinting to see.

The visitor was crawling on the floor.

Grace? he thought, fuzzily. The shape was too big to be anything but an adult.