She tried to calm herself, then kept going, easing up the stairs, which seemed to creak loudly with each of her footsteps. What if she were wrong about being alone here? What if James had returned and parked in the garage—she hadn’t double-checked there—and even now was resting in his bedroom?

But the dog—the dog would have heard her, she reminded herself, every one of her nerves strung tight. No, she was the sole person here. The weird vibe she was feeling, that someone was watching her, that someone was actually in the house, was all in her head, her own paranoia at sneaking around uninvited.

On the upper story, she slipped into his room, where the light was even dimmer. Tiny bits of illumination filtered from the lamp on the front porch and reflected on the snow-covered yard.

She ran her fingers over the comforter on his freshly made bed, a task Sophia had insisted upon doing by herself.

Fine.

She hesitated at the head of the bed.

Do it. Do it now!

Almost angrily, she threw back the covers, exposing the sheets. From the front pocket of her sweatshirt, she retrieved the gun, James’s pistol, which she’d taken on an earlier visit to his dining room—not stolen, just borrowed—and loaded with a clip she’d located in a separate drawer.

A bullet was definitely in the chamber.

Carefully, she laid the Glock on a side table before stripping out of her hoodie, sweater, and ski pants and allowing the cold air in the bedroom to caress her skin. She toed off her boots and socks, then, her hair uncoiling in a rope down her back, she fell onto the bed, lying upon the cool sheets, his sheets, staring up at the ceiling, his ceiling in this, his room.

Slowly, Willow let out her breath.

This was so right. Where she was supposed to be.

She imagined him with her, his hands on her skin, skimming over her abdomen and breasts. Her nipples tightened, and to enhance her pleasure, she reached for the pistol, curled her fingers around it, and with her finger on the trigger, slid the Glock over her body. Cool polymer, so like steel it felt the same, slid up her legs and over her waist. Fear and lust, excitement and desire coursed through her blood, pounding in her brain.

Perspiration dotted her forehead and dampened her spine.

Stretching, she licked her lips, considering the feel of James’s mouth, hard and demanding, upon hers. Her breathing became shallow as she undulated, and she moved the muzzle of the gun downward again, past her navel.

Imagining she was with James . . . She could almost taste him, feel him . . . ooh.

As she touched herself, she felt the first spasm of pleasure rip through her body.

Then the next . . .

She dropped the gun, her fingers digging into the sheets.