Kristen Ashley - At Peace

His house was dark again, no light on outside but I didn’t pause. I skipped up Joe’s deck steps and before I hit the top, his sliding glass door was opened.

He stood in it, bare-chested, wearing jeans, the top button undone. My breath caught and my step slowed as I walked to him.

He didn’t move from the door when I stopped in front of him and I watched, holding my breath, as his eyes travel the length of me.

Then his arm shot out and hooked around my waist, he pulled me inside and slid the door to.

His fingers glided into the hair at the side of my head and his chin dipped down so his face was close to mine.

“Baby,” he whispered, “you aren’t wearing any shoes.”

He called me “baby”.

And he was worried my feet were cold.

Yes, something was happening here.

I melted into him and put my hands on his neck.

“I couldn’t find any that went with my outfit,” I explained quietly.

His hand tightened against my scalp and I watched in sheer fascination as he grinned. I’d never seen it but from afar and that close, it was un-fucking-believable.

My stomach dipped but I didn’t get to enjoy the view for very long because his fingers pressed in, pulling my head up, I went to my toes and he kissed me.

The lingerie was pretty much a wasted effort. Joe liked it, I knew, because he growled when he saw it, but he didn’t take much time to enjoy it before he took it off.

He was just as energetic as last night and as insatiable and I decided he probably got a nap.

I had not, so after round two, I wanted more but I couldn’t hack it. I made this point by sliding off his body, snuggling into his side, wrapping my arm around his belly and resting my head on his shoulder.

His fingers gripped my hip.

“Buddy?” he called.

“Sleepy,” I mumbled.

His fingers gripped my hip harder then he turned into me, my head slid from his shoulder to his pillow and his other arm stole around me.

“Violet.”

“Yeah?” I whispered.

He didn’t speak but his body seemed weirdly tense.

I tilted my head back and looked at him.

“Joe?”

“No one calls me Joe.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you not like it?”

He didn’t respond.

“I like the name Joe,” I told him, moving in closer.

His arms got tight.

I kissed the base of his throat then my head settled back into the pillow and I fell asleep.

Joe Callahan woke with Violet in his arms.

This didn’t happen, ever. Even if he took a woman to his home, which was rare, she didn’t spend the night. On the more frequent occasion when he was in their bed, he left after he was done no matter how creative they got with asking him to stay.

He fucked them; he didn’t sleep with them, no exceptions.

He dipped his chin while opening his eyes and heard her hair move on the pillow. When he caught sight of her face, she was looking up at him.

Good fucking Christ, she was beautiful.

“Hi,” she whispered, her voice as sleepy as her fucking gorgeous face and he felt that one, single, quiet word in his gut and in his dick.

He didn’t respond and she didn’t seem to mind. She snuggled into him, tucking her face in his throat but her hand slid up his chest, her fingers moving to run gently along his jaw.

He felt her touch in his gut and dick too.

This was a mistake. A huge, fucking, mammoth mistake. Just like Kenzie but far worse. He knew it, he knew it the minute he kicked Kenzie out of his house, turned to Violet, saw her in those fucking ridiculous boots, sexy as hell nightgown and ratty robe and realized who she was, what she was and that he wanted her. He knew it when he walked across his yard while she was shoveling the snow and he explained himself, something he never fucking did. He knew it when he told Colt he’d take her home, knowing when he did he was going to fuck her and standing at her side in the bar, waiting for his opening, which she gave him again and again, looking so fucking cute, sucking on her straw and then, Jesus, knotting a cherry stem with her goddamned tongue. He knew it when she went hot for him the minute he kissed her then she begged for it rough. He knew it when he fucked her on his ‘Stang, no control, his brain in his dick. He knew it when she crossed her yard for him that first night he had her in his bed. He knew it the first time she took him in her mouth, not sloppy, fucking Christ, the woman could use her mouth. He knew it when she came on his face, no inhibitions, shit, but she was unbelievable and she was his. His. All of her, his.

But, most of all, he knew it the first time she smiled at him.

He knew this was a mistake.

“I need to go,” she mumbled into his throat and tilted her head back, pushing up a bit to come face to face, her hand cupping his jaw.

She did need to go, he needed her to get the fuck out of there but he still didn’t loosen his arms.

Then she tipped it.

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?”

There it was.

“I’m done,” he said and watched her blink.

“What?”

“Done,” he repeated and her head pressed into the pillow as she tilted it to the side in confusion.

“Sorry, I don’t –”

“With this, it was good, buddy, but I’m done.”

He felt her body lock in his arms as the softness of sleep and sex faded from her face and shock and pain replaced it.

His arms, not taking direction from his brain, tightened.

“Done?” she whispered and that shock and pain was heavy in that word.

“Buddy –” he started but she moved.

She tore out of his arms and crawled over him so fast even if he tried, he couldn’t grab her, but he didn’t try.

She pulled her robe on, didn’t bother with her underwear and nightgown, didn’t even pick them up from the floor, she left them where they were.

“Violet,” he called but she belted her robe and he watched her run, the robe billowing out behind her as she went.

He rolled to his back and put his hands to his face, swiping them hard against his skin as he listened to the sliding glass door open then shut.

It cost him to stay still, on his back, in his bed and not go after her. It carved through his gut, the pain acute. The only way to get rid of it was to fucking move, to follow her, to go and get her, to drag her right back.

But he took the pain and stayed put.

Then he rolled to the side and he could smell the scent of her fucking hair on his pillow.

Cal barely got the door to his truck shut when he heard his name.

His eyes went to the sidewalk and he saw Colt, dripping with sweat and coming back from a run, slowing to a walk as he turned up Cal’s drive.

Colt was breathing heavy but not hard, the man was in shape, even six years older than Cal, who was thirty-nine. Colt was built tough and stayed that way.

“Yo,” Cal greeted.

“Can we talk?”

Cal examined Colt’s face and he nodded at what he saw and led the way to his house, not looking toward Violet’s. It had been two weeks since that morning. He’d left the next day and hadn’t been back.

He let them in and Cal went to the fridge in kitchen. He took out a bottle of water and tossed it to Colt who caught it. Then he took out a beer for himself and twisted off the cap, flicking it into the open trash bin.

“We got a problem,” Colt announced after he sucked back some water.

“Yeah?” Cal asked and he took a pull of his beer.

“In the neighborhood,” Colt went on and Cal wasn’t surprised.

Tina Blackstone had hooked up with Cory Jones, a match made in hell. They’d been together on and off for awhile at the same time Cory kept going back to his on and off wife. It wasn’t pretty and it could get loud, though he wasn’t around much to hear it. Cal wasn’t surprised it had escalated into what Colt described as a problem. Tina was a bitch and Cory was a fuckwad.

“What’s up?” Cal asked.

“It’s Violet,” Colt answered and Cal felt that sharp pain carve through his gut.

“Violet?”

Colt leaned a hip against the counter, nodded and took another slug from his water, his face set at one emotion – unhappy.

Dropping his hand, he explained, “Got a call from a Detective Barry Pryor, Chicago PD.”

Fuck.

He didn’t want to know but he asked all the same, “About Violet?”

“Yeah,” Colt nodded. “Pryor was her husband’s partner.”

Fuck!

Past tense, that was not fucking good.

“Was?” Cal asked.

“Her husband was murdered, a hit. He was investigating a local big man, got too close, they whacked him about a year and a half ago.”

Cal clenched his teeth and looked out his front windows. He couldn’t see her house from his vantage point but that was where his eyes aimed.

Cop husband. Murdered. A hit. Now she was alone, shoveling her own goddamned snow and raising two teenage girls.

Jesus, fucking, Christ.

“It isn’t over,” Colt told him and Cal’s eyes went to his friend.

“Come again?”

“Pryor says that Violet caught this guy’s eye.”

Cal’s whole body went tight. She could do that, Violet could. She could catch anyone’s eye. He knew this because she caught his.

“Caught his eye?” Cal asked in a low voice.