My entire world narrowed to Farrow, his hand, and his eyes. The leather couch creaked beneath us.
My hips ground against his hand. He adjusted his grip, and the change forced out a tiny, almost inaudible moan. I continued to look into his eyes but barely held on.
“Stay with me, babe.”
He knew what was about to happen.
I stayed with him, and the rhythm of my hips matched the relentless pace of his hand. My eyes closed.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open, and my abs tensed. My breath turned shallow, and heat radiated beneath my skin. Farrow watched the flush spread across my chest and collarbones.
“I’ve got you, Dane.”
I came against his hand with my forehead pressed against his shoulder. A single broken vowel burst out of my chest before I could close my throat.
Farrow heard it. He was waiting for it.
He kept his hand moving, and he watched me squirm when the touch became unbearable.
He drew his hand up out of my jeans and wrapped both arms around me, pulling me down. He held me against his chest while my breathing slowed.
Farrow gave me another minute. Then he eased me up off his chest, sat up beside me, found my hoodie on the floor and put it back in my hands.
“I’ve got the floor,” I said. “You sleep.”
“Dane—“
“Don’t argue.”
“He didn’t.”
I left the room. Halfway down the stairs, I had to grip the bannister and work my breathing back to baseline. The phone in my pocket buzzed.
When I reached the landing near Reed, I read the message.
Eamon:Henry just sent Cabot a request through the family attorney. Wants a private meeting before the wedding. Says he has something to say.
I looked at the screen, considering. Then I went back upstairs to wake Farrow up. He was still sitting in the office. I held the phone up so he could see the screen.
He read it twice.
“When do you get that?”
“Two minutes ago.”
“Cabot first. Then Wiley,” Farrow said.
I followed him down the stairs. The parlor lamp was off, and the wing chair was empty. The book Cabot had been reading was face-down on the side table, spine cracked, with the whiskey glass empty beside it.
I reached for my sidearm.
Farrow put a hand on my forearm. “Kitchen.”
Cabot was sitting at the small kitchen table. He had a water bottle beside him. He’d uncapped a pen and was writing in his small, even hand.
When we reached the doorway, Cabot looked up. “I’m trying to remember every detail of my interactions with Henry.”