And then a sound breaks the quiet. Soft. Muffled. Like crying.
I’m upright before I think, my bare feet pressed against the cold wooden floor. A kid? One of the twins? Rory, maybe? It happens sometimes with the little ones. I tug on a pair of old flannel sleep shorts and head into the dark hallway. The house breathes around me: quiet walls, the creak of old boards, the distant snuffle of Beau somewhere downstairs, and faint snoring.
The sound comes again, and my heart twists.
But it isn’t coming from the kids’ rooms.
It’s coming from Grace’s.
Her door is closed, and the noise is made of soft, fractured gasps that cut straight through me.
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the wood. If I knock, I’ll wake one of my brothers or cousins, or maybe one of the kids. My throat tightens. “Grace?” I whisper.
There’s no answer. The soft sounds keep coming.
I frown. Worry wins out over hesitation. I turn the knob. The door creaks open on a scene I could never have expected.
The room is bathed in moonlight, cool and silver, throwing soft shadows across the walls and the messy tangle of sheets on the bed. My stomach drops as my eyes adjust slowly to the scattered mess of Grace’s life spilled across the room: her laptop sitting precariously on the nightstand, screen reflecting a cold square of moonlight, a flannel shirt draped over the back of the chair, next to the wide-brimmed cowboy hat Lennon insisted on buying her, her pink lace bra hooked lazily over the bedpost. I swallow hard, dragging my gaze anywhere but there.
Grace isn’t sitting up crying like I pictured. She’s asleep. Deep under, it looks like. One arm flung over her pillow. Dark hair wild across the bed.
The sounds aren’t sobs.
They’re something else entirely.
I freeze, muscles going rigid as I realize what I’m seeing.
Grace shifts against the sheets, her hips rocking almost imperceptibly against a pillow wedged between her thighs. Her breath catches, low and soft. One bare leg slides against the mattress. Her oversized sleep shirt has ridden high over her hips, exposing enough smooth skin to send a jolt of raw heat straight between my legs.
She moans, long and deep.
Fuck.
I should leave. Turn around. Back out before this crosses a line I can’t uncross.
But I can’t. I stand frozen, breathing shallow, pulse thundering in my ears.
The next gasp is sharper. Grace shifts again, and my eyes drag unwillingly to where the thin cotton of her shirt has slipped, exposing the perfect curve of one bare breast, the tip tight and flushed.
I swallow hard, throat dry, and body aching.
My dick is already rock-hard against the thin fabric of myshorts, humiliation burning at the edges of the desire curling deep inside me. My hand twitches at my side, useless, aching. I want—God help me—I want to trace the curve of her waist, smooth my palm over the tension in her hips, steal the sound of my name from her mouth again. I squeeze my fists tighter to stop myself.
Leave. Now.
But I don’t.
The air is charged like the second before a lightning strike as Grace lets out another soft, broken sound, her hips grinding slowly as her body chases something even her sleeping mind won’t let go of.
“Mmmmm, ah, ah, ah.”
I’m rooted to the floor like a fucking criminal, mesmerized and disgusted with myself all at once.
Another low moan. I stagger back half a step, heart pounding out of rhythm.
Jesus Christ.
I don’t know how long I stand there, caught between wanting and fleeing, but then everything changes. Her body tenses, arching slightly, and the movement is elegant and desperate all at once.
