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.
“James!” she cried out, bursting with desire. She writhed and shivered. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . and then the frustration as she remembered she was alone.
Tears stung her eyes.
How pathetic.
She sniffed. Refused to cry.
No more.
She wouldn’t allow herself to be the victim, not again. Not ever.
Rolling over, she buried face deep into his pillow and breathed deeply. But she couldn’t smell his scent. No remnant of aftershave or male musk. Nope. Just the irritating fragrance of a clean pillowcase.
Nothing was working today!
Her fantasy just wasn’t complete.
Annoyed, she sat up and noticed that a hair had escaped from her braid and lay against the stark white of his pillowcase. She almost swept it away, but thinking twice, decided to leave it.
For James to find.
Or Sophia?
Or Rebecca?
The vengeful cockles of her heart warmed.
Surely, James’s interest in Megan’s sister was fleeting, maybe just the result of some weird need to comfort her, possibly even because he felt guilty about Megan going missing.
Eventually, though, he would come to his senses.
Eventually, he would understand that he and Willow were destined to be together.
Eventually, Willow thought, he would be hers.
But she would have to be patient. As she’d been all of her twenty-two years. Always overlooked, always outshone, never in the spotlight. Especially when her sister was around. From her birth, she’d never measured up, had never been as smart, or as cute or as charming as . . .
Don’t go there.
Pushing onto her elbows, Willow reminded herself it was time to leave. If she didn’t want to get caught, she needed to make tracks. James could return at any moment, and she would have trouble explaining why she was here, naked in his bedroom.
That would ruin everything.
She leaned over the side of the bed to pick up her clothes, and as she did, her phone fell out of the pocket of her hoodie. She scooped it up automatically, intent on tucking it away again when inspiration struck.
Why not a memento?
A selfie?
Yes!
Without thinking twice, she leaned back on the bed, and adjusted her braid to fall over one of her bare breasts, coyly exposing the nipple, just a bit. Then, angling her chin just right, she stared at the camera and snapped several pictures of herself in different poses. One on her back; another on her stomach looking over her shoulder; then, just her boobs, no face, just the tip of her braid visible; another of her naked buttocks again with her braid; and finally her bare breasts, the Glock, barrel pointed up at her chin, placed between them, her braid wound around its handle. Oh, Lord. How phallic was that?
Her own private gallery.
She giggled.
Someday—please God—she would share them all with him.
And they would make their own. Together. Maybe even a sex tape. She tingled at the thought of filming him with his muscular back covered in sweat, his eyes fixated on hers as he pried open her willing legs and . . .
Her heart swelled as she pictured it, and the pulsing in her private parts . . . mmmm.
Oh, love, soon!
For now, though, she’d keep these to herself. The only person she dared confide in was Zena, who was her best friend and coworker, but no. Not yet. Zena had changed with her pregnancy, and Willow wasn’t sure she could be trusted, not with something like this.
She could possibly tell her sister, but if she spilled the beans about James tonight, Willow was sure to get a lecture, and God knew she didn’t need that. She’d had enough over the years from her older and—ugh!—wiser sibling. No need to suffer through that kind of torture, not again.
For a brief second, Willow considered staying here, in his room, in
