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the bathrooms. “Thank you, Father, for the offer, but I can’t stay. I have some errands to run. I’ll be back first thing in the morning and finish this stuff up then move onto whatever else you need.”
    “Thank you, son. For doing this.”
    Together they walked out to where the children were eating. Their eyes tracked him and while he nodded at them all, he still kept quiet. At the door, Father O’Toole put a hand on his arm. He glanced down at the pale hand resting on the black of his jacket, then the man’s face.
    “I can tell you are a quiet man and we’ll try to keep the questions to a minimum.”
    Sam opened his mouth, only to close it when Father O’Toole continued.
    “It’s okay, son. We’ll see you tomorrow. God be with you.”
    Sam headed for his truck then swung up into it. He stopped off at Wal-Mart and grabbed some clothes along with the items needed for the bathroom. Then he returned to Roxi’s.
    It wasn’t Dean Jr on the porch at Laila’s this time, it was the other two. Smoking and laughing while they drank beer. More dislike swarmed him and he activated the garage door button. He couldn’t explain his relief at seeing Roxi’s SUV in there. He parked next to her Tribeca and got out. Bags in hand, he went to the door and entered the house after the garage had been secured.
    Music filled the air, alternative with a nice pulsing beat to it. He made his way to his room—funny how easy it was to think of it that way—and set his purchases on the bed. Stepping back in the hall, he headed for the living room then on to the kitchen, where he froze as if he’d run smack into a wall.
    Roxi was mopping. She wore another pair of those thigh-hugging shorts, white ones, and a sweatshirt. Her hair hung free and he itched to sink his fingers in it and tug her head back, where all he had to do was lower his own and…
    His cock pressed insistently against his jeans. He loved staring at her and would have no problems continuing to do so—however, he also had no wish to freak her out.
    “Roxi,” he called, loud enough to be heard over the music.
    She screamed and jumped. So much for not scaring her. With a hand on her chest she stared up at him, eyes twinkling as much as the silver in her ears.
    “Well, shit, you scared me.”
    “I’m—”
    “No need to apologise. I thought I’d be done with the floor before you got back.” She reached for a remote and turned the music down. “I don’t normally have it set that high.”
    He knew she’d spoken but damned if he could follow the conversation. Her sweatshirt, medium grey, was another Marine one with four succinct words printed on it—‘The Few. The Proud’. His eyes drifted lower back to where the white of her shorts ended and the mouth-watering, hot cocoa hue of her legs began. Long and toned. He knew it would be some sort of heaven to have them wrapped around his waist as he stroked deep into her.
    The tension thickened as he watched her socked feet move closer.
    “See something you like, Marine?”
    He jerked his gaze up to find her eyes, a blended mixture of desire and amusement dancing in them, as she watched his face. The gentlemanly thing would be for him to apologise. Ask for her forgiveness for his behaviour.
    “Hell yeah.” His response was deep and guttural.
    What do you know, I’m not that much of a gentleman after all.
    “Good.”
    Their eyes remained locked as she put herself right before him. He was surrounded by the subtle scent of autumn. He watched her hands slide up over his chest until they rested on his shoulders, nails biting slightly into his skin. He didn’t mind.
    More. His body sang the command.
    More of her touch.
    He forced himself to allow her to continue setting the pace, to stroke her fingers along his shoulders and neck. When she applied pressure for him to lower his head, he followed the silent directive.
    Her eyes fluttered and began to close as his lips made contact with hers. Soft yet firm, they parted