A Reason to Believe (29 page)

hand. “Please.”

Matt withdrew his fingers and reached down to

line himself up.

The thick head of his cock strained against the

small hole and then slowly stretched and breached

it. Kiernan made a strangled sound, his neck

bowing and his elbow moving more quickly,

picking up speed as he stroked himself harder.

Matt eased forward carefully, but he could feel the

tight clench of Kiernan’s body around him, the heat

that even the latex encasing him couldn’t diminish.

When he was fully sheathed and his balls were

resting against Kiernan’s ass, he paused and fought

to control his breathing.

Kiernan squeezed down around him and pushed

back. “Fuck me.”

The very thin thread holding Matt’s control

snapped. He leaned forward and wrapped his arm

around Kiernan’s sweat-slicked waist, pulled

almost all the way out and slammed back in. The

headboard bounced loudly against the wall.

Kiernan cried out and pushed back, rocking into

each thrust. Everything became a fearsome,

desperate drive to the finish. The sight of

Kiernan’s head thrown back urged Matt to lick the

exposed tendon connecting throat to shoulder. He

reached up to grip the headboard. Sounds filled his

ears—his own loud, fast breathing, Kiernan’s

moans and sharp cries, the squeak of the bed frame

and the thump as it bounced rhythmically against

the wall.

But crowding out all the rest was the heat of

Kiernan’s body, tight around him, and the taut ass

arched back to meet each thrust, pushing against

Matt’s pubic bone. When the grip went almost

painfully tight around him, and Kiernan managed,

“Matt, I…I’m gonna…” everything tunneled down

to a rush of pleasure. Heat streaked down Matt’s

spine, and he pushed Kiernan facedown into the

pillows and fucked him, rhythm lost, grace

abandoned, as he gripped both hard shoulders in

his hands and lost his mind.

Chapter Thirteen

Matt had never blacked out during an orgasm

before. But it was the only explanation for coming

back to awareness to the sound their breathing,

labored and irregular, and the feel of slick,

shuddering muscle beneath him. After a few

minutes Kiernan shifted, and Matt fought for the

presence of mind to withdraw carefully before

falling onto his back at Kiernan’s side. It was a

while before he trusted his voice.

“That was—” Matt stopped, no idea what to

say.

“Yeah, it was.” A hand groped his wrist and

slippery fingers linked with his. “Matt?”

Laboriously, Matt managed to turn his head. He

found Kiernan looking at him, his face flushed and

his eyes bright.

“Yeah?”

“Now, I’m hungry.”

Matt was surprised he had the strength left to

laugh.

Midnight snacks consisted of a huge bowl of ice

cream for Kiernan and a beer and pretzels for

Matt, sitting side by side on the sofa in their

underwear, watching the late-night version of

Sports Center
on ESPN. Kiernan’s eyes were avid

on the screen and he made comments about the

hockey scores and the possibility of the Jets

making the play-offs, all of which Matt replied to

with what he hoped were sounds demonstrating he

was paying attention, even as his mind was in

turmoil.

He’d never been a saint. Before he’d met Brad,

he’d fucked around. A lot. And he’d never felt

particularly apologetic about the fact. Brad had

known who he was, and who he’d been. In fact, it

had been something of a joke between them. Brad

preened in a very good-natured way about how

he’d reformed a self-described man-whore. And

Matt had smiled at him benignly, frankly surprised

to find he’d never felt the urge to stray, not even

once, while they’d been together. He could freely

acknowledge love had made amazing changes in

him.

But he also hadn’t felt the need to get back out

there since Brad had been gone, either. Until

Kiernan, he hadn’t seen anyone who’d piqued his

interest in a year and a half. He wondered if it was

the return of his sex drive, so quickly and

forcefully, that had him feeling unsettled, or if even

now he felt he was cheating on Brad. Whatever it

was, as they sat side by side on the sofa, his post-

orgasm euphoria faded.

By the time they turned off the television and

headed for the bedroom, his answers to Kiernan’s

questions had descended to inarticulate grunts and

he was avoiding eye contact.

Back in bed, he was lying on his back staring up

into the darkness when Kiernan rolled onto his

side, facing him. Matt could feel his eyes on his

profile. The silence between them was thick.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know,”

Kiernan murmured.

Matt frowned. “I know that,” he said shortly.

“Do you? Because you act like a man with a

guilty conscience.”

Irritation flared, but he couldn’t blame Kiernan

for what even he could see was an irrational

reaction. He swallowed. “I know it doesn’t make

any sense—”

“It makes all sorts of sense,” Kiernan countered.

“I’m the first since Brad, right?”

Matt closed his eyes and nodded. Kiernan

stroked his hand gently down the center of his

chest.

“Well, I’m honored. If you didn’t feel you were

somehow being unfaithful to him, I’d wonder about

you. But you have to believe me when I tell you,

those who go on don’t begrudge those they leave

behind finding happiness with someone else.”

After a pause, Kiernan chuckled uncomfortably.

“Not that we’re getting married next week or

anything. Besides, knowing you and what a big bad

cop you are, you’d want to be the groom. I’ll tell

you right now I’d look lousy in a flounced organza

hoop skirt. Although one of those little short veil

things—what do they call them? fascinators?—

might be really fetching on my hair.”

Matt hooked his arm around Kiernan’s neck,

pulling him close. “You’re ridiculous, you know

that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Kiernan said with a long-

suffering sigh.

But Matt’s heart was lightened, and he drifted

off to sleep with the feeling of a soft kiss pressed

to his sternum, and the reassuring heaviness of

Kiernan’s head on his shoulder.

* * *

are we going?”

Matt paused, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“The library, for one. But wherever we go, we

have to stick to public spaces, and be back in the

house before dark.”

“Why?”

“Crowds and light. Both things which

discourage assassination attempts.” His eyes

hardened. “And you will go where I say, when I

say, got it?”

Kiernan raised his hands, palm out in

supplication. “Like I’m going to argue with the

police.”

“At the public library they have the newspapers

for the last hundred years archived. I thought we

could go through the society pages, check names

against the ones on the guest list from the

Reynolds.”

“It’s a place to start.”

“It’s doesn’t feel like much,” Matt admitted.

“But I figure if Abby is tossing the newspaper at

my head, then maybe—”

His words were interrupted by a sudden

explosion of sound from the living room. It

sounded like the television was on but the cable

wasn’t connected, all white noise, blaring at full

volume. They both rushed for the living room.

Matt stopped in the doorway and stared,

stunned. It looked as if every piece of paper in the

house was airborne, flying around the living room

in a whirlwind. Full pages of newsprint flew past,

scraps, Post-it Notes. Bills that had been stacked

neatly on a table against the wall were ripped from

their envelopes as they spun by. The pages of

magazines stacked on the coffee table flipped

madly and moved in place, as if they too were

trying to lift and join the small cyclone in the

middle of the room. Kiernan gripped his wrist but

Matt’s eyes remained glued to the chaos that,

moments before, had been his living room.

“Abby,” Kiernan said, taking a step forward

into the room. “Abby, we’re trying.”

He started to go further, but Matt grabbed his

arm, holding him back. Kiernan looked at him, his

expression reassuring, but Matt wasn’t willing to

let him walk into the middle of the maelstrom.

Suddenly, the television went from static to

channels, flipping through them, slowly at first,

with growing speed until the words were just

another form of white noise. The channels went by

so quickly the images were a blur, flickering like

an insane strobe light.

“Abby,” Kiernan said more firmly, raising his

voice and taking a step forward. “Did your mom

let you throw tantrums like this, because I can

promise you, I’m not impressed.”

His words didn’t seem to make an impression.

The madness went on. Matt took a step into the

fray.

“Abigail! We’re doing the best we can. Knock it

off!”

Instantly, the papers dropped straight down, the

wind funnel fading into nothing. The television

continued to race through the channels, but the

volume faded to a tolerable level. Just as Matt

reached for the remote to turn it off, it stopped on

the local morning news.

“Just to recap this breaking story,” the

anchorwoman was saying. “After several days of

speculation and in response to an arrest warrant,

prominent local attorney Marc Reynolds has

surrendered himself into the custody of local law

enforcement in connection with the Christmas Eve

murder of his six-year-old daughter, Abigail, at the

family’s home in the exclusive North Park area.”

Matt heard Kiernan catch his breath, and stared

at the television, his heart sinking.

“Assistant District Attorney Garrett Preston tells

us a grand jury will be convened immediately

following the new year to hear testimony he’s

certain will lead to a formal indictment. Tune in to

our regular newscast at five for further details on

this breaking story.”

The television shut off, plunging the room into

silence.

Matt saw his own dismay mirrored on Kiernan’s

face. Then, so softly at first he wasn’t certain he

actually heard it, whimpering began. Matt’s throat

tightened. It was such a lost, mournful sound.

“Abby,” he said softly.

The weeping rose slightly in volume, turned to

pitiful, hiccupping sobs that tore at him.

Kiernan reached out, arms open as if to embrace

the invisible child. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. But

you can’t give up. We won’t give up. I promise.”

The crying faded away.

* * *

minutes. Long enough to hear “I’ll Be Home for

Christmas” and “Silver Bells.” He grimaced when

“Jingle Bell Rock” started.

He’d thought about calling Ed’s cell, but it

would be easier for Ed to cover the fact he was

talking to Matt if the call came in through the

switchboard. Ed had been pulling Sundays with

Matt for nearly a year, so he knew he’d be in the

squad room. The operator hadn’t recognized his

voice, which he’d counted on. Matt would do

everything in his power not to get Ed in trouble,

but he had to talk to him. Something was off about

the arrest. He knew it.

“They didn’t have enough evidence,” Matt said

to Kiernan, who was carefully picking up paper

from the floor. “Nothing concrete. The only reason

they were looking at him at all is because you

eliminate the parents first. Ed told me ADA.

Preston was hot for an indictment, but he also said

—” The music abruptly stopped on the other end of

the line.

“Partridge.”

“Ed, this is Matt Bennett,” he said quickly. “I

know you aren’t supposed to be talking to me.”

There was a pause.

“That would be correct,” Ed answered in a mild

tone.