“YOU’RE LATE, MY DEAR…”

“YOU’RE LATE, MY DEAR…”
The slow, sardonic drawl was incongruous with his actions.
Even if his hand were not exerting steady pressure at her throat, Missy would have been rendered speechless at the sight of him.
James filled the doorway. The interior lights shone softly behind him, infusing him with an almost dreamlike aura.
Even dressed in jeans and untucked tee, he would turn heads anywhere.
Missy, however, was in no position for head turning.
His hand was scalding against the flesh of her throat. In response, her pulse throbbed against the flesh of his hand. Without another word she was impelled forward, out of the darkness and into
he light. It was as though he was pulling her free of her self-imposed prison.
As James bolted the massive door behind them, a curious mantra played over and over in Missy’s head.
I’m home…”

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