Witness to Passion

By: Naima Simone

Why didn’t anyone notice what was happening? She was surrounded by people, and had never been so alone, so isolated. So damn afraid.

“Remember what I said,” he warned once more before his grasp eased, and then he disappeared.

With a strangled sob, she sank to the ground, her knees finally giving out. She didn’t move from her crouch next to the tire. Not when the cold from the sidewalk seeped through her clothes and into her skin. Not when sirens wailed in the air. Not even when one of Boston’s finest stooped down beside her and asked if she’d been hit or needed to go to the hospital.

Hospital? What could they do for her? Could they turn back the clock? Erase her memories?

No, they couldn’t.

A man had been killed just feet away from her.

And she’d just been threatened by his murderer.

Goddamn, birthdays sucked.

Chapter Two

Three Months Later

She hadn’t changed.

Through his windshield, Shane Roarke studied the front of The Grease Spot—who in the hell had come up with that god-awful name for a diner?—and the petite woman who just exited the entrance.

And as he’d done in the last couple of days since he’d started tailing Fallon from her apartment to work and back to her home, he tried to focus on the fact that she appeared to have no sense of self-preservation as she strolled out of the restaurant, not even scanning the dark street to check if anyone who didn’t belong lurked nearby. Tried to dredge up irritation that instead of having her keys at the ready, she paused next to that ridiculous toy she called a car and rummaged in her purse for several long moments. Tried to conjure anger that she didn’t even notice him parked behind her, damn near kissing her bumper.

He tried. Oh the fury was there, simmering at her complete lack of self-awareness. But after seeing her for the first time in over a year, rage wasn’t the prevalent emotion.

It was riding backseat to his dick.

Some part of him should be ashamed of lusting after a woman with the face of an angel and who’d been his little sister’s best friend for over a decade.


But Fallon wasn’t his sister—as much as he insisted on telling her and himself—and she damn sure was no angel.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. In that sandbox called Afghanistan, he would sometimes alleviate stress and pressure by performing deep breathing techniques his battle buddy and childhood friend, Marcus Ramirez, insisted he learn.

Slowly inhale through the nose, bringing it from the gut. Work the breath up to the head and exhale out the mouth. Repeat.

He opened his eyes.

Nope. Still hard as hell.

Giving in to the need, he greedily studied her skin like liquid gold. Her ridiculously gorgeous honey-and-chocolate curls. Dove-gray eyes. Delicate facial bones. A wide, bordering-on-lascivious mouth that might inspire heavenly sonnets, but a body men wrote Cinemax skin flicks about, not poems. And she kissed…fuck. She kissed like a sinner, not a saint. A sinner who enjoyed it. Just one crush of lips and tangle of tongues seven years ago, and he still remembered her taste. Sunshine and sex. The way she’d licked his lips, sucked hard and hungry on his tongue… Only his mother and sister in the next room had prevented him from shoving Fallon to her knees and discovering if she could curl her tongue around his cock just as prettily.

Well, his family’s presence, and the fact that she was Fallon.

Impulsive, cheeky, whimsical Fallon. His little sister’s best friend and a female Peter Pan, forever young, never growing up. And totally wrong for him. He’d recognized it the night of her eighteenth birthday when she’d ambushed him with a kiss in his mother’s kitchen, and nothing in the time since had changed his mind.

His cock might be all on board the damn-the-consequences-and-fuck-her train, but his brain still retained enough working cells to register that becoming involved with her would only lead to catastrophe. He harbored no doubt that sex with Fallon would be something like tossing a match in a bucket of gasoline, but when it eventually burned out—and it would; it always did—what then? When lust could no longer cloak the dissimilarities that marked them as different as oil and water. There would be hurt and bad feelings—even more than existed between them now. And he would hate for Fallon and Addisyn’s relationship to be affected by the fallout.

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