Under the Surface by Anne Calhoun Page A

very edges of his skin. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel, period.
    Across the street, his house, a ranch with dormers, three bedrooms, and a bath he’d enlarged and refitted himself to meet Luke’s needs, sat dark and silent. Even from the Jeep he could hear the AC unit grinding away in the backyard. The neighbors now gave him pointed glances when he saw them. He’d inherited the house when his parents died, and the HVAC system was original, aging, and until this summer, far down on the list of renovations to make. A friend’s father who worked in construction had recommended a guy who’d give Matt a fair deal for a new unit, even let him help install it to reduce the labor costs. He just didn’t have time to call him.
    A bitter sound huffed from his chest. He’d told some truth there. When he wasn’t working he slept and fixed up the house. One truth among so many lies.
    He eased out of the Jeep, crossed the street, and let himself in.
    â€œI hope she was worth it.” The raspy voice came from his brother’s room.
    â€œI’m on a case,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
    In his bedroom he stripped, tossing the sweat-soaked clothes into the laundry basket in the corner, and glanced at the clock. Almost four a.m. Time for bed. That’s where Eve was, in her bed, all soft and loose-limbed. He, on the other hand, was strung tight and rock hard, exhausted deep down in his soul, but too wound up to sleep.
    Hands on his hips, he bent his head and closed his eyes. Luke’s faint whistling snores rumbled down the hall. He had to pare unnecessary, distracting emotions from duty and responsibility, lock them away. Resolute, he stepped into a pair of gray cotton shorts and laced up his shoes. The house had three bedrooms. He’d moved into his parents’ room, the one with a window onto the backyard. For safety reasons Luke’s was the first on the front side of the house; in case of fire, he wanted his brother closest to the front door. They’d turned his old room in the corner into a home gym with mirrored walls, a treadmill, a weight set, a heavy bag, and a speed bag. He started with the treadmill, knocking out five miles in half an hour before putting on the gel wrap gloves. Pounding the heavy bag held some appeal, but he wanted to shut down his mind, so he opted for the rhythm and endurance of the speed bag.
    It worked. By the time dawn lightened the sky outside the window he’d exhausted his body and mind along with his soul. Dispassionate again, from the recesses of his now-silent mind he felt sweat trickle down the column of his back in time to the rapid thumps of his heart against his ribs. He unwrapped the gloves. Five hours of sleep, another pot of coffee, and he’d be back on his game. Shower first.
    Want to share a shower?
    He kept the shower cool, partially to dissipate heat before he got into bed, partially as a preventative measure, but at the memory of Eve’s softly whispered words, despite the workout, the late hours, his physical and mental weariness, despite the cool water pelting his body, heat thumped strong and hard in his cock.
    Without conscious thought his hand skated down his abdomen and gripped his shaft. He kept the steady, slow pace, riding the rush as his balls tightened and the pressure grew. He imagined her naked, in his bed, under him, spread for him, body quivering as he drove into her, taking his time, right there with him as the heat built, sucking them into the vortex. He slowed his strokes, and in his fantasy, she said his name, his real name when she came.
    A low groan escaped, inaudible, he hoped, under the running water and behind the closed door, as he bent forward, shuddering as an orgasm pulsed through him. Exhaustion and something more elemental that felt far too much like fear slammed a rock-fist against his ribcage. He turned off the shower, toweled off, and went to bed.
    Eventually he