Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  I want it, I want it all. Yet somehow, that doesn’t seem to be enough. The emptiness takes advantage of our momentary silence, of our stillness, trying to lure me back into its sea of darkness. The constant reminder of my impending fate hangs over my head like a guillotine.

  “Make me forget,” I whisper.

  He closes the gap between us and scoops me up. He eases me onto the bed, then hovers over my body, his weight resting on his forearms on either side of me. He’s not touching me, but his heat wraps around me like a scarf, teasing my skin. His muscles are tight, shoulders tense and breathing ragged, revealing the control it takes to stay in place.

  “Lou.” His voice is strained, bringing out the roughness in his tone. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you sure this is what you want? Because,” his eyes fall shut, a thick swallow passing through his throat, “because if I start touching you again I won’t be able to stop.”

  He doesn’t even know this is already working. Just the sound of his voice, his own need and restraint seeping through, it makes the adrenaline rush back like a fire igniting in my veins. “Trust me. I won’t want you to stop.”

  Something darkens in his eyes for a split second, then his lips are back on mine, forcing them open with his tongue and making my fingers curl into the blanket beneath me. His body lowers onto me, and his hand slips between the folds of my thin robe, grazing my bare stomach. I groan, biting down on his lip, and he grunts, low and rough. His fingertips scorch my skin in the best possible way, and I lean into them. Into him.

  He breaks away from my lips and trails open kisses along my jaw, down my neck, making sure I feel every taste, every lick, every nip. His hands don’t stop either, sliding slowly, tauntingly, up my waist, my ribs. Just as his touch brushes along the bottom curve of my breast, he stops, centering his focus back on my neck and collarbone.

  Now is not the time to be a gentleman.

  I find his hand with mine, urging it higher until his heat cups my full breast, his thumb instantly caressing my hardened nipple. Something rough escapes his throat, and his teeth sink into my shoulder. The unexpected ripple of pain and pleasure sends a fresh shockwave through me. My eyelids flutter closed, and my head tilts back. The hand on my chest is firm, hot, and fervent in its strokes. I grip his shoulders and arch my hips, feeling the long, thick length of him rub against me between the fabric of our clothes. His breathing becomes heavier, faster, his own hips returning the movement as he presses himself into me.

  More.

  I reach down between us, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans and yanking down his zipper, my thumb brushing over the bulge in his underwear. His lips freeze, his head dropping until his forehead rests against my collarbone. A hot rush of breath pours from his mouth over my skin. I only falter for a second, letting the feel of his raw need sink in, then continue to tug the material down. He lifts his hips to help me, then uses his feet to kick them off the rest of the way.

  He moves back to my mouth, reconnecting with my lips with a renewed sense of urgency. His hand comes down to pull at the string of my robe, then it falls open, revealing all of me. His lips remain on mine, his tongue continuing its caress. His hands, however, have a mind of their own, exploring everywhere from the shape of my breast to the flat of my stomach, the curve of my hips, to the slope of my thigh.

  This time when I arch into him, my bare wetness rubs right against him, the sudden sensation taking us both by surprise and making the muscles in his back constrict beneath my hands. He goes still for a moment, his erection still pressed against me, but when I squirm impatiently, he sinks down further, the added pressure drawing a moan from my lips. A gentle roll of his hips and he’s grinding. Oh god. The natural, fiery heat that radiates from his body hits my center just right with each roll. He’s not even inside me yet, and the sensations are already teasing, building, rising, calling.

  He tears himself away, making me whimper at the loss. His head pulls back, green eyes heavy and drugged when they lock onto mine. He just lingers there for a moment, like he’s drinking in the sight of me beneath him, memorizing every part of my expression. I know my eyes are just as clouded as his, my lips still parted, probably red and swollen. Breathing hard. Wanting more.

  As though reading the thoughts swirling within me, his hand finds a spot low on my stomach. He’s still holding my gaze captive with his when his fingers travel downward, his warmth leaving a fiery trail on each part of skin he contacts.

  He goes lower, and my breath hitches.

  Just . . . a little . . . lower.

  My fingernails scratch his back as he finds the area between my thighs. It’s tentative at first, the way he reaches between me, sliding over me and just slightly inside. My hips buck in response, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his eyelids halfway shut, chest pounding. He moves up to the tender area just above, circling his fingers around it and watching intently as my head falls back, the blood inside me beginning to boil at his rhythmic touch. He keeps it going, the steady rhythm he’s built, another stroke drawing another moan.

  Eyes closed, hips moving against his fingers, I reach down between us and find his arousal, hard and thick, and degrees hotter than the rest of him. A primitive groan rumbles from his throat, his fingers faltering between my thighs, and my lips quirk. I wrap my hand around him as best as I can, my thumb circling the head of his length before exploring the expanse of him, up and down. Another rough vibration roars through him, and his mouth is suddenly back on my throat, sucking, licking, biting. Just as I start to speed up, his hand comes down on mine, holding it firmly in place. He pulls away from my neck, but just barely.

  “I can’t . . .” It’s a husky whisper, hot breaths against my skin. “I need to . . .”

  “I want you inside me. Now.”

  A low, guttural noise escapes him, and the fingers still pressed between my thighs slide into me as though by reflex, curling upward and making me cry out. “Goddamn, Lou,” he breathes, ragged. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

  I’m panting now, unable to form a coherent thought while his fingers fill me up like this. “So . . . show . . . me.”

  All at once his hand is gone, the sudden loss taking me by surprise, but then the tip of his erection is gently, barely, pressing inside me. He lifts his head to meet my gaze, a desperate, almost pained look on his face as he struggles not to plunge in all at once.

  But that’s exactly what I need.

  “You won’t break me,” I whisper, my eyes lowering to those lips that tease, taste, tantalize.

  Slowly, I lift my hips, the slight movement bringing him inside just enough to give me a taste of his thickness, and it is his undoing. He drives his hips into mine, and my mouth falls open as the entire length of him pushes inside, stretching and filling me beyond anything I’ve ever felt. A strangled groan rips through him, his forehead softly connecting with mine as he squeezes his eyes shut. He holds himself like that, forearms propping up most of his weight, as my body tries to adjust to the size of him.

  Then he’s moving. Grinding. Rolling. It starts as a lazy sort of rhythm, slow and steady. Ensuring I feel the full effect of each shift, each stroke, within me. I close my eyes and moan into it, letting the deep caress overtake me, reaching places I didn’t know existed. My hands are on his shoulders; the muscles tightening beneath my touch are like quiet ticks of a time bomb, his restraint about to cave in on itself.

  I find the curve of his neck and press my lips to it, my tongue having a taste before I pull on his skin and gently suck. He draws in a shaky breath, his rhythm picking up, his strokes long and deep. Then his hand is on my breast as he rocks against me, squeezing and teasing and driving me insane.

  Faster. Deeper. Harder.

  Whatever thin thread was holding him together a moment ago snaps as he grabs my wrists and pins them against the headboard, my entire body trembling with pleasure in response.

  He’s sucking just above my collarbone when his free hand sli
des down, landing on the inside of my upper thigh and spreading me wide open. The shift somehow allows him to go even deeper, and my cry is silenced by his mouth over mine. The kiss becomes sloppy, rough, and desperate as he relentlessly drives into me, my own hips rising to meet each thrust. The bed creaks beneath us, fast and urgent, mixing with the sounds of our heavy panting. Then his strong fingers are right on my clit, rubbing, circling, stroking.

  Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

  I turn my head and bite his shoulder, muffling my mewls. His growl is animalistic, his thrusts following suit, losing their tempo as he loses himself. He releases his grip on my wrists to take firm hold of my hips, pulling them up and grinding me into him. That’s all it takes to set me over the edge. All the buildup, the pleasure, hitting me hard at my core and rising higher and higher, until I tense. My lips part, my back arches, my toes curl into the sheets, and I cry out as it finally consumes every inch of me.

  I’m still riding the shocks when the grip of his fingers digs into me. He gives one last, hard pump, a mangled, masculine sound vibrating through his body as his muscles contract. A shudder ripples through him after he stills above me, then a few quieter ones follow. After a moment, he collapses, his head dropping into the curve of my neck.

  Panting. Sweating. Sighing.

  Hot breath caresses my throat as I hear a husky, “Fuck.”

  My lips curve. That’s two times now I’ve heard him say that word, both of them tonight.

  And I decide I really like it.

  Chapter 38

  They say it’s best to learn to accept the things you can’t control. To conform your mind to all that surrounds you. Be thankful for those things you can control, and let the rest of the pieces fall where they may.

  I say, fuck that.

  At least that’s the eloquent motto I woke up to this morning, when I opened my eyes to an empty bed, a cold room, and an absent heartbeat; not just faint, but absent. After the initial shock wore off, I was able to hold a trembling hand to my chest long enough to figure out that my heart was, in fact, still beating. However, only every ten seconds or so. Per Google—yes, I looked it up—that means a whopping twenty beats, give or take, during each interval are missing.

  Gone.

  Now, as I stand in place on the sidewalk, twisting my mood ring in the hope some comfort will magically rub off on me, I think back to Grams. She always said there’s a die-hard fighter in all of us, ready to be awoken the moment you need it most. My question is: how do you summon said fighter? There should be some sort of code word, right? Seeing as my life’s hourglass is down to the last few grains of sand, I’d really prefer the fierce version of myself to the scared one right now.

  I take a deep breath and stare hard at the bland, unassuming view before me.

  This is silly. They’re just doors, I remind myself. Two white columns located on either side, old red bricks forming the walls around them. Of course, that huge Ashwick Police Station sign hanging above my head does add a slight edge to my nerves. There might be no relation to the man anyway, so I need to get this over with already. Without another thought, I grab the handle and yank the door open.

  It’s a small, quiet office, just as I expected for a town like this. There aren’t many people here, but several personnel work away at their desks, another lingers around the coffee machine. All eyes turn to me when I enter, though, and I get the impression they don’t receive many visitors.

  I take the few, short steps to the front desk, where a heavyset woman with greying hair smiles kindly from below a pair of reading glasses.

  “Well, hello,” she greets, shuffling through a stack of envelopes. “How may we help you?”

  “Hi.” I glance around before scooting closer so I can lower my voice. “I have sort of an unusual question, actually.”

  “Not to worry, we get our fair share of those here,” she says with a laugh. “Go ahead, hun.”

  “Um, is there a Wayne Mulligan still working here, by chance?”

  “Oh lord, has it been awhile since I’ve heard that name.” The woman removes her glasses and shakes her head, inspecting me closer. “You need him in particular, or just looking for whomever now holds the Chief of Police position?”

  “Him, specifically.”

  “Hmm. I’m afraid that’s going to be a bit on the tricky side of things, seeing as he’s now six feet under and all.” She chuckles awkwardly but seems to notice the way my face falls because she immediately quiets, straightening out her top. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I just meant that, well, he’s no longer with us.”

  “Can you tell me how long ago he passed?”

  “It’s gotta be, what, seventeen years now? He was near seventy when he got hit by that last heart attack.”

  Near seventy. That would have put him around Grams’s age at the time. I chew the inside of my cheek, that feeling in my gut deepening. “Did he have any family? Anyone I can speak to briefly just to ask a few questions?”

  “Oh, well he did at one time, but, um . . .” The woman stops, clears her throat, then tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Hey, Pete!” She looks back at me and offers an apologetic smile. “One second, dear. Pete! You there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, what is it?” A balding, uniformed man with a thinning mustache steps out from one of the back offices. His eyes dart from the woman to me, and he quirks an eyebrow as he approaches us. “Can I help you?”

  “This nice young lady has a few questions about Wayne Mulligan,” the woman explains. “Thought maybe you’d be the best one to help her, seeing as how you were with him the most toward the end there.”

  The officer nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, all right.” He extends a hand toward me. “Deputy Mark Tallon.”

  “Lou Adaire. Nice to meet you.”

  “You as well.” He releases his grip and gestures behind him, toward his office. “Why don’t you follow me?”

  After thanking the woman for her help, I follow Deputy Tallon inside a small room, where he closes the door and sits behind his desk. I take a seat across from him, trying to figure out how to even begin.

  “So, how did you know Mulligan?” he asks, leaning back against his seat and taking a long sip of coffee.

  I bite my lip. “Well, I didn’t exactly know him.” Deputy Tallon furrows his eyebrows, and I shake my head at the ridiculousness of this whole situation. “The thing is, I’m actually trying to figure out if maybe I’m related to him somehow?”

  “You don’t say.” He sets his mug down and leans forward. “Why would you wonder a thing like that?”

  “Just a few things that have me putting the pieces together.”

  He pauses, his fingers tapping on the desk. “What’d you say your last name was?”

  “Adaire.”

  “Hmm.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Suppose that doesn’t mean anything, though. Can you tell me more specifically what might lead you to believe there’s some relationship there?”

  “Well, for one, he and my grams were around the same age. And, for another, her last name was also Mulligan. I never knew my grandfather.”

  “And your grams, she left town, did she?”

  “Yeah, a long time ago. She was probably only in her thirties at the time, and my mom would have been just a child.”

  That seems to have gotten his attention, but he stays quiet, pursing his lips together as though contemplating something. Contemplating what, exactly? Whether to talk to me? Whether to help me?

  “Deputy, please.” I sit up straighter, determined to get answers before I leave this building. “If there’s anything you can tell me, anything that might help . . . I just need to know if he was who I think he might have been, before”—before I lose my one chance to get answers, before I waste away—“while I’m still here, in town.”

  He watches me carefully, the creases in his already wrinkled forehead deepening. “Listen, Miss Adaire,” he finally says, his voice soft, concerned, “Mulligan was a fantastic chief. One of
the best officers this town’s seen, even to this day. He was well respected at the force, and I was honored to have gotten to work alongside him before he retired.”

  Then why doesn’t your tone reflect your words? “But?”

  “But, I’m afraid his family life was a bit of a different story. Now, I just want to make sure . . . I want to make sure you know what you’re asking here. You can’t rebury things like this once you’ve already dug them up.”

  I shift in my seat. I wasn’t expecting a reaction like that. “Yes, I know what I’m asking, Deputy. I need to know.”

  Eventually, he lets out a breath, reaching his resolve. “All right. Well, Mulligan wasn’t one to chitchat or divulge about his personal life. He lived and breathed the force, you understand? For a while there, it was this big mystery to the town, why his wife just up and left him one day, taking their only child with her.”

  He pauses, squinting as he peers over at me, like he’s checking if I’m still okay. I don’t know if I am. My stomach’s tightening at his words, at the confirmation they bring. Clearly, I already have my answer. Wayne Mulligan was my grandfather. I give a small nod of my chin, urging him on.

  “It wasn’t until the end there, his last year in fact, that he actually told me anything about what had happened. He had recently retired and his life seemed to finally be catching up with him. But even then he didn’t say much. I only got the gist of it, all right?”

  Another nod. Just tell me already.

  “Now, I know this may not make much of a difference, but for what it’s worth, he did a lot of apologizing. Said he’d had many regrets, and he was sure he’d be paying for them soon enough.” I swallow, suddenly nervous to hear the rest. This is just getting better and better. “He didn’t exactly get into everything he was apologizing for—seemed to be a whole lotta water under that bridge—but one thing he mentioned was the way he’d treated his wife.” He pauses, clearing his throat and adjusting his uniform collar. “Uh, physically. He didn’t get into the details, and I didn’t ask, but . . . uh, well, if it was enough to make her run, to make her fear for her daughter’s safety . . .”