A Feast of You

by Sorcha Grace

  “I love it when you don’t wear panties. It makes it so much easier to fuck you.”

  “Then why don’t you? Fuck me.”

  “With pleasure.” His hand slid away, and I rose on my knees slightly to poise above him. He looked up at me, his eyes burning with need as I lowered myself onto his rigid cock. I saw the flicker of pleasure in his eyes, the need, and I reveled in it. No man had ever wanted me so much. I slid over him, sheathing him in all my slick heat. I moved slowly, rocking back and forth, taking him deep and then all but releasing him before I took him to the hilt again.

  Our eyes stayed locked, his gaze so intense on me that it seemed like we were the only two people in the world. If I’d listened I might have heard the soft sound of phones ringing or music playing outside of his office, but all I could hear was William’s harsh breathing and the sound of our bodies moving together. I did fit him like a glove. It was like we were fated to come together in this way.

  William’s hands cupped my face and I bent close, resting my forehead on his as I moved my hips up and down, rocking into his heat until both of us were panting with need. “I love you,” I said as the spirals of pleasure coalesced into a hot, pulsing knot that was quickly unraveling. How could I have ever doubted we were meant to be? Whatever our differences, we’d work them out. At this moment, with our bodies and our gazes connected, we were invincible. “I love you,” I gasped as pleasure rippled through me in twirling ribbons.

  “And I love you, beautiful girl,” he said, thrusting deep inside me and coming apart.

  Fifteen

  The next day I stood in the doorway of my condo and gave a small sigh. Asa, Anthony, two movers William had hired, and I had just spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon disassembling and packing up all of my darkroom equipment. The bevy of brawny men had made easy work of taking apart what had been, up until recently, probably the most important room in my condo and maybe even in my life. Everything was now carefully loaded in the small moving truck parked in front of my building and would be on its way to William’s penthouse as soon as I gave the go-ahead.

  “Miss Kelly?”

  I looked up and Asa stood in front of me, wearing a gentle but questioning expression. I forced a smile as I gazed at my hired protector. His usual Men in Black suit had been replaced by clothes more suitable for moving day: faded jeans and a tight grey T-shirt with “Gold’s Gym” blazoned across the front, which clung to his muscled shoulders and sculpted pecs. Standing this close, I was reminded again of just how big a man he was—nearly six and half feet of hard muscle and tightly-coiled power. He’s licensed to kill, too, I thought and my stomach roiled in response.

  Asa spoke again before I had a chance to say anything. “We’re all packed up here and Anthony is pulling the SUV around. Are you ready to go?”

  “Thanks, Asa,” I replied. “Yeah, I’m ready. Just give me a minute.”

  There was no reason for me to procrastinate. I had agreed to this step, and I was going to take it. William had found the perfect space in the penthouse for my new darkroom, just as he’d said he would. It was a little-used utility closet that was much bigger than the pantry I’d reconfigured, and it would definitely accommodate all of my stuff. It didn’t have any windows to board up, and William had already brought in an electrician to install extra outlets and a contractor to build counters for my baths and cabinets for storage. I was essentially getting a custom-made darkroom-slash-art-studio and I should have been excited to set everything up and try it out. And I was, mostly. But as I looked around at my condo, which now held even less of my life, a wave of melancholy washed over me.

  This was a good thing, I reminded myself. I had been jittery when Anthony and Asa walked in with me this morning and glad to have them beside me. After the break-in and the screwdriver-in-the-door incident, my home didn’t feel like a sanctuary to me anymore. Even so, I wasn’t quite ready to let it go. I sighed again. This push-pull was becoming the rhythm of my life.

  Behind me, Asa, who had been standing a little off to the side to give me a moment, cleared his throat. He was right. It was time to go.

  “Alright, let’s get going,” I said. I closed and locked the door, then headed down to the waiting sedan. The moving truck would follow us to William’s.

  * * *

  Once we were on the road, Anthony behind the wheel and Asa beside him in the frontseat, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I would have laid down in the backseat if I hadn’t known that it would invite twenty questions from Asa about how I was feeling.

  How was I feeling?

  Stressed. Confused. Overwhelmed. I was in love, goddamn it, in love, which was so very major. I should be feeling like that, not like my nerves were shot and like I might puke at every turn. I was so fucking tired of the constant upheavals thanks to the ongoing threats and, clearly, it was all catching up with me. Aside from our trip to Tropos, William and I hadn’t had enough time to just be. And that’s really what I wanted—just to be with him, in love. I was ready to get off the rollercoaster and get back to normal, whatever our normal was now. Maybe then I would stop feeling like I was always at one extreme or another. Just in the past few hours, I’d felt both totally energetic and then completely exhausted, eager to get the packing up of my darkroom started, then unable to get my bearings when we did start. This morning I’d been totally ravenous, but then I’d barely touched my meal, oatmeal with cinnamon seeming not that appetizing after all.

  Poor William didn’t know what to think. I’d been blissfully happy about the new darkroom when he showed me the space, and then had practically burst into tears at the thought of dismantling my old one.

  I decided what I needed—what William and I both needed—was stability. No more drama for a while, if ever. I needed to calm down and get centered and for that, I needed my man, my Leica, and a little inspiration. Maybe I could convince William to go on a road trip somewhere out of the city, so I could take some shots and get back to making art, in my new darkroom? Maybe I should get rid of my condo?

  Or maybe we could have Beckett over for an impromptu dinner party? Beckett had practically lived at my condo, but he hadn’t been to William’s penthouse once. He would be excited to see my new darkroom.

  By the time we arrived at William’s building and Asa and I were being whisked up to the 56th floor in the private elevator, I felt better and my mind was racing with ideas about how I was going to organize my new space and what to unpack first. When the elevator doors opened, Asa stepped out, then ushered me to follow and wait. It was relatively dark, but I could hear the low notes of a piece of classical music playing somewhere.

  Asa returned from his security sweep, Laird trailing behind him. Why hadn’t Laird raced to the foyer to greet me? I gave him a pat on the head, and Asa said, “Mr. Lambourne’s in the living room. You can let me know when to send the movers up.”

  “If the movers are here, shouldn’t we...?” I’d thought we were going to unpack everything now but something in Asa’s eyes made me stop me midsentence. “Okay,” I said.

  He left, and I walked cautiously toward the sound of the music. It was barely four, a little early for William to be home on a Wednesday. I stepped into the living room and froze.

  William reclined on the couch in the darkened room with his feet on the coffee table, his tie loose, and his hair wildly tousled. It looked as though he’d run his hands through it a million times. My gaze tracked back to the table, where a half-empty bottle of bourbon sat near his feet. As I watched, he raised a glass with about two fingers still in it and drank deeply.

  “William?” I called softly.

  He didn’t look at me, didn’t even seem to know I was there. Instead, he sat forward, grabbed the bottle, refilled his glass, and downed the contents in one gulp.

  My heart started pounding and my throat went dry. So much for a life free of drama and my wished-for stability. I’d never seen William like this. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
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  A feeling of dread settled over me, and I moved toward William and sat on a chair near the couch. Something told me not to sit beside him, not to touch him. “Hey there,” I tried again.

  No response.

  I cleared my throat and tried for a third time. “William, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

  He laughed softly, which wasn’t quite the reaction I’d anticipated. It was a dark, angry laugh, and it made the hair on the nape of my neck stand up. Finally, he looked at me, and I took a slow breath. His eyes were bloodshot, their color a dark, steely blue. “Do I look okay?”

  I recoiled as though hit and I could already feel tears threatening. He’d never used that tone of voice when speaking to me, when speaking to anyone—at least not in my presence. I was not going to cry and I had to keep cool. If he was looking for a fight, I wasn’t going to give it to him. “Actually, you don’t. What happened?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I tried again. “Do you want to talk about it?” My voice faltered. “Please talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

  At my words, William tried to sit straighter, tried to right himself. He moved slowly and deliberately, the way a person would move if they were hammered but didn’t want to look it. He must have drunk half the bottle of bourbon, or at least a great deal of it, before I got there. He was really drunk, and I’d never seen him drunk. On his jet to Napa, he’d taken a Xanax and had two glasses of bourbon. That had slowed him down, but he was much more affected now. He cleared his throat and the sudden sound in the silence made me jump.

  “Come over here.” His words were slurred, but the tone in them was unmistakable. Commanding.

  “What?” I asked, not because I hadn’t heard him but because I didn’t know what to do. Everything about him was so foreign right now.

  “I said, come over here, Catherine.” He patted the sofa cushion. “Here. Right here. Next to me.”

  I stared at him for a long minute, uncertain what to do. Finally, I conceded, rose, and sat beside him. I could smell the bourbon on his breath, see the unfocused look in his eyes. But even this drunk, he had a controlled tension about him.

  “Where were you?” He was drunk enough that he couldn’t disguise the demand with his usual finesse. “Were you at Morrison Hotel?”

  Fuck. I took a deep breath. I really hoped this wasn’t something about Hutch. “No, I was at my condo with Asa, Anthony, and the movers you hired. Remember? We took my darkroom apart and packed it up today.”

  He laughed again, a dark gritty laugh that was so unlike him. “You didn’t try to give them the slip, did you? You’re good at sneaking around when you want to. Aren’t you, Catherine?” His look was accusatory, and I all but recoiled. What the fuck was going on? This was not my William. Was he suggesting I was cheating on him? Doing something behind his back?

  Drunk or not, William was acting like a complete asshole, and I didn’t deserve his accusations. But I managed to keep control of my tongue. I stood, intending to walk away before it got ugly. Keeping my voice level, I said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this.” I moved away, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back down.

  “Stay.”

  His grip hadn’t been rough, just unexpected. I yanked my arm away. “Stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  And finally I saw it, the flash of pleading in his eyes, the snatch of vulnerability he’d been trying so hard to hide.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m being an asshole, and you don’t deserve this, any of this.” The music swelled to a crescendo around us as I considered his words, his look. Finally, I swallowed and settled back down next to him.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked again. “Just tell me. Maybe I can help.” I had no idea if I could do anything to help, but I had to offer. I had to do something to take that pain out of his eyes.

  William took another deep drink from his glass then set it on the table. I hoped it would stay there. “I got a phone call today. From France.”

  Oh shit. The plane wreckage they’d found in Alaska had been sent to France to be analyzed and he’d been waiting to hear the results for the past five weeks. This couldn’t be good.

  “It’s not their plane,” he said flatly.

  It all made sense now: the bourbon, the dark mood. He’d been so convinced the wreckage was from his parents’ plane and so hopeful he’d finally have closure. But, it wasn’t, which meant he was back to square one on...everything.

  “The paint’s not right,” he was saying. “The color is similar, but the pigments don’t match the model.”

  I nodded. He spoke so matter-of-factly. There was no emotion in his voice, though I knew he must be devastated.

  “The paint found on the pieces wasn’t even used in production for another nine years. Isn’t that just my fucking luck? It’s not their plane. It’s just...not.”

  “Oh, William.” I moved closer, still not touching him, but trying to lend some comfort by my presence. “I’m so, so sorry. I know how much you wanted this. I know how much you want to know what happened.”

  William lowered his head, his dark hair falling over his forehead so I couldn’t see his eyes. “I’ve spent eighteen years wanting this more than anything else. This time I thought—” His voice broke. “I really thought this was going to be it. I thought I’d finally be able to—” His voice became garbled, too choked with emotion.

  I waited for him to regain control. Finally, he raked a hand through his hair again. “I know...I know they’re dead. I’ve known that for years. But I want to know.” He looked up, his eyes brimming with grief. “I want to know what happened to them. I’ve always thought if I knew...if I knew the facts, they would end...this.”

  I could feel the pain radiating from him, and I wanted to take it all away. But there was nothing I could do, nothing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” It seemed like such a lame thing to say, but I didn’t have anything else. I felt entirely helpless.

  William raised his head and looked at me, his gaze intense. “There’s something else.”

  I held my breath, afraid of what he might say next. What more could there be?

  “That bullshit letter, the photos, the threats?”

  I nodded, a lump in my throat.

  “They’re not connected to this. We all thought they were—George, me, hell, even the FBI believed that the investigation of the wreckage triggered everything. But apparently that’s not the case. We were wrong.”

  I was confused. What exactly was he saying? “Wrong about what?” I asked quietly, not really wanting to hear the answer, but I had to know.

  “It means that there’s some sick fuck out there who wants to hurt you for no other reason than I’m William fucking Lambourne the Third.”

  He buried his head in his hands again. “You’d think I would have learned my lesson.” He looked up at me, regret in his eyes. “But obviously, I haven’t. And now I’ve pulled you into this mess, into my life, and I don’t know how to stop it.” Anger and something else—fear, maybe—burned in his gaze. “I don’t fucking know how to stop it.”

  His voice grew louder, probably an effect of all the bourbon running through his veins. He was losing control. He swore again then yanked me toward him, crushing his lips to mine. His kiss was hotly possessive, bruising and overwhelming. My body went molten, responding to him immediately. My head, however, protested. I pushed him back, something I’d rarely, if ever, done. “Stop. What are you doing?”

  “I won’t let anyone take you from me, Catherine.” His voice was dark and almost feral. He sounded dangerous, and he scared me. He also aroused a hidden part of me, the part that responded to William no matter what, the part that always did what he wanted, the part that couldn’t say no to him.

  “I won’t,” he said again. His voice was rough, as was his grip on my arm. “I don’t care what it costs me or if I have to keep you locked in this building for the next year for you
r own safety. I love you, damn it. I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”

  Sixteen

  William’s words resonated through me like a low hum that traveled straight to my core. I’d never seen him like this, never seen him so primal and so uninhibited about his feelings. I’d always known he was possessive, but he’d never laid it out like this before.

  I won’t lose you.

  He pulled me into his lap, and I immediately felt his thick erection pushing against me. He was aroused and so was I. A part of me was intoxicated by his swell of possessiveness, bourbon or no bourbon.

  There were pieces of William’s sexuality still untapped, dark alleys I hadn’t yet explored, and I had the feeling we’d just turned into one now. Grief and pain and fear were powerful aphrodisiacs. I understood that better than anyone.

  William needed me. And I needed him. I wasn’t going to abandon him this time. I was going to be the girlfriend I should have been in Napa. The girlfriend who gave her man what he needed, when he needed it most.

  I looked up at him through lowered lashes. “What do you want from me, William?” I kept my voice low and careful. I knew exactly what I was offering him: me. If he wanted me, he could have me—anyway he wanted—as an outlet for his angst, for his pain, for his pleasure.

  That night by the pool at Casa di Rosabela came back to me again. I’d been swimming laps, wearing a red bikini. I’d been so angry with William for leaving me alone, but when I’d emerged from the water, the pain in his gaze had washed all that away. I’d fucked him on the deck chair, taking his body and, with it, all of him. At the same time, I’d showed him how I’d felt—my anger and hurt, my love for him—with my body. I would do the same tonight.

  I gasped when William gripped my upper arms tightly. His breathing was heavy now and as my eyes widened I saw the color of his—molten grey.