by Sarah Andre
“You feel so good,” he grunted through his teeth, inserting a thumb between them and stroking her clit. “Christ, you’re so tight. Come for me, Hannah. I want to feel it.”
The uninhibited rawness of his passion was too much. She shattered beneath him, writhing as he ground into her faster and faster. Suddenly his eyes squeezed shut and those black brows slashed together. “Oh Christ,” he said hoarsely, and his hips shuddered. Within seconds, his long thrusts weakened, and finally he collapsed, drenched and spent, his pulse thundering under her palms.
She drew oxygen in audible gulps, as if she’d broken through the surface of a fathomless ocean. Lowering her stiff hips, she encircled his coarsely haired thighs with her calves. His breathing slowed, and he mumbled something indecipherable. Too exhausted to respond, she simply laced fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, accepting the weight of him. She closed her eyes to capture her other senses: The taste of him in her mouth. His sinuous, damp muscles beneath her hands. And that warm summer scent, so unique to him. The storm raged in surround sound, and that damn shutter banged. Each pounding wave shocked the house—a symphony underscoring their violent lovemaking. And that’s what it had ultimately been: lovemaking. Because I’m in love with you. No matter what you do to my apartment or how soon you leave for New York. I’ll never forget you or this moment.
He braced his weight on his elbows without lifting off her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth.
“Mmmm?”
“I was way too rough.” He stroked the damp hair from her face and neck. “Are you all right?”
“Mmmm. I was pretty rough on you too.” She traced the column of his throat, and he chuckled.
“I’ve never seen that side of you. I like it. A lot.” His lips trailed along her temple, her eyelid, her cheekbone, then slanted over her mouth. The kiss was languid, his breathing deep and slow, as if he fought sleep. Eventually he broke off, slipped out of her, and snapped off the condom, tossing it in the wastebasket under the desk.
He stretched out on his side and pulled her to face him. His expression of utter contentment probably matched hers. The shutter banged, rain drummed savagely on the roof, and she’d never felt so safe and secure.
God, he still loved her. Everything about her. In this suspended time before reality crashed him back to earth, everything seemed possible—especially them staying together. She looked like he felt. This was doable; he’d problem-solve it later. He traced her lips, mesmerized by the glow on her smiling face, the flaming hair pillowing around them, and her sleek, glistening legs tangled in his. Someone should paint her just like this. Call the piece Sated. He could handle that kind of art.
“So what happened here?” she said softly, flicking a finger between them. “I threw a ring at you, called you an SOB, and you gave me the orgasms of a lifetime?”
He grinned. “You could’ve thrown Super Bowl tickets—my reaction would have been the same. These last few days—being around you again—I was done with the platonic shit.”
“I was done with it Friday morning when I saw you in here.” She twisted her head and studied the desk and the large room. “I don’t know how we haven’t been caught, though,” she whispered, which was ridiculous, given how loud she’d been moments before.
He held back his laugh. “No one comes in here. Seriously.”
“Even if they hear bloodcurdling screams?”
He let go of the chuckle. “Ever think of doing sound effects for horror movies?”
“Ha, ha.” She stretched languidly and smiled. He couldn’t help but kiss the dimple. “Thank God we were here, though. Aunt Milly has perfect hearing.”
“Even over this storm?”
“Her ears could be classified as secret weapons.”
“Sweet Aunt Milly,” he murmured, tracing those lush, kiss-swollen lips again. “If she only knew what a tramp… Ow!”
“As glad as I am that we did this,” she kissed the fingers she just bit, “why exactly are you in this house?” He traced her jaw, unable to stop the muscle clenching along his. “Don’t shut me out, Devon.”
The betrayal of Eric selling off shares, the final death knell of his company, the beatdown with his brother-in-law from hell, Frannie melting down by the second, Harrison ordering his second arrest… He couldn’t tell her. If he started, he’d never stop.
She halted his hand from tracing her cheekbone. “Talk. And insert a feeling word.”
He sighed, the sudden fatigue spreading through him almost debilitating. “I told you my father was trying to take my company, and…he’ll have it tomorrow.” Her expectant look reminded him of her last command. “I’m upset.”
Her eyes softened. “No matter what I said last night, I am sorry to hear that, Dev.”
He nodded. “My father plans to raze your neighborhood, too. Your problems haven’t gone away. It’s why I wanted you to have the damn ring.”
She ruffled a hand through his hair. His scalp still tingled where she’d raked him repeatedly with her nails. “I’ll find another way to afford an apartment, and hopefully keep my partnership too.”
“Was that a horrible thing? Giving it to you to hock?”
She searched his eyes, her brows crinkling. “You have to ask?”
“I was trying to fix everything. Obviously I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes good intentions aren’t good enough.”
He nodded. His fingers trailed along the curve of her waist and up over her hip. Her skin was moist and warm. “My cousin told me I don’t know my way around women, and it’s messing with my head.”
“Well, physically you know your way around a woman. As in gold-medal skill.”
“Hannah, I’m serious. How can I”—he scrubbed his face—“not be an ass around you? How can I convince you that the ring is worthless to me, and it would make me happy—I’m using a feeling word here—to help you?”
She was quiet for a while, her face troubled. “This is a good start, I guess. You’re actually talking, not frantically solving a problem.”
“There are people who talk and people who do. Every time I try to talk about meaningful stuff, I sound lame.”
She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Lame is better than silent. If we’d been doing this twelve years ago, maybe we wouldn’t have lost each other because of our last parent.”
He rolled onto his back and folded her to him, resting his chin on the top of her head.
Their last parent. His had kicked him out, and he’d tried to force Hannah into that same miserable boat. If his mother had been alive and diagnosed with cancer, he wouldn’t have considered leaving. Not for a second. He’d never thought about it that way; any thinking about his mother or Hannah was looking back.
As if on cue, she said softly, “Tell me about her.” She caressed his bicep so lightly it tickled.
He stayed silent. He wasn’t kidding about the lame comment. Talking meant something completely different to women, and he didn’t know what it was. Fuck it; couldn’t go wrong with honesty. “She was a great mom. The best.”
“Devon…”
Nope. Honesty wasn’t going to cut it. “Help me out, Hannah. Ask a specific question so I know what it is you’re looking for.”
“Tell me something that made her great. Something unique that no one else could replace.”
Well, shit. Road trip through the quagmire of memories. Like how Mom tiptoed into his room each morning and woke him with a kiss on the forehead. Or Cooking Day on Mrs. Farlow’s day off each week, when she taught him and Frannie how to make homemade pasta and cannoli. The tears in her eyes when he formally presented another painting of her or the family or even the house and grounds. She’d had such love and pride in everything either of them did or said or gave her. Those were the only times he’d felt secure in this house.
“When I was young, I used to think she was magical,” he said, but then laughed because that wasn’t what he meant to say. What the f
uck? “I mean, she was always happy, so everyone around her was happy.”
“Aunt Milly said she loved life.”
He nodded, his chin bobbing on her head. “I never saw anything get her down.” He exhaled in a snort. “Except Harrison.”
“Did you ever hear them fighting?”
“Near the end of her life. And not often. He always seemed to be at the office—either downtown or in this house. None of us were welcome in either place.” He sifted a hand through her snarled hair, but his fingers snagged immediately. He cupped her head instead, adjusting his other arm tighter around her.
“Before that, was he a good father to you two?”
He shrugged. “He wasn’t like he is now, but he never had any interest in us, and we rarely did anything as a family. Most everything was just us and Mom. Then when I was nine, if I saw him at all, Mom was there and they were arguing.”
“About what?”
He’d spent so much time not thinking about the past that it took several minutes to reach that far back and make sense of his childhood perceptions. “Something was happening with his company,” he finally said. “He was always in a rage about it. I think my mom would try to soothe him or make him see the positive side, and he’d shout her down.” He shook his head. “Something like that.” But dormant memories stirred, broke free, floated upward.
“We have more money than we’ll ever need.”
“That’s not the point, Francesca. He’s stealing from me.”
“But if he needs it that badly, just give it to him. Or turn a blind eye—”
“This is business! My reputation! I could go to jail for what Wilson did.”
“Jesus!” Devon bolted upright, sending Hannah’s face flying into his naked lap. He helped her sit up, kissed her temple, and scrambled to his feet, aware of her speaking but unable to hear words. Without her body heat, the air was chilly. Or maybe he was shivering in shock. Bryant Wilson. His father’s old partner was behind this.
“Devon!” Hannah called, hugging her knees to her chest. “Answer me.”
“I…I have to find Harrison.” He picked up the wrinkled shirt her head had lain on only moments before. A few strands of hair clung to the fabric, and he didn’t remove them. “I remembered something my parents fought about and…” He couldn’t finish. This couldn’t be true. He thrust his arms into the shirtsleeves and realized all over again only two buttons remained. Shit. He would have to tear around this house looking like Fabio. “Please stay here until I return. The moment I get some answers, I’ll be right back. And when the storm lets up, I’m taking you to the Drake.”
“Where you’ll spend hours explaining this to me.”
“Only after we run through a box of condoms.”
Her eyes twinkled and a dimple appeared. “Ouch.”
Pulse in overdrive, Devon thundered down the stairs and into his father’s office. It was dark. He returned to the foyer. The sunroom. The dining room. All dark and empty. He swung through the doors to the kitchen—cold and dark. That stopped him short. Even in his earliest memories, something was always boiling on the stove or roasting in the oven. The place was spotless and deserted; no aroma of recent food lingered in the air.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen anyone in hours. Not one staff or family member. He’d tried to find his father earlier, but was so hung up on Hannah and the ring-throwing incident he hadn’t made the connection that they were probably in this house alone.
“Hello,” he called. “Joseph? Mrs. Farlow?”
Was tonight Honey’s wake? Funeral? That had to be it. He’d never in his life experienced this house empty, and the yawning quiet was unsettling. He flicked on the overhead light. Seconds later, a crack of lightning split through the howling storm, and the room went black. “Shit.” He flicked the switch a couple of times and swore some more.
Rain slashed at the kitchen windows, and deafening thunder roared directly overhead. The storm had to be right on top of them. God knew how Hannah would fare in a creepy, unlit mansion. He needed to get back to her, quick. They could keep each other thoroughly busy and wait Harrison out. And then he’d get some goddamn answers!
Pushing through the doors to the dining room, Devon used the next flash of lightning to locate the candelabra centerpiece. He popped out two slim candles, returned to the kitchen, and stuck the wicks in the old stove’s pilot light. When he passed the bar area, he grabbed a mostly full bottle of merlot and glasses with his other hand.
The load was awkward enough to make cupping the candles impossible, and the slightest speed caused the flames to flicker wildly, slowing his journey upstairs considerably. By the time he made it to the library, it felt as though an hour had passed. When this room was empty too, he considered drinking straight from the bottle. “Hannah?”
He crossed to the second gallery, then down to the first, with its lingering, acrid smoke tickling his throat. He stepped back into the hallway.
“Hannah?” he bellowed. She couldn’t have gone far in the pitch black. No response. Foreboding crept down his spine. Why would she wander all alone in an empty, unlit mansion?
Only the relentless boom of the surf and the shudder of the house replied.
Chapter 27
“Thank God you heard me calling,” Hannah said. “I was beginning to freak out.”
“Yeah, the mansion gets pretty spooky during a storm. You’re lucky I was on my way to fix myself a cup of tea. You’d have been lost for ages.” Frannie laughed at her own joke, but the notes fell flat, and in the residual glow of the flashlight she carried, strain and exhaustion etched her face. The sweats she wore bagged around her, and her black hair looked like a Disney witch’s.
Hannah self-consciously smoothed her snarled coils but let her arm drop. There was no hope. She hadn’t found her hair clasp in the dark, or her cell phone, which must’ve fallen out of her pocket in the frenzy. Hell, it was enough that she’d found her clothes and dressed. Her mouth probably looked as if it’d been stung by a swarm of bees. Frannie wasn’t stupid, although hopefully she hadn’t heard them. Hannah’s throat felt raw from all the screaming. She fought her smile of bliss.
“Where’s Devon?” his sister asked.
Hannah cringed inwardly. If only she could’ve responded that she’d been diagnosing Harrison’s gallery. “Off looking for your father.”
“Hm. He’ll be looking a long time.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Honey’s wake. Father gave them the afternoon and evening off—probably to ensure the funeral parlor was packed with mourners. Except for my son, Todd, I don’t know anyone who would’ve gone to pay their respects of their own volition.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
She shrugged. “It would be too hypocritical. Our lives are a thousand times better off now that she’s dead.”
The flippancy of the remark caught Hannah off guard. “I was in the foyer yesterday, Frannie. You took the news very hard.”
“It was the manner of her death,” Frannie responded tightly. “It unleashed a bunch of repressed memories.”
Of course. Hannah blushed. There was no way to get her foot out of her mouth.
Francine turned and flicked the beam down the long hallway. “Well, come on, let’s get that tea.”
“I—I’ve misplaced my phone.” She bit her lip at the gaffe. She really didn’t want Devon’s sister helping her look around under the desk of the first editions library. Besides any other evidence of crazy-monkey sex, there was the damn used condom…
“Where did you leave it last?”
“Uh…maybe the basement where we were crating. Don’t worry; I’ll find it later.” But as they fell into step, unease trickled down Hannah’s spine. The emptiness was so eerie that it tainted all the beautiful artifacts. Francine’s beam bounced off centuries-old paintings. They’d reached a row of baroque art—a family in a sitting room, a devout woman in prayer—but the scenes took on a sinister cast in the dim light or neon-b
lue lightning. “Why aren’t we going down the main staircase?” Her voice sounded too high.
“It’s actually faster this way.”
Hannah nodded, but she didn’t know these gaping, dark hallways. She really would be lost for days if Frannie took off right now. But why would she take off? They were just having tea. Damn it, where was Devon?
She shivered and tried to focus on her surroundings: the pattern on the Persian runner, the art that resembled the Wickham family ancestry now. With each step, a fluttery feeling persisted as the seam of her pants rubbed her, echoing the astonishing orgasms. She even took comfort in the raw rug-burn on her backside. Mentally she chanted his name, hoping some cosmic force would lead him to her. Wait a minute! “Did you bring your cell phone?” she asked Frannie. “Maybe we can call—”
But Frannie was already shaking her head. “Watch yourself on these steps.” She swept the beam in an arc, lighting up a small threshold, beyond which a tight spiral staircase descended into dark nothingness.
Hannah froze. “Wait.” The descent looked downright dangerous, the narrow wooden treads so worn that the centers were concave and scuffed a much lighter color. “Where are we?” Her voice shook, but she was past caring. She should have stayed in first editions. She didn’t even like tea.
“In the olden days, this was the servants’ staircase.” Frannie flicked the beam this way and that. The cramped corkscrew steps resembled something from a Hitchcock thriller. “It lets out in the kitchen and also keeps going down to the basement.”
