by K. L. Kreig
With reverence, he peels the fluffy garment from my body and lets it fall to the floor, leaving me bare and exposed, craving his next touch, his next word.
“In them, I saw absolutely nothing.” My nipples bead when he runs my lobe through his teeth and breathes, “But in you, Willow, I see a blank page I want to fill with color and memories, light and laughter. I want to pack page after page with the story of our life, and I’ve never wanted that before.”
My eyes well up and goose bumps blanket me. Shaw Mercer weakens every part of me but strengthens me in equal measure.
He pauses and quirks his lips. “I could keep going if you want.”
“I’m—” Speechless. Reduced to a blubbery mess. I expected him to talk about my eyes or my breasts or maybe even our explosive sex, but instead, he cast the net deep and wide. He went where I needed him to go. I swiftly get rid of a couple of tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “No. That was pretty good.”
Shaw chuckles before nibbling along my shoulder now. “I would see him six feet under before he laid a finger on your soft skin.” Two pads now set lightly over my carotid. “Or felt your pulse as it speeds up like this.” He runs his thumb along my jaw. “Or heard that broken pant you make right before you let go.”
His other hand slips between my belly and the granite, then between my wet folds. Spreading my arousal around before driving two fingers inside, he clamps his teeth to the curve of my jaw and growls, “He’ll never feel the walls of this hot little cunt squeeze the life from his dick. I promise you that.”
I whimper when he backs away, but when I see him practically ripping his pants from his body, I tell him to hurry. He does and with a gruff command to brace my hands in front of me—which I do—he cocks my hips back and drives all the way home.
“He doesn’t get this pleasure, Willow. This fucking gift you give me every time you let me inside your body.”
He presses a thumb under my jaw and forces my attention back to the sight we make in the mirror. My boobs bounce. My skin flushes. My fingers curl, nails scraping the slick surface as I try, but fail, to find purchase, an anchor against his merciless assault. I’ve never felt so base or so damn needy in my life.
“He’ll never taste the salty flush of your skin or treasure the candied flavor of your orgasms.”
Strumming my clit, he drives me higher. Works me harder. He’s relentless in his quest to show me his truth.
“God, Shaw,” I pant. I push back against him needing more, wanting it all, trying to get him deeper.
“No man will have that right again besides me, beautiful. Not Noah. Not Mergen. No one.”
His artistry is gone. He’s pure power. Raw grit. He pounds into me like a man possessed. And when he takes my fleshy nub between his fingers and pinches to punctuate his point, I ignite. I break apart, spiraling under his skill and devotion. I float endlessly in my own paradise of bliss and satisfaction and barely register his teeth holding fast to my neck or his fingers bruising my hips as he growls long and broken. Holding himself still for only a couple of beats, he moves furiously against me again to drag out his own pleasure.
“I am so sorry for hurting you, Willow. If I could take it back, I would in a heartbeat. I see nothing before you. Please believe that.”
He tells me this quietly after we’ve both caught our breath. His lingering remorse hangs thickly between us, even with what we just shared. He hasn’t moved an inch, made a move to withdraw or clean up or leave me in any fashion. His face remains buried in my neck, and he’s mostly hard, pulsing every few seconds with the aftereffects of his climax.
He’s asking for forgiveness, but is there honestly anything to forgive? We both had lives before the other and though having his former conquests shoved in my face is bound to sting, won’t mine feel the same to him when I tell him about Reid? In fact, in many ways it may sting worse because there were real feelings involved between us and if Shaw had had feelings for this woman, that would have cut me to the quick even deeper than his physical display of dominance did.
I reach around his head to hold him to me. To reassure him. His relief encases me like his arms do when I say, “I believe you.”
I have no choice but to believe him. I’m in this far too deep now and let’s be honest, I was in too deep the moment I gave him my real name.
Chapter 17
“What in the name of Jesus Christ Himself were you thinking?” Preston Mercer’s voice booms loud enough to rattle a nearby lamp.
My father is standing in front of me, face beet red, shaking a copy of Sunday’s 7-Day at me the same way he did when I brought home a C− in Algebra the first quarter of eighth grade. Though I refused to admit it, I was more fixated on the way Penny Wilmer’s lips silently moved when she worked her math problems than the lessons Mrs. Gremer was trying to teach.
The following Monday I asked to be moved to the opposite side of the room from Penny Wilmer and I brought my grade up to an A the next three-quarters straight. I fixed that. I’ll fix this, too, though it’s far more complicated than putting a few desks between me and a pretty redhead who got me hard by biting her lip.
“Do you know what your careless actions have caused?” He doesn’t even wait for my response. “A shit show, Shaw, that’s what. A goddamn fucking shit show!”
Oh boy. Profanities galore. My father is upset. I get it. I deserve it even, and I’ll take his wrath like a man. I fucked up. I’ll own it exactly the way I did in the eighth grade.
“I’m taking care of it,” I announce evenly.
“Taking care of it? And how are you taking care of it, exactly?”
The 7-Day is a political outlet but they have bordered on more of a gossip rag the last year and their credibility is starting to come into question. A fact I’m particularly pleased that John Whelan, the president of Lock Media, agreed with me on during our brief conversation yesterday.
I wasn’t too surprised he took my call. Seemed that little stunt the 7-Day pulled made it all the way to his desk before I did. He agreed they would print not only a retraction but an apology and assured me the reporter responsible would be fired. Then he assured me heads would roll if they slandered one of the most prominent businessmen in Seattle again. And when he extended that courtesy to my siblings I told him I wouldn’t pursue legal action.
“I have it under control, Dad.”
I lean back on the couch and place my left ankle on my right knee. My arm hangs loosely over the back and my fingers tap against the soft fabric, masking the sheer rage boiling in my veins at this second. And this time, it’s not because my father is treating me like I’m a prepubescent who got a bad mark that may soil my chances at an Ivy League education.
No…it’s because Reid “fuckface” Mergen is sitting a little too comfortably to my right. Slightly out of choking distance. Enjoying my verbal lashing if I had to guess.
I haven’t talked to my father since the incident broke two days ago. I’ve had more important things to deal with, such as repairing the damage some dumbfuck did and keeping Willow close and out of her own head. And away from Mergen. But Noah was right. I had to face him sooner or later and since I knew this could get ugly, I insisted I meet him at his house instead of his office.
Now I’m not so sure that was a good idea.
“You had a minor dip in the polls. You’ll be back up by the end of the week,” I say easily.
“That’s not even the issue.” It is. “Do you know how your mother reacted when she saw this trash?” I wince a little at that one. My parents don’t want to picture me having sex any more than I do them. “How the hell did this happen?” Still yelling. Still shaking that damn paper.
Sliding my gaze over to my father’s campaign manager, I address him when answering, because honestly? This is the basic question I’ve had for days now. “I don’t know,” I sneer. “Why don’t you ask campaign boy over here. Isn’t it his job to keep this shit from the press in the first place?”
Merg
en’s eyes glaze over in a flurry of black hate. If he grinds his molars together any harder, I’m sure he’ll break a tooth. I pray for pain. “My job”—he punches—“would be a helluva lot easier if you’d keep your fucking dick in your pants.”
“Where I put my dick is none of your business,” I toss back nonchalantly. “Keeping it out of the papers is.” Besides, my dick is not in question here. It was nowhere near the waitress. Except for that brief second she palmed me over my jeans, which I barely remember.
He leans forward. It’s meant to be threatening and I want to castrate him on the spot. I’m plotting where I can find the dullest kitchen knife when he slams me front and center, no contact necessary. “And what about Willow? Is where you put your dick her business or are you plotting so far ahead you’ve already forgotten she’s the woman you’re supposedly in love with?”
This fucker’s nuts are mine. They’ll be hanging in my trophy case by sundown. I shoot up at the same time he does, and the only thing that stops me from throwing a punch is the fact my father has stepped in between us as a buffer.
“You won’t do this in my home. Sit down. Both of you.”
My father is about my size, about my weight, but with a twenty-seven-year difference between us, moving him out of the way so I could take down this prick on the other side wouldn’t be a hard task. I think about it. For a blistering second, it’s all consuming. Mergen would be on the ground bleeding before he could do a damn thing to stop me.
It’s tempting. So damn tempting. But I’d have to listen to my mother’s reprimand for the next year and this piece of shit isn’t worth it. Instead, I stab my finger in the direction of his chest. “You say her name again, I won’t think twice about laying you flat.”
His smug smirk fires up the intense hatred I have for him and all he’s trying to do to my family. And my father is clueless.
“You don’t deserve her,” Mergen says with fiery heat.
“God help me,” my father mutters. He walks over to pick up the drink he abandoned earlier so he could berate me.
“You’re right. I don’t,” I surprise him by answering. I am so over my skis with Willow it isn’t even funny. But by some divine miracle, and despite all of my shortcomings, she loves me and I’ll take it. “You sure you didn’t have your sticky fingers in this little debacle? It seems awfully coincidental given the fact you’ve made it clear you want her back.”
Mergen doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t even blink. A weighty silence falls over the room. I gaze at my father who is now staring at Mergen, an unreadable expression on his face. It’s as if he’s finally seeing the real snake in the grass for the first time in weeks. About fucking time.
“Is this true?” he asks him.
For the first time since I walked in, Mergen looks uncomfortable. My father likes Willow. He likes us together and though he knows as well as I do there is history between the two, I’m betting he’s as much in the dark about the details as I am. If he thinks his campaign manager has nefarious intentions toward his son’s girlfriend, which in turn may hurt his campaign, maybe Mergen will write his own ticket out of town. One can only hope. For all our sakes, that’s the best possible outcome.
“No,” he answers my father, not daring to look my way.
“No?” My incredulous rebuttal morphs into a harsh laugh. I cross my arms and widen my stance, then go in for the kill. “So, when you told me over our little chat recently, quote unquote, ‘I’m the one she’ll marry, the one she was always meant to marry,’ you were just what? Trying to goad me? Get under my skin? Be a fucking prick? Is that it?”
His chest expands slowly. I note his fingers have curled in slightly and his jaw muscles tick with fury. I let my lips turn up into a cocky grin.
“I haven’t asked you this before because quite frankly I don’t think it’s any of my business, but what exactly is the nature of your relationship with my son’s girlfriend.” My father punctuates the last word nicely.
Boom. Go Dad.
Mergen’s eyes cut from me to my father, who is now standing straight and tall. Waiting. My father doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Preston—”
He interrupts, “I don’t have time for bullshit, Reid. I’d like a straight answer if you please.” He pauses only briefly. “You were more than cast mates, I take?”
Silence.
So much silence it’s suffocating me from the top down.
Maybe he sensed the subtle step I took toward him or maybe it was my father’s shaggy gray-tipped brows that are now touching his receding hairline. Either way, at last he reluctantly answers, “Yes.”
My gut clenches. Hard. You already knew this, Merc. Man up.
“And?” my father prods gently. It seems counterintuitive, but that’s the innate politician in him. Getting anyone to talk about anything. He makes them actually think they want to get things off their chest that are weighing them down. It’s a gift I wish I had inherited. It would come in handy with Willow, that’s for sure.
Mergen turns back to me, and when I think about this night for months and years to come, I’ll remember every frame of it with sick accuracy.
I won’t forget the dark pit in my stomach I thought would swallow me whole. Or the hateful thoughts clouding my mind as he spoke the truth with conviction. The piercing in my chest is akin to a swift, serrated knife being driven in farther with each syllable from that one fucking word…
“I was her fiancé.”
Fiancé.
And all that shit swirling inside me was bad enough, wasn’t it? What could be worse than standing face-to-face with the man who had my woman’s life entwined in his before I did?
I didn’t think it possible, yet there was one thing.
What would stick with me most wasn’t how I felt, but how he did. The obvious anguish present in his voice, visible on his now sober face said it all. Once upon a time, he had someone so precious, beyond extraordinary, and she slipped through his fingers. He wanted her back with such desperation he would do anything. Any. Thing regardless of morality, but everything he did was an effort in futility because she didn’t reciprocate his feelings any longer. She belonged to someone else now.
It was a foreign feeling. One I hoped to hell I would never experience.
But with the twisted trajectories our lives unknowingly took years before we met, with those poisonous secrets I now hold from Willow my worst fear is I will end up exactly like Reid Mergen once she finds out.
Alone and pining away for the woman I will love until I die.
Chapter 18
“Hi, Momma.” I kiss her on the cheek and visually examine her. Millie has a bunch of errands to run so this afternoon it’s just me and my momma. Times I both relish and dread with equal measure. “You look good today.”
“Hi,” my mother replies tentatively, staring at me like a stranger.
It makes me sad. I miss her so much. I miss how she used to sing me to sleep and tried hopelessly to teach me to sew. I miss being able to talk to her about anything and everything. And after these past few days with Shaw, I need my mother more than ever. I need a nonjudgmental ear to bend. Someone to be happy for me. Someone to simply listen, a skill Sierra is incapable of. And my friend, Jo, would just as soon scold me if I told her I went and fell in love with a client than go with me to pick out a bridesmaid dress.
Patting her on the arm, which is cool to the touch, I grab the water glass by her recliner and head to the kitchen to refill it.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, setting the drink on the table beside her before sliding onto the couch.
“Fine, I think.” She pauses, contemplating. “Yes, I feel fine.”
“You seem cold. Do you want a blanket?”
Sparse brows twist in as she thinks. “Yes, I suppose that would be nice.”
I hop up and grab one from the wicker basket sitting by the bay windows and settle it around her legs. “Feel good?”
Sh
e nods. I don’t think she’s sure but I’m glad she’s playing along.
“Can I get you anything to eat?”
“No, thank you,” she answers politely.
“Do you want to watch Jeopardy?”
“Oh, yes. That would be lovely.” I smile at the excitement in her voice. The one thing that hasn’t changed in all this time is how much she loves Jeopardy. Grabbing the remote, I flip on the TV and settle in for a marathon of the world’s toughest trivial pursuit game. She even surprises me a few times by getting the answers right.
Alzheimer’s is a confusing disease. Useless random facts can be recalled on a dime, but the faces of your loved ones often remain elusive.
About an hour in, I’m nearly stunned silent when she looks over at me and says completely out of the blue, “I miss your father.”
My eyes water. Hers do, too. I don’t know if she thinks she’s talking to me or to Violet, but if she’s having a moment of lucidity, I choose to believe it’s me. “So do I.” That was hard to get out.
“What happened?”
“To Daddy?” I ask, my voice shaky. As sad as it is to say, most of the time I’m glad she doesn’t remember losing her husband of thirty-two years because when she remembers, I can tell the wound is as fresh as the day it happened. Though the steps I’m wading through feel like sludge sometimes, at least I can try to move forward. She’s just stuck in some sick time warp where she’s constantly treading water.
She nods slowly, confusion furrowing her forehead. “I…I know he’s gone, but…”
“It’s okay.” I reach over and take her hand, stopping her before she becomes agitated. “He…” Jesus, this is hard. I swear if I look over at the stairs right now he’ll be lumbering down them, his hair all disheveled from spending hours raking through research. “He got into a car accident,” I lie.
