Discreet: The Discreet Duet: Book I

by French, Nicole

  “Will!” I cried out, breathless. “C-condom. I—I want to. But, um, we need to use protection.”

  He panted into my neck, poised so painfully right where I yearned to take him. He would feel so good—I knew it. Perfect. Full.

  But I hadn’t completely lost my mind. Not yet.

  My legs dropped to the ground, though Will kept me pressed to the wall as he inhaled deeply. Then he squatted, wrapped a strong arm around my knees, and toppled me over his shoulder.

  “Will!” I screeched, only to receive a sharp smack on the ass as I was carted back through the trees and up the steps.

  “Hush,” Will snapped, now taking the steps two at a time. I watched the lake fall farther and farther away. Will was on a mission, robotic in his movement as he practically jogged me up the stairs. Moments later, he threw open the front door, grabbed at a small paper bag next to his key bowl, and tossed me on top of the counter before ripping a condom out of the bag. He tore through the flimsy foil with his teeth, rolled on the contraceptive with a slight hitch in his movements, then wrenched my legs apart and stepped between them.

  He paused for a moment.

  “Will,” I whispered.

  He swallowed; the wild look returned. Then his eyes opened wider, and he shoved inside with a howl.

  “Ah!” My back arched with the sudden intrusion. He was big. Big enough that it hurt a little. Big enough that even with my slippery welcome, he still tested my ability to take him.

  “Will!” I gasped, digging my nails into his shoulder, looking for something, anything that would keep me from toppling over onto the stovetop. But even through the pain, pleasure bloomed.

  He started to move faster, his hands vises on my thighs, keeping me from moving away. I was trapped between him and the counter. Will buried his face into my neck, my hair, groaning and grunting like an animal as he took his fill.

  But I took mine too. Because the more he moved, the better he felt. Once I adjusted, it was like the shape of him was made for me, touching places no one had ever reached before, causing a thrill of warmth to ripple from my core, through my middle, down my thighs, until every part of me was alive and glowing and pulsing in time to his vicious beat.

  “Oh God,” I found myself moaning much sooner than I would have thought. “Oh God, Will. I—I’m gonna come. Oh my God, I’m so close!”

  His breathing was hoarse, full of grunts and shaky breaths as he continued his punishing movements, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. But he released one hand from my thigh and slid it up a few inches, drifting over the place where our bodies met. I hummed in anticipation, my body tightening around him. A rumble of acknowledgment emerged from his throat.

  All he had to do was touch it. Maybe a centimeter lower from the sensitive spot his thumb was teasing right now. I arched into him, willing his hand to move. And then…just a whisper of a touch. I was already primed, and as soon as his thumb brushed over my pulsing center, I exploded into a haze of cries and ecstasy.

  “Will!” I cried as my head fell backward. Every muscle in my body shook as he pounded further.

  “Hush,” he snapped again before covering my cries with his mouth, absorbing them between his own harsh gasps.

  “Please,” I begged, unable to take much more of this punishing drive. There wasn’t a hint of love in his movements, but I didn’t care. I wanted whatever he had to offer. Whatever was going to push me straight over the edge of oblivion, just like this, again and again.

  “I don’t…I don’t…” His words were stuttered, tripping over his movements.

  I kissed the edge of his brow, the ridge of his cheek, his eyelids, nose, lips, chin—anything and everything he would allow me to touch. His entire body was pulled taut like a drum, while still he punished both of us—maybe himself more than me.

  Then he paused, pulled his face back, and when he looked at me, I was shocked by the visible tracks of tears streaming down his cheeks into the thick dark blond around his mouth and chin. His green eyes shone, full of pain, sorrow, anger, and a host of other emotions I couldn’t read.

  “I don’t—” he choked, barely able to get the words out. “I don’t—”

  “Will.” I cupped his cheek, urging him back to me. “Will, talk to me. Will, I’m right here.”

  His forehead fell against mine. “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he whispered with one last push. Then he shuddered, and with a loud, feral moan, collapsed on my shoulder as his orgasm and tears wracked through his body together.

  I held him tight, as tightly as I could. My high was falling, and I was left with a man who was so visibly broken, I felt like his pain was cracking my heart in two, right along with him. I didn’t know what was wrong. I didn’t need to. All I needed to do was be here, with him.

  “You’re not,” I murmured as I threaded my fingers into the thick hair at the nape of his neck and pressed him closer. “Will, you’re not alone. I’m here.”

  He moaned into my shoulder, still pulsing slightly within me. But his long body finally relaxed slightly, released some of his tension as he exhaled long and low into my hair.

  We stayed there for several minutes, lingering in the unity of our bodies while our breaths returned to normal. Finally, Will pulled back slightly, and I released his hair and laid my hands on his chest.

  In his simple outfit of dark pants, a button-up white shirt, and a tie, Will really did look like a different man. I blinked. A tie on Will Baker was like seeing a tuxedo on a moose. His beard had also been trimmed again so that it was only slightly more than stubble at this point. He looked like the perfect mix of uncivilized and polished—a barbaric gentleman. I would have been ready to jump him all over again if he hadn’t still been so clearly distraught.

  Other things began to register. Like the fact that the dining table by the windows was set for two, complete with a lit candle, though a few plates of expensive-looking dinnerware were smashed on the floor. The distinct scents of different foods hung in the air over the scents of our joined bodies. Chicken that was maybe burned a little, and some kind of sautéed vegetable. Broccoli, I thought.

  Under my fingertips, his heart still pounded. It wasn’t until it had dropped to a more regular rate that I ventured to speak.

  “Will?”

  He didn’t answer. His hands still rested on my thighs, but he refused to meet my gaze, instead keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

  “Fuck,” he murmured, clearly more to himself than to me. “Fuck.”

  “Will,” I tried again. “Talk to me, please. What’s—what’s wrong? What happened?”

  But he only shook his head, then stepped away, pulling out and turning around to clean himself up. It was impossible not to notice the way the shirt, simple as it was, seemed like it had been tailored to his broad shoulders, or the way the man’s ass was made to fill out those pants. But I was too worried about him now to say anything, or even to ogle for long.

  “I’ll—I’ll be…” He shook his head, pushing a big hand over his brow while he looked me over with something approximating regret. I pulled down my dress and squeezed my legs together while he turned toward the stairwell, holding himself awkwardly. “I’ll be right back.”

  I watched for a moment while he lumbered off, presumably to use the bathroom, then slid off the counter myself to put myself back together too. My hair was undoubtedly a wreck. But as I hopped down, a few pieces of paper fell to the floor—an envelope and a letter that apparently I’d been sitting on.

  I didn’t mean to snoop. But the words jumped off the page.

  Baker—

  I hope this letter finds you well. You seem to be doing all right, especially with your new friend. She sounds nice, man. Good for you.

  Anyway, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this way, but the off-the-grid thing has some serious drawbacks, my friend. Better I just say it.

  Mike’s dead. There are probably nicer ways to get that out, but you know me—I can’t beat around the bush. And I kno
w you—you wouldn’t want me to. So while I can’t believe I’m typing this in black and white rather than calling you like a human being, there it is. Your dad is dead, F. I’m so sorry. Your mom called me last night to tell me. Shocked the hell out of me—you know Trish and I never got along. But she said we were family friends, and she thought I’d have wanted to know. Too true.

  You were right. It was the blood pressure that got him. Heart attack, she said, but I don’t know more than that. I wish I did, F. I’m so, so sorry.

  Tricia is planning a memorial in about a month, to spread his ashes off the dock in Stamford. For what it’s worth, I think you should go. I just don’t think the shit between you and Trish matters anymore. She’s your mom, F. I think she’d want to know you’re all right. Especially now. And as for everyone else, well, you know I’ll help you manage that. You’re my brother, no matter what.

  Call me when you can, even if it’s collect, you cheap bastard.

  Much love,

  Benny

  I returned to the third paragraph again and again, staring at the words that were typed there so bluntly: your dad is dead. It explained everything, of course. The ruined chairs. The burned food. The crazed, angry sex. Will’s father was dead, and he had found out in a letter.

  But quickly, other questions percolated too. Will really was off the grid completely. Why? And why did the writer—Benny, apparently—keep calling him F? What was going on between Will and his mother?

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I froze, letter and envelope in either hand, and practically jumped at the sound of his voice. “Oh, hey. Sorry, these um, fell to the floor.”

  Will strode across the room in a few long steps. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, snatching the letter out of my hand. He crushed it viciously between his hands and threw it into a trash bin. “Were you going through my shit?”

  I backed up, trapped again between him and the countertop. “I—it fell off the counter, like I said. Will, I’m—God, I’m so sorry. Truly. What can I do—”

  “You can start by staying the fuck out of my things, Maggie.”

  I recoiled. “What? Will, I wasn’t snooping—I just picked it up when it fell, and the words, well they were there.” I waved the envelope I was still holding. “Your dad, Will. I…I can’t imagine.”

  And I couldn’t. It was then it occurred to me—really occurred to me—just how little I knew Will. It never seemed to matter when we were together, because something innate just clicked between us. But really, I knew nothing about his past. Why he was here. What drove him to live so alone. For all the moments we had shared, he was still functionally a stranger.

  I took a step toward him, like I was approaching a scared animal. “Will, please. You’re obviously hurting—I can help. Please, just let me help.”

  “What are you going to help with, Maggie? Short skirts and broken bicycles don’t fucking help when your parent is dead.”

  His words cut, like the weapons they were. But they were coming from a place of pain—anyone could see that, and I was willing to let them go.

  “It says the memorial is in July.” I glanced toward the trash bin at the crumpled letter. “Are you going to go?”

  Will didn’t answer, just crossed his arms and continued staring daggers at me.

  I waited another moment, then looked back at the envelope I still held. The return address was printed professionally. “Who’s Benny Amaya? That name sounds really familiar…” I frowned, then looked up. “Wait a second. Benny Amaya is a rep, isn’t he? Calliope, my old manager, knows him. Will, why is a talent manager in New York sending you word of your father’s death? Who’s ‘F’?”

  The words were barely out of my mouth before Will snatched the envelope out of my hands fast enough that it gave me a nasty paper cut across my palm.

  “Ow!” I cried, shaking my hand, then cradling it against my chest. “What the hell, Will?”

  Will just glared at the paper, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the waste bin with the letter. “Let’s get something straight. Even if I wanted to share anything about myself with you—which I fucking don’t—I would do it myself. We’re not together, Maggie. We’re almost friends, and not even that, and the only difference now is that we’ve fucked. But I could have get off with a hundred other women, any night of the week, so don’t think for a second that giving it up like free donuts after church makes you special to me. You got that, Lily pad?”

  My mouth dropped, and I curled inward. For the first time, the name didn’t sound like anything sweet. It sounded like the annoyance and anger Will had voiced when he’d found me caught up in the waterweeds to begin with. Contempt poured out of him as he stomped to the door. He opened it with a slam against the wall, then turned and glared at me.

  “Time to go,” he said, gesturing rudely into the blackness of the night. “Go take care of your drunk of a mother, and stay the fuck away from me.”

  My mouth gaped. “What?”

  “Are you deaf?” he shouted. “I said get the fuck out!”

  The harsh words boomeranged through me, and with the last one, I couldn’t wait to get out.

  I marched through the door and turned around.

  “You’re an asshole,” I snapped, unable to think or say anything else.

  “Glad that’s finally getting through,” Will shot back, and before I could get out another word, he slammed the door in my face.

  20

  “He’s a dick.”

  Calliope had been saying this every few minutes for the last hour. I chuckled at my phone, which was lying on the bed, blasting my girl’s voice while I finished painting my toenails.

  After being kicked out of Will’s house, I had driven back to my empty house and done what any sensible girl would do: called my best friend and given myself a pedicure while she listened to me bitch about my shitty date. It might have been midnight in New York when I called, but Calliope was a trooper. And a night owl.

  And most of all, she understood. Not just that Will had been a dick (and he had). But also that it had been far too familiar. I had left New York to get away from that kind of behavior. The hot and cold thing was Theo’s special brand of cruelty, the kind that always had me second-guessing my best intentions. If I was hurt by something he did, it was because ultimately, I had brought it on myself. And if he said or did something awful, it was because I had done something first to earn it.

  It was the kind of sociopathic mood swings that escalated into shifts that were legitimately violent—the final one ending with me being treated in the hospital with stitches for a split lip, an ice pack over a black eye, and a rape kit for everything else. It had taken nearly a year of court appearances for my lawyer, an advocate from the YWCA, to help me put my ex behind bars, but in the end, I had been able to leave with a drained savings account and my dignity intact. A year of therapy with a women’s advocacy group had certainly helped me to understand that what had happened to me wasn’t my fault, not to mention helped me stay strong enough to endure a year-long trial at the same time. At least mostly.

  But if I was going to repeat the process, I had no one to blame but myself.

  “Seriously. Moody. Reclusive. Total asshole. You don’t need him. Sure you don’t want to join me for a glass of red?” Calliope teased through the phone, though she knew my response.

  I sighed while I blew on my toes. “Don’t think so, Cal. Hey, here’s something weird for you. The letter—it was sent from Benny Amaya.”

  “The manager?”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah. Weird, right?”

  “What the hell would Benny Amaya be doing sending death notices to a dude in the middle of nowhere?”

  “That’s my question. Anything you can find out? I was pretty blown away, and it’s just now occurring to me how crazy that is.”

  “Well, he did say he was from Connecticut, right? Maybe they were childhood friends or something like that. I don’t k
now, but I’ll ask around. Or…you could ask yourself if you’re ready to come home now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cal, I just got here.”

  “Boooo. You’ve been there for almost three weeks. Isn’t your mom’s house fixed yet?”

  I looked around the bare-bones interior of the shack. It was only one room, containing a double-sized bed, a small closet, a pullout loveseat, and a non-functioning sink. It was probably the most livable place on the property besides the main house, which was pathetic.

  “Not even close,” I said as I straightened my legs and admired the new red color on my toes. “I’ve got at least a few more months. Maybe more. And then I need to find a job, because that’s when I won’t be able to help with groceries anymore.”

  “Lady, you have a job. I can get you booked into clubs up and down the Eastern Seaboard like that. You know this. Come back.”

  “Callie, I had to come home. And not just for me!”

  She sighed. “Worth a shot. Then you probably won’t care then that Theo’s out.”

  My bones froze. As in turned to ice inside my body. A chill rushed over me, and I almost dropped the nail polish as I was screwing the cap back on.

  “Wh-what?” I asked.

  “Maggie, relax. You knew he was only going to do two months tops—that’s what the lawyer said. Slap on the wrist since you wouldn’t settle. No one was ever going to keep Max del Conte’s kid locked up for long.”

  In my lap, my hands shook. Out. He was out. I knew what she said was true, but I had been depending on having at least the summer to worry about what the world would feel like again with Theo free. After being locked up because of me.