Murder

by Ella James

  “The story goes, Artemis flew away with Orion’s body and tossed him into the sky—but nowhere near the scorpion that killed him,” Barrett finishes.

  “Scorpius…”

  He brings the goggles down off his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive storytelling, geek boy.”

  He sets the glasses on his knee and leans back on his hands, his back to the left panel of glass. I don’t expect the heavy sigh that comes from him, nor the way his eyes squeeze shut just briefly before he says, “I haven’t told that story in a long time.”

  “Yeah?” When he just blinks at me, I add softly, “Who’d you tell it to last time?”

  I see his chest inflate with breath before he says, “My brothers.”

  Brothers?

  I pull myself up to sit cross-legged to his left, leaning back against a beam between two of the window panes. Once I’m settled in my new position, I blink over at him, but I can’t tell shit from his face. After another heartbeat, I venture, “I didn’t realize you had two.”

  He rubs his eyes, looking at me around his hand. “Kellan and Lyon. Twins. Lyon used to love to hear the Leo story.” Another deep breath swells his chest, and he looks right at me as he says, “He died a few years back.”

  My heart squeezes as I look into his carefully blank eyes. “Oh my God, I didn’t know.”

  He lifts his brows. “I didn’t tell you.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  When he says nothing, just looks down at the beige and gold paisley cushion under us, I swallow past my dry throat.

  “When did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking…” My voice is whispered—probably because my throat is tight.

  “End of 2011.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes on his leg before they slowly lift to mine. “They had leukemia.”

  I lean into the space between us. “Who did?”

  “Ly and Kelly.”

  I blink. “Both? They both did?”

  “Yeah.” He finger-drums the seat cushion, looking down at his hand as it moves. “Identical twins. I guess it was…” He shakes his head.

  My chest feels tight with pain for him. I wrack my brain for what to say. There’s nothing…

  His eyes lift to meet mine, and his handsome face is hard and still. I can feel the pain behind it, though, the weight of wordless things.

  “Barrett—I’m so sorry.” I lean over closer to him, wanting very much to touch him but unsure how—or if. He shifts positions, I think mostly so he doesn’t have to look at me. He’s sitting cross-legged with his eyes fixed on his lap. He blinks down at his calves, pushes a curl out of his eyes.

  “That must have been so awful,” I say in a half-whisper. “I wouldn’t know, because my dad died suddenly. And I’ve never lost a sibling.”

  He bites the inside of his cheek and lifts his gaze to mine. “I wouldn’t know,” he rasps. “I wasn’t there.”

  He runs a hand into his hair and looks down at the cushion.

  Wasn’t there? “You were— overseas? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He laughs, a small, dry sound, and cuts his eyes up at me before pulling them back down, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I told you that.” His voice is rough.

  I almost say “because we’re friends,” but are we? Maybe we’re just really strange acquaintances, able to be unnaturally open with one another because I kicked off our neighbor-ship by bashing his head open, and since then, we’ve spent something like 10 hours trying to kill each other.

  Still—I feel a magnetic sort of pull to him. One that seems to emanate at this moment from the center of my achy chest.

  I take a small, fortifying breath and scoot closer to him. When I get there, knee-to-knee with him, my limbs feel heavy with uncertainty. He’s looking at his lap, and my heart is pounding like it always does when I’m near him. After holding still a few heartbeats, I press my knee against his.

  I lean my head back against the cold glass of the window and I try to think of what makes me feel better…with Dad. And I realize: I like to talk about him. So much more than I would have ever have imagined. It gives me a kind of pride. He was here. He was my Dad.

  I take a deep, slow breath, and when my eyes feel confidently free of tears, I lean a little closer to him. “So your brothers liked to hear you tell them stories? I’m guessing they must have been younger than you.”

  There’s a long half-second in which I’m scared I said the wrong thing. Then he nods.

  “When our mom died—” I watch his Adam’s apple bob— “the boys were ten, almost eleven. I was sixteen.”

  He blinks, as if he was going to say something else but can’t remember what. I take a chance and lean my head against his arm. Not because it’s comfortable—it’s still rock-like—but just for basic human contact. Comfort.

  I’m surprised when he shifts, stretching his arm behind my neck—in one smooth motion, scooting closer, so our folded thighs are pressed together and his shoulder hovers over mine. His arm drops down along my upper back.

  I blink at his chest, easily accessible to me now. All that’s left is for me to snuggle up to him. I wait for some signal that’s what he wants, and when he doesn’t give one, my back begins to tremble from the effort required to keep my cheek from touching his pec.

  “Anyway,” he rumbles, sounding normal and relaxed, as if he didn’t just put an arm around me, “our dad worked long hours. They had a nanny, but I liked to watch them.”

  The arm around my shoulders tightens slightly, pressing me against him. My lungs stop working as I lay my cheek against his chest.

  I feel the rumble of his chuckle, feel his fingers sifting gently through my hair. I look up and see him smile. It looks both sweet and smug. His eyes find mine, and the scales tip to sweet; almost indulgently so.

  “You’re tense,” he says softly.

  “I know.” For the second time in the last hour, I feel like a teenager again.

  He squeezes me closer, and I feel his big chest rise and fall. “I thought you wanted to be friends,” he whispers.

  “Is this what friends do?” My words are husky. Charged. I strain my gaze to look up at his face without moving my cheek off his pec. I find his eyes closed.

  “I don’t know,” he answers. His hand strokes my shoulder, and I want to shriek—or rip his pants off. As it is, I feel a little shaky. Like I’m on a roller coaster.

  He presses his cheek against the top of my head. I shiver as his scruff tickles my hair.

  “You smell good,” he murmurs, his arm around me squeezing.

  I wrap my arms gently around his chest. “You’re nice and warm,” I whisper. Underneath my carefully roving fingers, all I feel are ridges of hard muscle. On his back… along his side…

  I feel a hot pulse in between my legs and have to take a slow breath so I don’t implode.

  We stay like that for a brief stretch of time—Barrett leaning on the window, his legs out in front of him; me tucked up against him, unable to move or think.

  Every breath he takes is hypnotic. I find I love the feel and smell of him. The strength and size of him.

  Why is he doing this?

  He’s lonely…

  So am I.

  His fingers stroke my shoulder once more, and my stomach tightens. I can feel him take a long breath—and then he pulls me closer, curving his wrist so the rough, warm fingertips of the hand that’s cupping my shoulder straighten out and drift over my neck.

  I’m struggling to breathe around the knot in my throat when he pulls his arm out from around me, and shifts so he’s kneeling in front of me. His hands cup my elbows, roving up from there. One comes to rest on my collarbone; the other spreads over my throat.

  “What do you want with me?” The words are almost groaned. They strike straight to my heart, which stops, then takes off at a gallop.

  “What do you mean?” I murmur, looking at his solemn face.

  His eyes shut.

  “What do
you mean?” I whisper, gently. I reach a hand out, stroking his warm neck.

  His eyes open. His hands frame my face—gently—and I feel his rough cheek brush against mine. His arms encircle me and then his mouth is near my ear. I can hear and feel him take a deep breath; so deep it’s almost like a gasp.

  I pull him close, his face against my shoulder, his huge torso bowed around me. I find I have to swallow before I speak, and even then, my voice is raspy. “I don’t want anything from you, Bear.” My hand rubs a circle on his back.

  His breath tickles my shoulder. “Why are you so kind?” It’s almost groaned.

  My heart squeezes painfully. I hold him tighter. “I’m not…that way. I’m just…” I cup his head, shaking mine—because it’s all I can manage.

  He leans against me, and I take him. With one shoulder pressed against the window, I take all his heavy weight, so I can feel it when he shudders.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I feel like I’m dreaming. None of this…feels real.”

  I hold him tightly, aching at the raw pain in his voice. I stroke his nape. “I think you’re tired,” I whisper.

  I kiss his hair. I don’t mean to, but here he is—his big, heavy, beautiful body cradled up against me, just the way I’ve wanted since I met him.

  It’s such a small kiss, so fast and light, it takes me a long moment to realize that since I pressed my lips against him, I can feel him breathing faster.

  “You should go home, Gwenna.”

  “Why?” I whisper.

  He lifts his head and frames my face with his hands, lifting my chin so we’re eye to eye—and I can see his heavy-lidded ones. “Because you’re right. I’m tired. And I don’t have a lot of self-control.”

  SEVENTEEN

  GWENNA

  My body flares white hot as his words roll through my mind. It’s been so long since anyone— I think I haven’t heard him right.

  Then his forehead presses against mine. His arms encircle me, warm hands stroking up and down along my sides. His dazed eyes cling to mine, and they are more transparent than I’ve ever seen them. I feel like I can read his whole soul in their smoky depths: want and need, shame, exhaustion.

  He doesn’t love you, warns an inner voice.

  But this feels so good, it feels so right, and I’m so hungry for him, I don’t care.

  “You’re so fucking sweet and soft.” His voice is low, and as he speaks, his eyes drift almost shut. Then they peek back open, and I feel the soft burn of his mouth on my throat, so gentle I can’t tell if it’s his tongue or lips.

  “It’s okay,” I rasp, grasping his hair.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “I want this…”

  My want throbs between my legs, a tsunami building as I tilt my face toward his and our lips meet, the kissing slow and careful, hard and faster, frantic, until I’m shaking. Every time his tongue strokes mine, I feel a pulse of need spread through my core.

  Barrett leans me back. I’m lying down. His heavy body comes between my legs, and he’s kissing my throat so hard it hurts. But good…

  As I pant, the scent of his skin swims through my head; his beard scratches my tender skin; his sturdy weight bears down on me—and it’s perfection. A low groan vibrates against my skin as his mouth climbs up my throat and roves along my jaw.

  Chills riot over me. I grip his neck, holding him to me. “’S good…”

  His palm roves up my neck and cups my cheek. I feel his hot tongue drag over my jaw and try to press my legs together. Instead, my thighs just squeeze his hips, making them buck. I lift my own hips, seeking…

  God. I moan. He lifts his mouth off me and breathes hard.

  “Gwen…” His hand grips my shoulder. His eyes shout at mine, then squeeze shut. He shifts his hips and my gaze drags between our bodies.

  I can see him bulging in his pants. Oh Lord, I have to touch him. Need to see his face and hear his sounds when my hand cups the swell of his erection.

  His head rests on my shoulder, warm and heavy. I can feel his hot breath on my neck. His chest presses against my breasts with every inhalation. He moans, a rough, low sound, and I can feel his legs tense.

  “Gwen…”

  He cups my cheek and with his heavy-lidded eyes on mine, a lost look on his face, he lowers himself slowly down on me and shifts his hips so I can feel him hard and thick against my inner thigh.

  He takes a deep, long breath and looks down at where he’s got his big bulge pressed against me. His gaze lifts back up to mine. “Is…this okay?” He drags himself along my leg and grinds against me even as he asks.

  I press my leg against him, my core throbbing as he grunts and thrusts against my soft thigh.

  “Fuck…”

  “I love it.”

  “God,” he groans.

  I can feel his upper body shake with building tension, and his dick throbs once as if it’s desperate for release.

  “It’s…been…a while,” he groans, his eyes squeezed shut. I cup his scratchy cheek and wrap my hand around his shoulder.

  “Me too… I just want to feel you.”

  As he feathers kisses over my temple, I arch my back, lifting my hips and shimmying as my fingers fumble blindly at his abs, reaching lower till my hand covers his bulge. Barrett’s breath catches.

  I rub him, pressing my palm against his hard length as my fingers find the soft swell of his balls below.

  The sound he makes is guttural and wasted.

  “Oh God….” Even through his pants, I can feel the outline of his head…the firm ridge of its rim. I rub along his swollen shaft. God, he’s big. Long and thick and…God. My pussy clenches as I brush against his balls.

  “Don’t,” he grits.

  I draw my hand back, stung. But I can see him in the shadow of the lamplight. See how big he is, how hard he is. He’s here with me. He’s hard for me. I thought I couldn’t do this…after. Couldn’t let my guard down—but I have.

  My excitement turns to frenzy, so intense I can’t think straight. Since shifted his hips so I can’t touch him with my hands, I bring my leg up so my knee pushes against him there. Heaven help me, I can feel his shaft twitch, feel his balls sway.

  I groan and his eyes flip open, dazed and burning. “Gwen.”

  I move my leg against him and my center throbs, just from the feel of him through his jeans.

  I reach down for him again. Before my hungry fingers make their mark, he grabs my wrists, stretching my arms above my head and urging me back down onto the cushion. For a long second, his gaze captures mine. I can see the indecision in his.

  I grip his shoulder.

  “Barrett—”

  “Fuck...”

  I feel his body shudder. His eyes shut. His breathing picks up. “Gwen, I need…”

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  He runs his hand under my shirt and thumbs my nipple through my bra.

  I groan, hips rolling. “Please…”

  He slips his hand beneath my bra and cups my breast. I feel his hips against my leg, his cock against my thigh.

  “Your skin… So soft.” He moves against me, and I can feel every long inch of him.

  I rub my thigh against him, laughing from adrenaline. “You’re not.”

  He leans down over me and bites me through my shirt.

  His hand strokes my lower belly as his lips pull one of my nipples into his mouth. As I start to pant and his hand comes to cup me through my leggings, his eyes darken.

  “You’re beautiful. You want this.”

  “Yes.”

  His hand slides into my leggings, smoothing down over my mound. I groan as his fingers part my lips; two calloused fingers drag through my slick and swollen folds. I’m so wet. I need him inside me.

  I see his eyes shut as his fingertips roll around my entrance, playing in the moisture there. His breathes loudly, running a finger up and down my slit and skating gently around my clit.

  I pant. His head dips
back down to my chest; he mouths my nipple once again, then pulls my shirt away, pushes my bra up and drags his tongue around my nipple.

  “Barrett!”

  He slides a finger into me and I see stars. “Ohhhhh God.” I grind against his hand, loving the fullness, the invasion…knowing that’s him, it’s Barrett’s finger in me.

  I gasp as he pushes in and pulls his finger slowly out, then surges back inside, prodding until he strokes my G-spot. My whole body jumps. He starts to rub my clit again, and tongue my nipple. I grab his hair and drag him up. I drag him up so I can kiss his mouth, so I can see his handsome, lust-drunk face, but mostly so maybe he will press his hips against me one more time and I can feel his cock against my leg.

  It’s been so long.

  I’m panting when his tongue glides back into my mouth, so strong and smooth. The tip of it explores; our tongues stroke. I can barely even move mine. My whole mind is focused on the pressure building in between my legs. He tries to work another finger into me. I gasp.

  “You’re tight, baby.”

  I try to push against his finger.

  “I’ll be careful…”

  “I don’t care!”

  He works the second finger in—only the tip. I moan as he pumps in, stretching, then pulls his fingers slowly out. He crawls down my throbbing body, peels my leggings down, and looks up at me.

  “Jesus Christ, I have to.”

  He lowers his mouth over me. I can feel the light brush of his lips. Then his tongue touches my clit, and I scream. His fingers delve inside me as he drags his tongue down, stroking between my lips before he comes back up to kiss my clit again. He rubs his lips over it, strokes it with the tip of his tongue.

  I’m thrusting at him, panting like I’m on the last mile of a marathon. Inside me, his fingers surge, until I spread my legs; my hand gropes blindly for his dick as I throb underneath his slick tongue. I clench my core against his fingers, raise my leg, trying to find his hardness with my knee.