I’m leaning against the railing, staring out into nowhere, when I feel him behind me.
“Mind if I hide with you?” Jase asks, gripping the railing beside me.
I smile and shrug. “Fine by me. Are you okay?”
He lowers himself so his elbows are resting on the railing and looks out into the yard, thick with trees and bushes, obscuring the view. “Not really,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. It smells strong, like bourbon or whiskey, and it looks like it’s mixed with a few ice cubes and not much else.
“It’s your brother’s funeral,” I say. “Of course you’re not okay. I’m sorry.”
He laughs bitterly and glances at me, before turning back to the trees and the approaching night. “I could give two shits about that asshole dying. The world’s a much better place without him, believe me.”
I turn so my back is against the railing, catching his eye. “Sounds like you killed him,” I say quietly, a small smile to let him know I’m just teasing. He straightens and towers over me, so close I can feel our arms brushing. I tilt my head to look up at him. He looks angry. And horny. And drunk.
“It’s that girl, isn’t it?” I ask, emboldened by the way he’s standing. “That grave? That’s what’s got you all messed up.” I can’t help myself; I reach up and brush a stray hair from his forehead, letting my hand linger on his skin a little longer than I should. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, squeezing it tightly.
“What do you know about her?” he asks, anything gentle in his demeanor now gone.
“Nothing,” I say, not struggling. I hold his gaze as his eyes burn into mine, searching for any trace of a lie. “Who was she?” I ask, as he lets go of my wrist and lets his hand fall to his side.
Jase breaks our stare-off and looks away, rubbing his temple. “She was my girl,” he says, and I can feel myself breaking apart inside under the weight of his words. “She was my everything.”
Oh, God. My breath hitches as the word everything leaves his mouth and curls around me. I want to cry, but I can’t. I can’t let him see me react, can’t give him any reason to suspect me. Despite this, my eyes still fill with tears. My mouth might lie but my eyes weep real tears, for him, for me, for everyone Dornan has ever wronged.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, gripping his head with my palms. I stand on tiptoes and pull his head down gently, grazing his forehead with my quivering lips. As I pull away, his hands mimic mine, grasping my chin. We are so close our noses are almost touching. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest like a hummingbird trapped in a jar, wings beating desperately against the glass. Only, the hummingbird wants to get out, and I don’t want to move an inch from where I am right now.
Jase’s eyes dip to my lips and I know what he’s about to do. My brain screams in protest, that we might get caught, that I can’t kiss him and keep lying to him, that I have to stop this, but my body has its own ideas. Our lips meet, a small sigh coming from the back of my throat as his tongue finds mine.
Six years, I have been dreaming about this moment. And now that it is here, I can’t let it happen.
“We can’t do this,” I say as his lips devour mine. I break away from him, pressing my hands against his hard chest and pushing back. He releases me immediately, his eyes filled with—shame? Regret? As soon as our eyes meet, I know that I’ve blown it between us.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing his arm. He pulls it away, his eyebrows pinched, his entire body coiled tight like a spring about to burst loose.
He wrenches his arm out of my grip and turns, stalking away into the night.
I don’t follow him. Instead, I stand there mutely, a growing sense of helplessness and alarm enveloping me.
Because next time he kisses me, I won’t be able to push him away.
Seven
The wake goes on for hours before Dornan finds me. He is drunk out of his mind, so I drive us back to the clubhouse in his wife’s car.
The place is deserted as I lead him to his room, the aura of death surrounding the place obviously too much for most. I drop the set of car keys onto the nightstand and watch as Dornan takes a seat on the black vinyl occasional chair in the corner of the room, the moonlight from the window creating long slashes of light across his face. Like scars, I think as I walk over to him.
“You can go,” he says, staring into space.
Part of me wants to go. To get back into the car, find Jase, and tell him everything. But the other part of me, the vengeful bitch—she wants to stay and soak up every last bit of pain and hurt coming from this grieving devil.
“Let me try and take your mind off things,” I whisper, putting my hands on his shoulders.
I swing my leg over the chair, straddling him. His eyes are glassy and threaten to spill over.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper, trailing hot, wet kisses down his neck. He is drunk, and obeys me, much to my disbelief.
I smirk as his action has the desired effect. By closing his eyes, two teardrops are squeezed from his eyes, falling onto his stubbled cheeks.
I lean down, touching my lips to his right cheek. My tastebuds spring to life, assuaged by the sudden taste of salt water.
The taste of victory.
He took my father, my life, and now I have taken his oldest son from him. The taste of his sorrow beckons me, and I repeat my actions on his left cheek, this time darting my tongue out to catch his despair and drink it up, every last drop.
I rock on his lap, his erection already growing just from me straddling him. With my black funeral dress hitched up around my thighs, there is only a thin scrap of black lace and Dornan’s black pants separating us. He opens his eyes, and I sense he is surprised at the tender way I am touching him. In a way, so am I. But his sorrow, his devastation…it’s better than if I had tied him up and made him bleed for me.
Bleeding tears instead of blood, but it is all the same in the end. I will take every tear he has, every son, and then I will start letting blood.
“Sammi…” he breathes, digging his fingers into the soft flesh at my hips. I break out in goose bumps, wary once more. He never calls me Sammi.
Only baby girl.
“So hard for you it fucking hurts,” he says, staring me down with blazing intensity.
I suppress a smile as I fumble with his zipper, the material stretched to breaking point. As I tug the zipper carefully, his erection springs forth, a bead of pre-cum glistening on the tip. I grip him firmly with one hand, swiping my finger over the tip of his cock with my free hand. I don’t break our gaze as I bring my finger to my mouth and suck the salty fluid from it.
Sorrow. Devastation. Loss.
He digs his fingers deeper, the pain intensifying but still pleasant. It’s as if he is holding onto me for dear life, and slipping away.
I smile, and his gaze snaps, just like that, from sorrow and submission, to hunger and domination.
“You’re teasing me,” he says, lifting my hips forcefully. He leaves one hand on my hip and used the other to wrench my panties aside and guide his cock to my entrance.
I’m so turned on. A sorrow fuck. Never is someone more vulnerable than when they’re underneath you, naked, exposed, and on the brink of coming.
I see it all. I see through his facade, his control, into the blackness of his very soul. I see the scars I have left on his cold, dead heart, on the tiny part that has the capacity to care for his own offspring. A primal, human instinct that lives inside him despite his hatred, despite his abject twistedness. He pulls me down over him, filling me completely and to the point of pain, and I can’t help but moan.