Deliver Us (The Sinful Duet Book 2)

by Skyla Madi

  I move my arms, pushing them under her knees to help keep them up. Suppressing a moan, she grabs the back of my neck, her fingers pushing into my hair, and opens her legs wider. Unable to help myself, I ram into her at a frenzied pace and capture her mouth with mine to stifle the sexy noises she makes every time I reach her maximum depth and grind my pelvis against hers, making her clench around me.

  Cassia tears her mouth from mine to exhale my name, and my gaze falls to her rosy nipples. Without a second thought, I lower my head and suck the left one into my mouth. She arches her back with a long gasp, tightens her hold on me, and whispers aggressive pleas for me to keep going—harder, faster, yes, God—and I give her whatever she wants. I slam into her and lick and suck at her nipples, feeling her pulse and constrict around me as I do it. I focus all my energy on pleasing her and ignore the painful blackhole in my chest that threatens to consume me.

  “Caleb…” Her breath hitches, and she lifts her head, burying her face in my hair. I catch her nipple between my teeth, drop more of my weight against her, and thrust faster between her legs. “I’m—oh, shit. I-I’m…” Her sentence is swallowed by heavy gasps.

  I want to taunt her orgasm out of her. I want her to talk me through it, tell me how good I’m making her feel in that sexy husky voice she gets when she’s ready to come, but now’s not the time nor the place. Cassia digs her nails into the skin on the back of my neck. The fullness of her breasts bounce against my face as I continue my assault on her sensitive nipples and keep my fast pace, fucking in and out of her. A moan seeps out between her lips and it’s fucking loud, but she doesn’t care, and it does more than set my blood on fire, it turns it into a furious stream of lava. She lifts her hips, meeting my every thrust, until her body goes rigid and her muscles tremble. I release her nipple with a groan, overcome by the feel of her contracting—hard—around me. Her heavy gasps progress into high mewls and I crush my mouth to hers, absorbing them all, licking her tongue with mine. I push harder between her legs, chasing the pressure that bubbles inside my shaft, until insane pleasure seizes my pelvis, my thighs, my stomach, and I’m spilling into her with thick, powerful jerks. It goes on forever, the longest, most unbearable orgasm I’ve ever had, and Cassia continues to grind on me, until I’m softer and the sensitivity is too much to bear.

  Panting, I bury my head into the nape of her neck, and she strokes my head, holding me close. I don’t know how loud we were. I don’t know if Marcus is loading his gun a few rooms down. All I know is, I’m sad—so fucking sad—and Cassia is the only one on the planet who can make it hurt less.

  Feeling her…

  Taking her…

  Loving her…

  …it’s what I need to stay afloat and not spiral into my old self—into a panicked chaos. Like a rehabilitated animal, I can’t go back to how I lived before. I no longer have what it takes to survive it—the dark—so I’m gonna cling to the last bulb of light I have left and pray that, out of the both of us, I die first.

  Chapter Twenty

  C A S S I A

  The day of Agnes McNamara’s funeral

  It’s an abysmal day which, ironically, matches the way the world seems to be feeling lately.

  I look past the rain that drips from the edges of Penelope’s clear umbrella and settle my gaze on Caleb’s broad shoulders. His suit, an appropriate, well-fitted, black on black ensemble, is a shade darker than it was before the clouds began to spit down on him. The water in his clothes doesn’t seem to bother him; neither did the mourners who left an hour ago when Father Andrews announced the end of the funeral. Off to the side, under the canopy of a weathered tree, two men stand beside their shovels, impatiently smoking like chimneys. They don’t bother Caleb either. He’s in no rush for them to begin filling in Agnes’s grave, though the dirt will soon turn to mud if he leaves it any longer.

  The funeral was harder than I thought it’d be. Like sardines, the cemetery had been packed with people from all over to remember her. They told the wildest, sweetest, saddest stories, and through it, I felt like I’d known Agnes my whole life. Envy hit me with painful swings when I remembered I never knew her on the same level as most. In fact, out of everyone, I probably knew her the least.

  Throughout the funeral, Caleb remained stoic beside me, mindlessly dragging his thumb across the back of my hand. No one paid him much attention until Bree called on him to give the main eulogy. I knew he was ready. He’d spent days pouring over it and lost plenty of sleep in the name of perfection, but to my surprise—and everyone else’s—he simply shook his head and remained seated, clenching the folded piece of paper he’d written his speech on in his other fist. Like she promised, Bree prepared one herself in the event Caleb wasn’t comfortable saying his. When she was done, he was the only one in the room who didn’t shed a tear, and I could tell it really bothered him. He sat, shoulders tense, brow furrowed, and eyes clouded. Sorrow hung heavy in the air that swirled around him, but it was never that simple with Caleb. The air surrounding him was heavy with more than the death of Agnes McNamara—more than sorrow and grief…

  …and he’ll tell me about it later when we’re alone. I hope.

  “Will he be okay?” I ask Penelope, tugging my black coat tighter around me. It does nothing to warm my exposed ankles. Damn this outfit and its matching heels.

  Penelope blows a gentle air out of her cheeks, and I drag my gaze to her. Her reddish blonde hair is as bright as a flame against her own stark, black coat, and she doesn’t swat it away as it moves across her face with the soft breeze.

  “I should be the one asking you. You know him better than I do,” she utters, tightening her grip on her white umbrella handle, not looking away from her brother.

  “Better than any of us do, apparently,” a deep, smooth voice rumbles as Father Andrews steps into the space beside me. A gentle mist from exposure to the rain has settled on top of his hair and the fabric of his heavy, black coat. In his arms, he holds a large bouquet of pink peony roses wrapped in white and clear plastics. “He’s been standing there for hours. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

  I raise my eyebrows. He’s asking me? What do I know about Caleb’s emotional state? He’s unpredictable in the same way some books end on a cliffhanger or the way some poems don’t rhyme. He’s a walking, talking embodiment of the Chaos Theory. Impulsive. Hot-blooded. A bubbling, confusing, overwhelming mass of troubled flesh with mood swings and a shot of unfathomable trauma to boot. Caleb Andrews has never been okay—probably never will be—and that’s okay because he has me.

  And Penelope.

  And his dad.

  And my parents.

  And Bree.

  And Wade.

  He has a whole network of people who’d drop everything to love on him whenever life gets too heavy. I don’t relay that to his father, though. Instead, I offer him a small nod and look to Caleb as he plucks a white rose from the bunch he cradles in his arm and tosses it into the grave. I frown. I distinctly recall the fine print on the announcement that said no white roses. Where did he even get them?

  Father Andrews engulfs my small, cold hand with his and squeezes gently. Looking down at it, I freeze, unsure what I should do with the gesture. He’s never admitted aloud that he dislikes me, but I’ve got that vibe from him on many occasions since I started dating Caleb. He’s good at hiding it under a passive look of indifference, which makes it easier for me to ignore. Is he being kind because he realizes he has no choice now I’m about to become his daughter-in-law?

  “I’ll admit I was never sold on the relationship between you two,” Father Andrews confesses, and I lift my attention to his, meeting the same green irises Caleb has. “But I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on my life, and Caleb, and his growth. He’s opened up about a lot of things recently that have really struck a chord with me. I can go on and on about my own insecurities, beliefs, and prejudices that prevented me from accepting your relationship…but I’ll spare you the details.” Father Andrews turns hi
s body in my direction, uncaring that the raindrops falling from the edges of Penelope’s umbrella drip onto his leather shoes. “I want you to know that, somehow, I lost sight of who I was, and in the process, I let my son’s wellbeing slip through my fingers. For the longest time, I ignored the fact Caleb was digging himself into a hole with a spade I didn’t realize I’d given him. I turned a blind eye to his misdeeds as long as he showed up to church every Sunday. Instead of being his father, I assumed he’d find his strength in God eventually—like I did—and I left him to his own devices. In doing so, I caused him more hurt than I realized, and I worsened it by laying judgment on you too.” His eyes dart to Penelope, nervous, then back to me. “This morning I was reminded that God said, let light shine out of darkness. You are the light in his life, Cassia, and you brought to light his truth so that he may be given a second chance. I can think of a million things I’d do differently if I could go back, but I can’t think of a better woman to take care of my son.”

  I stammer, speechless. Caleb told me what his father insinuated the night of Agnes’s death—that I love the drama, not his son—and it brought me to tears because I’m not bad hearted. I don’t thrive on drama or pain. If anything, I deteriorate because it fucking hurts to drag your heart through the dirt instead of placing it in willing and loving hands.

  I’m glad Father Andrews was here to witness everything I’ve done for Caleb this week. I went above and beyond to support him through his grief, making sure he grieved in a healthy way. He spoke to me freely, told me every story he had about his family and Agnes. I fed him, washed him, coddled him, and gave him all the intimacy he needed. He’s been sad—unbearably so—but I’ve fought tirelessly to make sure his sadness was expressed and never fell inward on him. I know I’m young and have no relationship experience to speak of, but I also know how much I love Caleb. I know how far I’d go for him—for us. I have nothing to prove to his father, nor do I feel the need to convince him I’m in love with his son. In the end, my marriage to Caleb will speak for itself.

  I give Father Andrews’ hand a squeeze and offer him a gentle smile. Regardless of what he said, I appreciate him approaching me and trying to make things right.

  “Thank you.”

  Clearing his throat, he drops my hand and extends the bouquet of pretty, pink peonies. “Your parents asked me to give you these to place on Agnes’s grave on their behalf.”

  I take them gratefully and step out from underneath Penelope’s umbrella. Miraculously, the icy rain finds every tiny sliver of my exposed flesh and bites at it on impact. The back of my neck, my hands, the exposed tops of my feet thanks to these strappy heels, are soaking within seconds.

  “Take the umbrella,” Penelope offers, but I wave her gesture off as I turn to face her.

  “A little rain won’t hurt.” I hold the peonies closer. “Are you both going to Macy’s Diner for lunch with everyone?”

  Penelope looks to Father Andrews for an answer, and he nods. “Bree requested I be there. Will you and Caleb…?”

  I peer over my shoulder at Caleb as he nods his head at the gravediggers. They ditch their cigarettes, grab their shovels, and march over. “I can ask, but he might want to go home and rest. He didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Do you want us to wait?” Penelope asks, and I can’t bring myself to look away from Caleb as he tosses a white rose inside the grave after every few shovels of dirt the diggers throw in.

  “No. It’s okay.” I start toward Caleb, uncaring my thin heels sink into the soft earth. “I’ll call you if we decide to go to the diner.”

  I quickly close the distance between Caleb and me and touch his elbow as I come to a stop beside him. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses in another white rose, and I watch it get swallowed up by the dirt. I wrinkle my nose at the thick, earthy smell as it’s disturbed by the men with their shovels who pay us no attention, and I tuck a lock of dampening air behind my ear. Soon, my hair will be drenched and my makeup ruined, but I don’t mind it. I’ll stand here with him until next week if it’s what he wants. I touch his bent elbow and he turns his head, casting a sad, warm gaze over my face.

  “She hates white roses,” he says, his lips quirking. “More than any other flower.”

  So he knows Agnes doesn’t like white roses…I shift my weight and fight off a frown. Is this him cracking under the pressure of today?

  “If she doesn’t like white roses, why are you—”

  “She lost the bet.”

  Of course she did. I blow air out of my lips, a splutter-laugh hybrid and lean my head against Caleb’s firm, damp bicep. I don’t press for the details of the bet in question. I let him have it. This week, I pried through his relationship with Agnes and forced him to remember the happy times to aid in his grief. Instead of speaking, I watch the bluish-gray coffin as its remaining slivers are covered in dirt and white roses.

  “Is it weird to say she was my best friend?” Caleb asks, and I tilt my head to look at his face.

  His frown is deep, and it’s hauntingly beautiful on his sharp features. Agnes and Caleb had the cutest relationship, the bulk of it spent teasing and provoking each other, like best friends would. It was endearing to witness, and thinking about it reminds me how much he loved her. She was his life raft when he had no one, an immovable rock when everything else around him wobbled like jelly.

  “No.”

  He peers down at me, flicking his dark, cloudy green gaze over my face to stop on my lips, making my stomach flip. The rain, now a gentle mist, settles on my skin, and it’s refreshing, keeping me clear-headed and aware there are two men, less than a few feet away, shoveling dirt into a grave.

  “She would’ve liked today,” I tell him, my voice a soft whisper so only he can hear it. “The guests, the speeches, and the flow—well, most of the flowers.”

  Simpering, he swallows the distance between our mouths and plants a quick peck on my lips. “Us. She’d like us being here together,” he replies, his voice as equally as quiet. “I hate myself for letting you go. We could’ve spent time with her, could’ve been married already.” He straightens and pulls the remaining rose out of the empty plastic. “All I wanted was to make her happy, but it slipped through my fingers. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

  “She was proud of you regardless. You made her happy…and you make me happy.” I stroke his elbow. “I’m sorry she didn’t get to see you marry.”

  Caleb hums his agreement and stares into the center of the white rose. Exhaling, he lifts his gaze to my face and buries his emotion under a half-hearted smile. “She would’ve slept through it anyway.”

  I nudge him, my mouth twitching against a smile of my own. He’s good at deflecting his emotions, my Caleb. It’s one of the things I love and loathe about him most. Sometimes, I envy his coping mechanisms. I wish I could bury my pain under a heavy pile of sarcasm.

  I lean against Caleb for what feels like hours, until the diggers have almost filled Agnes’s final resting place to the top.

  Sighing, he holds the lone white rose in front of my face. “Trade you?”

  Lifting my head from his bicep, I take the white rose and hold out my arm for him to pluck a pink peony from my bouquet. Caleb clears his throat and reaches into the pocket of his well-fitted slacks. He retrieves a small, folded piece of paper. I know that on it, scrawled in perfect cursive, is the speech he was supposed to give in front of everyone.

  I wait, patiently, as he flicks his index finger over the corners, seemingly in thought, and stares into the center of the peony. Rain falls from the clouds and soaks into the top layers, turning them transparent.

  “Do you regret not giving your speech?” I ask, lifting my attention to his face.

  His brows furrow, and he purses his full lips, then shakes his head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I realized as everyone told their stories about Agnes that mine and hers were different. I couldn’t praise her without ripping myself open or exposing
my own scars. We’re not friends who met by chance, or relatives…our story is personal. My love for her is personal. How could I share it with a room full of strangers? I couldn’t.”

  Leaning forward, Caleb lets the paper fall from his fingertips and tosses in the peony, and they’re both buried under a pile of dirt.

  Gone.

  We stand side by side until the gravediggers fill the grave to capacity, until my wet clothes are heavy, my hair flat, and my makeup is running. I shiver and clench my teeth. It’s cold, so damn cold, but the thought of being here with Caleb, the thought of him opening up to me so easily, fills me with a warmth the winter drizzle can’t touch.

  *Caleb*

  Stepping forward, Cassia crouches and lays the bouquet of peonies against Agnes’s wonderful granite headstone, cemented to a strip of concrete along the head of the grave. After a few seconds, she straightens her posture and watches as the flower petals are lightly beaten by the rain, the drops appearing as crystals in the gray light. She turns around, and her attention falls to me, her eyes a brilliant, breathtaking blue I haven’t fully appreciated since the night at the fair. Her airy, fluffy curls she spent ages putting in her hair this morning have been flattened in the rain, and against all odds, her makeup remains flawless, save for slight darkening under the lower rim of her eyes.

  My heartbeat picks up as she ambles closer, closing the distance between us. I can’t help the twitch in the corners of my mouth and allow my lips to be pulled into a smile.

  “You look beautiful today. Have I told you that?” I ask, extending my hand to her.

  Nodding, she fights a smile and gratefully takes my hand. “You tell me every day.”

  “Good. I worry I’ve neglected you.”

  She raise her eyebrows. “Neglect? You haven’t let me out of your sight in seven days. You sleep so close, hold me so tight my lungs can’t fully expand, and the heat from your skin keeps me awake. We’ve had sex—great sex—multiple times a day, and standing under Penelope’s umbrella this morning is the furthest I’ve been from you since the night Agnes died.”