I dive down to my knees, my mouth watering to have a taste.
There’s nothing I want more right now than to feel him in my mouth, his cock pulsing on my tongue as he comes down my throat.
My pussy clenches as I grip his shaft, more drops oozing from his tip. I lean in and lick it off, a moan escaping me at the flavor.
He fingers my hair, pulling back the strands and fisting them in his right hand, his left one caressing the side of my jaw as I open my mouth wide to take him in.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Put your mouth on it.”
I glance up at him through my lashes, my stomach tensing when I take in his abs and tattooed skin, his eyes blazing as they stare down at me. I suck him in slowly, relishing in the way he groans, the salty taste of him making my insides spasm and wetness drip down the insides of my thigh.
“Fuck,” he rasps. I twirl my tongue around his silky skin, one of my hands resting on his thigh, the muscle twitching underneath my palm, and my other hand moving from where it was working the base of his shaft, sliding down until I cup his balls, manipulating the flesh while I suction my cheeks and bob my head up and down.
A rush of power spins through me at the way I have this man buckling under my ministrations, and I double my efforts, wanting to feel him come apart completely. He pushes my head down, my eyes watering as I breathe through my nose and attempt to stop the gag reflex as his thickness dips into my throat.
“Breathe, baby,” he coos, his fingers cupping beneath my chin. He continues to push in slowly until his hips are flush to my face. “Goddamn,” he groans.
Pulling back, his dick pops from my mouth entirely, and I gasp for breath, strings of saliva connecting the edge of his cock to my lips, my lungs burning.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I don’t respond, moving back in again, my mouth wrapping around his length until I’m pushing myself down on him this time, starting a steady motion of deep throating him until I’m on the edge of passing out from the lack of air.
Suddenly, his grip on my hair tightens, and he pulls me back until his cock pops out of my mouth. He’s so hard it physically throbs in front of me.
He lets go of the strands, reaching down and gripping under my ass, his muscles flexing as he lifts, placing me on the edge of the counter as if I weigh nothing.
There’s something so attractive about a man who can do that. Who can bend and mold you any way he desires, as if you’re just along for the ride.
He leans in and kisses me, our tongues tangling, his breath sweet as it mixes with mine.
“Fuck, you’re ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he rasps, rubbing his dick through my drenched pussy lips.
The back of my head bangs against the cupboard door. “Yes, I need it.”
He smirks, gripping his shaft as he slides the tip in a torturous motion, making my abs clench and my clit throb.
“Ask me nicely.”
My gaze narrows. “Please, Lincoln. Fuck me.”
He leans in, his arm coming to rest on the cupboard next to my face, the black roses on his bicep moving as his muscles flex. His cock lines up with my entrance, his tip teasing the hole slightly until I’m desperate for him to fill me up.
“I’m not going to fuck you, Morgan. I’m going to own you, just like you own me.”
And then he slides all the way in, my walls stretching to fit him. He starts a punishing pace immediately, long full strokes in and out, his thumb rubbing in circles against my clit until I’m riding so high I swear I can taste the sky.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands, his hand wrapping around the front of my throat.
I moan, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, yours.”
He fucks me harder, his balls slapping against my ass with every thrust, and it just takes one nip of his teeth on my collarbone until I’m breaking apart into a thousand pieces, shattering right in the middle of his kitchen, my limbs wrapping around him as I try to hang on. He follows soon after, pulses of his cum coating the inside of me, his cock jerking wildly as he groans in my ear.
“Christ, killer,” he says after we’ve both caught our breaths.
He leans his forehead against mine, our chests rising and falling in perfect harmony.
“If I ask you to stay, would you?” he whispers.
I smile wide. “I am staying.”
He shakes his head, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “No, I mean…” His fingers tangle in mine and he brings them up to his chest, his heart beating like crazy beneath our hands. “Stay. In Skelm Island.”
“Lincoln,” I whisper, my throat swelling until it burns. “Portland’s only an hour away.”
He pecks my lips. “An hour too far.”
My mind races a thousand miles a minute, wondering if I could. Wondering if it’s even something I’d want. Wondering how realistic it is for me to have both.
My career and him.
Cupping his face with my free hand, I press my mouth to his, my heart cracking in two. “I’ll think about it.”
I pretend I don’t see the disappointment swirl through his eyes.
And when we fall asleep that night…
I dream of black roses.
My hands are clammy as they rest against the steering wheel of my Honda.
I twist the key out of the ignition and open my car door, standing up and staring into the distance. It’s unusually foggy for this time of day, even for Skelm Island. It’s in that odd space between day and night, when the sun dips beneath the horizon but the darkness hasn’t swallowed it whole.
I squint my eyes, trying to see the lighthouse through the mist, but it’s too thick, and other than the lightning that streaks across the sky, visibility is nonexistent.
Walking forward, the mist hugs me like it’s trying to sink into my bones, and it sends a haunting chill up my spine, so reminiscent of my nightmares I can taste the terror bleeding through my mind.
I make my way up the gravel drive, the sound of it crunching under my shoes the only sign that I’m heading in the right direction.
Part of me knows I should be heading to the cottage to talk to Paul Jensen.
My father.
It’s the whole reason for my visit, and it’s what I told Lincoln this morning that I was coming to do.
But, I’m scared.
So instead of heading toward a man I don’t remember, I move toward the lighthouse, hoping that if I step inside, it will jog another flashback. Let me piece together a little bit more of my missing memory, and maybe then I’ll feel more confident about talking with my long-lost dad.
I make it to the back door, half of me expecting it to be locked, but the handle turns, opening easily. I walk inside, the air stale and icy as I look around at the small room that leads into the spiral stairwell up to the top.
A shiver shakes my body, urging me to go home.
I ignore it, walking to the center of the room and closing my eyes. And then I wait.
For what? I’m not sure. Maybe for my head to throb and a memory to hit, the way it has before.
A sharp crack sounds from outside, and my heart jumps into my throat, my eyes springing open, and my hand slapping against my chest.
What the hell was that?
But it only takes a second for me to forget all about the sound as my eyes zone in on the object in front of me.
My stomach rolls as I stand stock-still, my brain telling my limbs to move, but my body not listening, remaining frozen in place.
Because I’m staring into the vacant, unseeing eyes of Preacher Cartwright.
He’s naked from the waist down and his genitals are completely mutilated, blood drenching every bit of his skin.
I finally move, my lungs whooshing out a gigantic breath as nausea threatens to make me keel over. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, bile rising up my throat.
Regret fills me up and makes my fac
e hot, feeling so stupid for not bringing my gun.
But I didn’t expect to find this.
My gaze is frantic as I scan the surroundings, noting that there’s no blood pooling underneath him, almost as if he was moved here after the fact.
Set up on purpose for somebody to find.
For me to find.
But nobody knew I was going to be here.
Except for Lincoln.
My chest pulls tight, refusing to acknowledge the passing thought.
I step closer to Preacher Cartwright, my eyes trailing down his corpse, and dread drops into the pit of my stomach as my eyes close, tears burning behind the lids.
Because there’s a line carved in his abdomen.
Signasti fatum tuum.
Chapter 48
“Are you… smiling?”
My fingers tighten at my nephew’s waist, the giggle that bursts from his belly making my chest feel lighter than ever. He kicks his feet, squirming on his back as he tries to escape me, and I bring my hands in the air, slowly creeping back and repeating the process.
His squeals fill my mother’s living room, and I lean back on my heels, glancing up as Gabe saunters over. He drops down onto the leather sofa, kicking his feet up on the arm and dangling his head over the opposite side.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?” he groans, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand. The scent of whiskey wafts over to me, and I wince, covering my nose with my bicep.
“Christ, Gabe, did you sleep in a fucking distillery last night?”
The only reason I’m watching Charlie right now is because Daisy had a shift at the diner, and Gabe’s been more MIA this week than a deserting soldier. And since it’s my off-season for work and my mother had a hair appointment, I was volunteered.
If not for the fact that Isa’s seen Gabe pop in at Petey’s between shifts, we’d have probably assumed he was dead.
The image sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, making the hairs at the nape of my neck stiffen. Klepsky’s been in police custody for a week now, but it still feels too soon to even joke.
I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened had the fucker not been caught. Who else he might have hurt—if my mother was on his list, considering her involvement at the church. Maybe he would’ve gone after Daisy by association.
Or Morgan.
Her bright smile flashes across my vision, and I lose myself to the memory of waking up to her every day since the arrest. How right it feels having her here every night, safe and warm in my arms, as if she’s where she’s always belonged.
In a way, I suppose she kind of is. A wanderer who followed the stars and finally found their way home.
I can only hope she decides to stay for good.
“Et tu, Brute?” Gabe throws an arm over his face, as if trying to shield his eyes from the overhead lighting. “I was working late.”
My lips purse. “Isa said she served you around midnight.”
“Okay, I stopped in for a beer. Is that a crime?”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, not wanting to argue the semantics. I’m pretty sure drinking on duty is enough grounds to get you fired, but Captain Stoll would rather bury his head in the sand than address intoxication issues among his staff.
Besides, if he fired Gabe, he’d have to fire a third of his boys.
Isa said she didn’t overserve, anyway, so it’s not like a single beer is going to put Gabe, or anyone else, in danger. Now that the serial killer’s been caught, Skelm Island is back to its normal array of petty thefts and vehicular accidents.
My stomach sinks, realization that I’m justifying his poor behavior making me nauseous.
Charlie blinks up at me with his big brown eyes, innocently babbling, completely unaware that his father is going through something. He blows a spit bubble, shaking his hands in delight when it pops against his lips.
Ignorance is bliss.
“Morgan Jensen’s return and a serial killer’s arrest, all in the same week.” Gabe thumps a fist against his chest, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought the island would be thrown for a loop that big?”
Of course, word’s started to spread about the lightkeeper’s daughter’s return. ‘Back from the dead,’ some people are calling her, although if we’ve learned anything over the last few weeks, it’s that the dead stay that way. Especially in this town.
“I know. It’s fucking insane.”
Reaching down, I wrap my hands around Charlie, hauling him up into my arms. He nuzzles his head in the crook of my neck, and I rub small circles on his back, the way I’ve seen my sister do. I study my best friend, a distant part of me wondering why he isn’t offering to take over right now.
But I shrug it off, assuming he’s probably exhausted. From work or alcohol, I don’t know, but regardless, he’s in no shape to take care of a baby.
“Do you ever think about the summer we volunteered to be lifeguards at church camp?”
Swinging my gaze to Gabe, I lift an eyebrow. “Uh… not usually, no. I blocked out pretty much anything that had to do with the church, though. The second Ma said I could stop going, I stuffed those memories way down.”
“It was nice,” he says, reaching for a red throw pillow, pulling it over his stomach. Clasping his hands on top of the cushion, he stares blankly up at the ceiling, resembling a patient in a therapist’s office as he continues. “I think that was the last summer just you and I spent together. I mean, Isa, Archer, and Oliver were all there, but they didn’t lifeguard with us, so it was almost like you and I were this unstoppable duo. Two peas in a pod.”
I smirk. “Is this the part where you confess you’ve been in love with me for the last twenty years?”
He blows out a broken laugh, shaking his head. “You wish, Porter. No.” Rolling onto his side, he glances down at his son, then back at me. “It was nice, not having to do it alone that year, is all. You… took a lot of pressure off of me.”
“Pressure?” I ask, making a face. “Yeah, I’m sure it was real hard work being the subject of every little church girl’s sexual fantasies. Cry me a fucking river, dude. You were drowning in pussy in high school.”
A cold silence descends between us, and he slowly rolls to his back, that blank look glazing over his eyes again. “I remember you whining that entire July about how no one wanted to listen to your theories on Morgan’s disappearance, or your explanation as to how you knew her father didn’t have anything to do with it. Guess you got the last laugh there, huh?”
“I tried to tell you,” I say, stretching my legs out in front of me.
He grunts, nodding. “Where is the lady detective, anyway? I heard she’s shacked up with you, even though her partner went back to Portland.”
My shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “She said she wanted to talk to Paul. I imagine there’s… a lot to unpack between them. If I have a lot of unanswered questions, I can’t imagine the things she wants to ask.”
“She remember anything about the night she disappeared yet?”
I consider that, smoothing my free hand up over my forearm. “If she’s regained anything, she hasn’t told me. Not that it matters.”
“No?”
“She might be Morgan Jensen, but that little girl I knew eighteen years ago? She doesn’t exist anymore.” I swallow over the lump in my throat, my esophagus burning with raw emotion. “I guess she hasn’t for a while, but… it was easier to live in denial, thinking she’d come back the same. Like circumstances have nothing to do with how a person turns out.”
Gabe doesn’t say anything, and I clear my throat, Charlie’s breaths growing even as they brush against my neck. “So, anyway. It doesn’t matter to me if she gets any memories back. I’m more interested in making new ones.”
“Cute.” He grins, but the gesture doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You gonna try to get her to stay then?”
“I’ve asked. Waiting on a concrete answer.”
“Ah
, she’s making you work for it.” He pushes into a sitting position, slapping his hands on his knees. “Your sister never makes me work for anything. She’s always been easy to win over.”
I snort, pushing to my feet at the same time he does. “I don’t know where she got that quality from.”
Stepping forward, Gabe reaches to take Charlie from me, adjusting him so the now sleeping baby’s head lolls against his shoulder. He smooths a hand over the baby’s fuzzy scalp, kissing his hairline.
“Her forgiveness is a welcome addition to the Porter name,” he says, a wry smile twisting his lips.
Rolling my eyes, I take off toward the kitchen as he turns on his heels and heads up the stairs, saying he’s going to put Charlie down for a nap.
I make a cup of peppermint tea, hoping it might help soothe the stomachache flaring in my abdomen, and head to the den to look over Jordan Thomas’s proposal to help revive the Porter Lobster Co.
I lose track of time, pouring over the binder, and when I return to the living room, the sun is beginning to set. I half expect Gabe to be either passed out on the sofa or watching television, but instead I find it empty.
“Gabe?” I call, my voice bouncing off the walls, no one to absorb the impact.
Mug in hand, I head up the stairs, my nausea expanding into something fiercer with each step I take.
Peeking into the room Gabe and Daisy share, I find that one empty as well, aside from Charlie’s sleeping form in the white crib against the wall. There’s no one in the bathroom down the hall, and I even peek into my mother’s room for good measure, still coming up short a best friend.
My gaze falls to the first door in the hall; it’s slightly ajar, but completely dark inside, and my stomach knots up as I approach, bracing for Gabe to jump out of the fucking shadows and scare me like he did when we were kids.
No wonder I preferred Morgan’s company over his, I muse silently, pushing open the door. My hand skims up the wall, finding the light switch and flipping it up, my body tense as it awaits an attack.
But nothing comes.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 32