by Penny Wylder
Could it have been? a dark corner of my mind wonders.
“Fancy meeting you out here on my lonely walk home,” Gil says as he reaches us, with a wave. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We’re trying to piece together the night of the murder,” I tell him. “I saw a couple of figures in the trees, just before you ran into me at the bonfire. We’re trying to figure out which direction it was from here.”
His eyebrows rise. “You saw figures? What do you mean?”
As quickly as I can, I explain again to him. The flashlights, the two people. “I just can’t remember which way I walked back to the fire,” I finish, with a frown.
“That way,” Gil replies without a second thought, nodding in a direction perpendicular to the path he was walking home.
My frown deepens. “How do you know that?”
“Because I remember every second of that night vividly, Jenna.” There’s a strange look on Gil’s face, one I’ve not seen before. He looks much more serious than usual. “I saw you coming back to the bonfire from this way,” he adds, with a glance toward the detective.
“But that was before we started talking,” I protest. “How could you remember it?”
He raises a brow. “Because I only came to the bonfire trying to find you, of course. The second I saw you coming back from the woods, I started planning how to approach you.”
My cheeks go red.
Stacey, however, is watching Gil more closely than before, I notice. “Where were you before you saw Jenna by the fire, then?” Stacey asks.
Gil meets her eye easily. “Like I told you before, Detective. I was closing up shop for the day, and then buying my first pint.”
“And between buying said pint and walking up here to follow your latest conquest?” Stacey arches a brow.
A pang strikes my stomach. “Hey, I’m not a conquest,” I say.
“My apologies.” Stacey shakes her head. “I’m just trying to figure out how he fits into all this. How soon you two actually ran into one another, when you both told me you talked all night.”
“We did,” I insist. “Starting right then.”
“Starting right after you saw people acting suspicious in the forest.”
My heart sinks. She doesn’t think what I think she does, does she? But this is her job. It’s one thing if a random hotel concierge is suspicious of Gil. It’s quite another if a detective thinks so. I glance at Gil, and find him staring at me with a strange, indecipherable expression on his face. Is he angry with me?
Or worried I just found out what he’s done? I swallow, my throat dry.
A moment passes in awkward silence. Then Gil lifts one shoulder, lets it fall. “I’ve told you everything I know, Detective. I believe Jenna saw these figures in that direction, as best I can tell, judging by how she walked back to the bonfire.”
“Let’s walk a little that way,” I suggest. “Maybe it will refresh my memory.” We take off again, walking with a pregnant-silence around us.
Pregnant. My stomach flips like it’s been doing for days. Fucking hell. What if I let a murderer impregnate me? What if Gil is involved in this, what if—
“Oh.” I stop dead suddenly. “Wait.” I glance through the trees ahead. “I think I do recognize this.” It’s harder to tell in daylight, without flashlights darting ahead, but when I glance over my shoulder and imagine a bonfire and revelers behind me, this does look like where I saw the men. “That way,” I say, pointing a little more north, to judge by the angle of the sun overhead.
Stacey watches me very closely, mouth a thin line. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I’ll ever be.” I glance back to gauge our distance from the village. “It might be a little further, but it was definitely that direction… Why?” I add, because she’s begun to nod in grim satisfaction.
In answer, Stacey just keeps walking, in the direction I pointed. Gil and I have to jog to keep up, over brambles and dead leaves. But in a few more paces, her expression becomes clear. Just over a ridge, right about where I remembered seeing those people, I now spy bright yellow tape. Crime scene tape.
“That’s where we found Mr. Myers’s body,” Stacey replies finally, tone low and serious.
My stomach sinks like a rock. “So those two people I saw…”
“Most likely had something to do with the murder.” Stacey glances at me, frowning. Her gaze darts to Gil quickly, then away. “I know this is a big ask, Jenna, and a long-shot, but you didn’t happen to take any photos, did you? Of what was going on?”
A memory leaps to mind. Me hiding behind my camera lens, like always. “I tried to, actually,” I say. “It was really dim, and I couldn’t get a clear shot. I don’t know if there’ll be much to them…”
“We might be able to get our computer guys to enhance the film,” Stacey speaks over me. “Would you mind handing the raw footage over to me? Any photos from that night, actually. Who knows what we might be able to see, what might crop up in some.”
“Of course,” I answer, straight away.
“Thank you.” Stacey taps on the recorder she’s wearing. “That’s all for now, Jenna. But if you can stay in town, I’ll be in touch about those pictures soon.”
“Sure thing.” There’s another long pause, as all three of us assess one another.
Then Gil extends his arm to me. “I’ll walk you back into town,” he offers. “Not safe to be alone out here. Not lately.”
Stacey grunts an assent, and then, with another long, searching look at us both, she starts to walk back toward town first, a little ahead, to give us enough space to talk. For that, I’m grateful. That is, until Gil slips his hand over mine, tugs me into motion, and casts a sideways glance down at me.
“So, Jenna. I think it’s time we talked about keeping secrets.”
11
Jenna
I think it’s time we talked about keeping secrets.
I nearly trip over my own feet when Gil says that. Somehow, I manage to keep myself upright. I focus on Stacey’s retreating back—I notice she walks far enough ahead not to overhear our conversation, but not so far she’d be out of shouting range, if I needed her. I hope she’s wrong about Gil, and that I don’t need this kind of protection around him.
But I’m grateful for it, anyway.
“When were you going to tell me?” Gil asks softly.
My heart stutters. “Tell you what?” Then I shake my head, and tug on my arm. He tightens his grip, pins me there. “And why were you out there in the woods that night anyway, Gil? Detective Hartman is right; I didn’t see you until after I saw those figures—”
“I told you, Jenna. I was looking for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner, then?” I stop walking and whip around to face him.
He stops too, inches away from me. “I did tell you I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you, Jenna. I wasn’t about to seem pathetic and tell you I’d been walking all around the clearing that night, hoping to find you.”
He did say something to that effect, our night together. But still. “You could’ve explained when that was.”
“How, because I’d psychically know someone was about to be murdered and I’d need an alibi?” he snaps.
“It just feels dishonest,” I protest.
“You’re one to talk,” he says, and my eyebrows shoot skyward at that. He moves closer, closes the gap between us, bends over me until all I can smell, see, sense is him. “How long have you been keeping this secret?”
My heart skips. “Wh-what secret?”
His hand lifts up. Skims across my stomach, and sets every nerve ending in my body on fire. “Were you planning on telling me you were pregnant, Jenna? Or were you just going to skip town without a word?”
My heart beats in my throat. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I can’t find my voice to answer him.
“Is it my baby inside you?” he asks, voice so low I strain to hear him.
My tongue darts across
my lips. His eyes track it, which reminds me all over again of our chemistry that night, the way his mouth felt on mine, when he kissed me, claimed me. “How did you know I was pregnant?” I finally manage to whisper.
“Jenna.” His voice comes out guttural, a growl. There’s naked desperation on his face like I’ve never seen before. “Is it my baby?”
I can guess what he’s thinking. I still remember what he told me, that morning after. He doesn’t do kids, or the whole wife and family thing. He must be panicking now. I wish I were a better liar. I’d bluff now, tell him whatever he wants to hear. But there’s no way I could pull off a lie that big believably. And anyway, he does deserve to know the truth, at least.
I lower my eyes from his. “It is.”
There’s a long silence. A deafening one. I force myself to step back, away from him, away from that comforting warmth, his familiar scent. “But so what?” I say, pouring as much anger into it as I can. I open my eyes, look ahead.
Up the path, Stacey has stopped, watching us both. I start to walk toward her. “We never dated,” I tell Gil over my shoulder. “It was just a hookup; we had no commitment to one another. It doesn’t matter. Just go on with your life, and I will with mine.” My heart aches to say those words, but it’s true.
The words he said the morning after our hookup flash through my mind. Kids are too much work. Casual is my speed. The last thing I want is to make myself or this baby a burden on anyone.
But Gil grabs my arm, and I stumble to a halt. When I turn to look at him, his expression makes my eyes go wide in surprise. He looks wrecked, wild, his eyes white hot as he tugs me to him, cups my cheek and tilts my head back, keeping my gaze locked on him. “You’re insane if you think I’ll just let you walk away from me with my baby inside you.” With that, he bends to kiss me, and the fire is back, hotter than ever between us.
I wrap my arms around his neck, part my lips under his, let his tongue slip into my mouth and claim me. He kisses me like he’s desperate, a drowning man starving for oxygen. I kiss him just as hard, just as desperately. I lift one leg, wrap it around his waist, and he grabs under my thigh, tugs my body flush against his, until I can feel his hips digging into mine, and the hard press of his cock against my belly.
It’s like nothing has changed. It’s our first night all over again, fire and desire.
Gil’s hands drop down to my waist, slide over my hips to grab my ass, pull me up against him, and I want nothing more than for him to tear my clothes off right here and take me again.
But then I remember Detective Hartman standing half a forest away, blatantly worried Gil was about to attack me or something insane. With a gasp, I pull out of our kiss and spin around.
Stacey’s facing the other direction now, but even from here, I can see her crossed arms, her tapping foot. She’s trying to give us privacy, though she clearly still doesn’t trust Gil either.
“What’s wrong?” Gil asks, until he follows my gaze. Then a surprised burst of laughter erupts from him. “I see.” He releases my waist. Slides one hand down until he’s holding mine chastely, and starts to walk alongside me again. “You’re not big on audiences, are you, Jenna?”
My cheeks flush. “No,” I admit.
“Good,” he says, grinning. He leans down to kiss the side of my neck, just hard enough that I feel the press of his teeth behind his closed lips. He nips my neck lightly, then straightens once more, starts to walk down the path. “Because I hate sharing.”
12
Jenna
Stacey trails us all the way to Gil’s house, where I give her a cheerful grin and a wave. She fixes me with a Be careful stare, and then marches back into town.
We wait until the door slams behind us. Then Gil is on me again, his mouth colliding with mine, his hands tugging at my shirt. He pulls it up and off, then pauses, and his hand drifts to my stomach. Presses flat against my skin. I can’t read the expression on his face. Fear? Awe? Something else?
I don’t have time to think, because the next second, he’s pulling me into the bedroom. He undoes my bra, lets it fall, and I grab at his shirt, pull it over his head. In record time, we’re both stark naked, face to face. Then he drops to his knees before me and starts to kiss my throat, my chest, my belly. He lingers there, kisses and touches the flat plane, despite the fact that this early in, you obviously can’t see any signs yet.
Then, gently, he eases me backward, until I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my ass out over thin air. He kneels in front and presses his head between my legs.
When his tongue slides along my slit again, between my lips, it’s all I can do not to cry out at once.
He is too fucking good at this. Like, dangerously good. And when he adds his fingers into the mix, slowly pressing one finger inside me, then a second, I’m already speeding toward a climax. My hips buck up off the bed toward him, and I can’t help the faint cry that escapes my lips, as he circles his tongue over my clit, again and again.
The orgasm hits me hard, going straight to my head, as my body trembles beneath his. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking at me, keeps his fingers curling inside me, and I realize he’s going to do this all over again—steal all the fun.
It takes a monumental effort, because everything in me wants to just lie here and let him pleasure me for as long as he wants. After this morning, and the rollercoaster of emotions I’ve been on, I could use an afternoon of back to back orgasms. But it’s my turn now, damn it. So I catch his wrist and gently draw his hand out of me. He stops lapping at my pussy and looks up, just as I slide off the bed in front of him and pull him into a hard, deep kiss. When we break apart, his eyes have gone dark.
“It’s not a good idea to interrupt a man when he’s pleasuring his woman,” Gil says, his voice low and serious. “It only makes me want to hear you scream my name more.”
“Plenty of time for that,” I counter, with a single eyebrow lifted. “Right now, I want my turn.” I hold his gaze steady. “I’ve spent a month thinking about sucking your cock, and I don’t want to wait another minute.”
Heat flares in his eyes. But there’s a small smile at the edges of his mouth. He reaches up to trace my lips with one finger, a finger he just had inside me. My tongue darts out to lick his finger, and his smile widens. “You want my cock in your mouth, bad girl?”
“Yes, hard man.” I catch his wrist. Keep licking his finger, cleaning my juices off him. The combined taste of me and the salty tinge of his skin is driving me wild already. “I want you to fuck my mouth. I want to feel you coming in my fucking throat.”
That heat builds until it’s practically a bonfire now. “God you’re sexy when you use that dirty mouth of yours,” he murmurs. And then he stands, already naked, and harder than a rock, waiting for me. I kneel in front of him and reach up with both hands to marvel at him all over again.
I’ve never seen a cock like his. It’s not just the length—it’s how fucking fat his cock is. It takes both my hands together to wrap around him, and when I pump my hands up and down his shaft, I savor the velvety softness of his skin, compared to the hard rod of steel beneath.
As I slide my hands over him, I lean in to lap at the bead of precum gathered at his spongy tip. He shivers, mouth parted, and I peer up at him as I continue to lick my way around the edges of his tip, then down beneath his shaft, following the crease there, until I reach his balls. I let his cock skim against my cheek as I do it, making sure to be sloppy as I trail my tongue along one side of his shaft and then the next, getting him wet, and enjoying the way his eyes glaze over with lust as he watches me.
He reaches down to run his hands through my hair, then grips hard, his teeth gritted, as I reach between his legs to cup his balls. I toy with them, lean between his thighs to run my tongue along them, and suck them into my mouth, one at a time. His hands tighten in my hair.
“Fuck, Jenna.”
I take my time, enjoying myself, loving the taste of him. I lick my way back up to his tip, and posi
tion him between my lips. I gaze up at him again, savoring the view across the washboard plane of his abs and up over his bulging pecs, as he gazes right back at me. Our eyes lock, and slowly, I press forward, letting his cock push through my lips, which I keep clamped tight around him. As he slides into my mouth, I lift my tongue along his underside, twining back and forth across him as I begin to lean forward on my knees, reaching up to grip his ass hard with both hands, nails digging in, and taking him farther and farther into my mouth.
“God you have such a dirty fucking mouth,” he groans. I hum in response, and my mouth vibrates around him with the sound.
He inhales sharply through his nose, watching me the whole time. When I hesitate, swallowing around him, just as his cock reaches the back of my tongue, he fists my hair in his hands and draws me forward again.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and I let my jaw go, let him take control. He pulls me toward him until the spongy tip of his cock hits the back of my throat. A gag threatens to well up, and I tense, but he just keeps me moving, thrusts his hips forward so his tip inches down my throat, just a hair, until my lips touch the base of his cock. Then he pulls back, and I breathe in again, recovering as he draws himself out to the tight purse of my lips.
“You like that, dirty girl?” he murmurs. When he rocks forward again, it’s faster now, and I move with him, moaning around his shaft in assent. “You like it when I fuck your sexy little mouth?”
I moan again, and open my mouth wider to grant him easier access. He rocks back and forth faster now, each time reaching the back of my throat with the tip of his cock.
“You want it harder, dirty girl? You want to feel my cum shoot down your throat?”
Yes, I try to gasp around him, the word just another long groan with his cock stuffing my mouth full. He grips my hair and draws me forward, into a faster rhythm now. He fucks my face, my lips hitting the base of him every time, and I close my eyes and lose myself in his scent, his flavor, the way he manhandles me, roughly, the way I like it.