The tip of his erection pushes against my clit, a jolt of pleasure hits my core. I moan, my body writhes with sexual frustration.
Alex slips the head of his cock between my folds. "You're so wet, baby," he murmurs, and pushes inside of me. My body stretches to accommodate his fullness. Slowly, he moves in and out, each stroke measured, and I'm frantic for him to accelerate his thrusts.
My hands move to his firm ass, and I pull him deeper into me. He opens his eyes, gazes into my eyes, "I don't want to go too fast, and hurt you."
"You won't," I groan. "I'm okay…just move…faster…please," I beg, panting.
Alex drives into me with force, ramming his cock against my pelvis until he finds my sweet spot. My core clenches tightly around him. He groans, his thrusts coming faster, harder. I move with him, frantic to climax. God, he feels so good, I'd almost forgotten what this feels like. The way my body responds to him, the energy between us, the complete loss of control I have when I'm with him.
I drag my fingernails up his back, over his shoulders, and grab his biceps. My hips buck, and my back arches. "Alex," I scream, as sudden burst of pleasure that pushes me over the edge.
Alex brings his mouth to one of my nipples. I lift my chest and force him to take more of me in his mouth. He suckles me harder, deeper, tugging my nipple mercilessly until I cry out. I squirm beneath him, my body building again.
I wrap my legs tightly around him. His face is inches from mine, and we hold each other's gazes. "Kiss me," I whisper. Alex lowers his head, his lips barely touching mine. I push my lips against his until he matches my forcefulness, the kiss now passionate, wild, wet and deep. And sensuous.
I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. I'm so attracted to Alex—not just physically, but emotionally. He makes me laugh, feel beautiful and sexy—and loved.
My muscles tighten and release around him. I can feel his cock pulsating, and I know he's fighting to hold on until I come again. My head falls back, my body quivers, and I'm once again in the delicious throes of an orgasm.
My body continues to move with his, I still need to feel him inside me. I gaze into his face, his eyes a deeper shade of blue, his lips parted.
He thrust hard into me, and explodes inside me. "Oh, God—Kylie." Endless shudders move through his body. His lips find mine again and we kiss, softly, our bodies coming down from their highs. He collapses on top of me, and I run my hands into his hair, as his head falls to my chest.
He lifts his head and gazes at me—his blue eyes sparkling, and a smile across his face. "You okay?"
I laugh, "I'd say much better than okay." I place my hands on the side of his face. "I trust you…I know you will never hurt me like—like I've been hurt before. This is not just sex. It's never just been sex with us. It has a deeper meaning for both of us."
He kisses me, runs his fingers into my hair, his hand grasps the back of my head. "You showed me how to love, and be loved, and share this kind of intimacy. No one will ever hurt you again—I will never take anything from you that you're not willing to give. I love you, and I respect you and your body."
I smile, his words wrap around my heart like a shield, and protect it from harm. I never thought I would trust a man again, be able to give myself fully and completely. Alex changed all of that. I trust him with my heart, and my body. And I am all his. Forever.
Chapter Five
I toss my purse onto the kitchen counter and flop down on the couch in the family room.
"I love visiting Ryan and Paul, but they wear me out."
Alex chuckles from the kitchen. "Yeah, well, they better have fun now because once they get a kid, they won't be able to go out and party."
Alex's cell phone rings before I can comment. I reach for the remote and turn the TV on. "A Special Investigative Report" flashes across the screen.
"Tonight—James Wells was convicted of the 1986 murder of his wife, Ellen Stone Wells. Reporter Christopher Terry takes a look back at the crime and the trial that shook the community, hear from the man who sits in prison and what he has to say about his billionaire son, well-known businessman and philanthropist, Alex Stone."
My chest tightens, what the hell is this?
Alex sits down beside me and tosses his cell phone of the coffee table. I don't think he's aware of what's just been on the TV. "That was Jack. He and Annabelle want us to come to dinner tomorrow night. I told them that was fine."
"Yeah, sounds good to me. I haven't seen Annabelle in a while. It will be nice to catch up with the both of them," I answer, but I'm the news teaser distracts me.
Christopher Terry is standing in front of a two-story colonial home. "A beautiful home in an upper middle class neighborhood. The family who lived here was well-respected in the community. James Wells was an up-and-comer at a local manufacturing company, rising through the ranks of management to become the head of research and development. He was married to his wife, Ellen, for seventeen years, and had two sons and two daughters. Friends and neighbors remember the kids playing with other neighborhood children. A normal family—but behind closed doors, trouble was brewing, and one fateful night, the family's deepest darkest secret would be primetime news with the death of one family member, that led to the murder conviction of another. But was the case as cut and dry as it appeared to be? Join us for, The Sins of the Father."
Music plays into the commercial break. I slide my eyes over to Alex. The vein in his neck pulses, and his jaw is clamped shut. He glares at the TV. I don't know much about this part of his life—he never talks about it, and only recently opened up to me about his mother's death. The memories are a demon that whispers that he failed her, didn't protect her from his abusive father, and his penance is his guilt over her death.
Now, just when Alex is beginning to come to grips with the horrible events of that night, and starting to give in to the idea that there was nothing he could do, everything is going to be highlighted for the entertainment of the masses, and the ratings of the news station.
I'm in limbo, not sure what to do. Not sure what he wants or needs from me right now. I want to go to him, comfort him. Make sure he knows I'm here for him and that he'll never be alone again. But Alex deals with things in his own way, and fawning over him will only stress him out.
There is a photo of a dispatch console on the screen. The voices of the female dispatcher and young man are heard, while a transcript of their words cross the screen.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"
"My mother needs help. She's not breathing." Alex's voice, so young and so scared, reaches into my heart like a hand, and squeezes it. I ache for him, already knowing the outcome, and the years of hell that result from this night.
"Can you tell me what happened?" The dispatcher asks.
"My dad…hit her…and she fell…" He struggles to breathe through his sobs. "…And now she's not breathing."
"Is your father still there?"
It takes a moment before Alex responds. "No, he left."
"Okay," the dispatcher says, her voice soft, soothing, and calm. "The police are on their way. I'm going to stay on the line with you until they get there. What is your name?"
"Alex Wells."
The name throws me for a second. I never considered Alex's name was not Stone all along. It sounds so foreign to me. It's hard enough to reconcile that the sobbing voice of the boy on the recording is the same man that sits before me with a blank expression, not saying a word.
An older gentleman appears on the screen. His name appears at the bottom of the shot—Kent Markinson. Under his name it states that he was the first officer on the scene.
"When I got there, I found a woman, lying on the floor. She appeared to be in her late thirties—early forties. She was not breathing and when I felt for a pulse, there was none."
Alex stands and I jump. My heart ra
ces, and I fight to get my breathing back to normal. Without a word, Alex leaves the room. I listen for the door to the study to close, and presume he's going to escape to his sanctuary. A moment later he returns, a full glass of scotch in his hand. He sits down, but doesn't look at me. His gaze is trained on the grainy black and white video of a young man sitting in a police interview room. Seated next to him is a much younger Jack Daniels, my boss.
"Alex stated during the interview that his father had been drinking and became violent, hitting his mother and knocking her to the floor. Alex said she appeared to be unconscious. At that time, he engaged his father, and attempted to fight him. His father punched him a few times in the stomach and when Alex tried to stand, his father punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious. When Alex came to, his father was gone. His mother was alive, but bleeding out of her mouth. She died before he could get to the phone and get help," the voice over of Markenson explained.
I peer at the young man on in the video. He sits up straight, nods and answers questions by the investigator. He doesn't appear to be crying. In fact, he has no emotion at all. I glance at Alex. The reserved look on his face is the exact look of the young man in the video. The realization hits me like a slap across the face—Alex became detached soon after his mother died. Had he ever been a carefree young man? Or was there always an ominous presence around him, darkening his world? Had he ever been free of the demons after that horrible night?
A cold wave passes through me, I grieve for the lost boy in the video, and even more for the man next to me. How different would he be today if he hadn't witnessed his mother's death? The tightness in my chest nearly takes my breath away, and leaves my limbs tingling. No chill should have to watch a parent die. I had been spared that much, at least. But I would give anything to be able to take the memory from Alex, and give him back his youth.
Video of police officers breaking into a hotel room replaced the police interview. The reporter's voice over is providing the play-by-play explanation. "A few hours after Alex accused his father of his mother's murder, an all points bulletin was sent out with the license plate number and description of James Wells' vehicle. Wells' car was discovered in the parking lot of a motel. Police obtained information from the clerk that Wells had checked in, but had not left the motel room except to get food and alcohol. Wells was found in the room with a prostitute Wells had picked up outside the liquor store."
"Bastard," Alex mutters, and empties the last of the scotch in his glass. I take it from his hand, and head to the bar. I need a drink, and I might as well refresh his while I'm at it. It may be the only way either one of us can get through this documentary.
My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my pocket. Leigha. "Hey," I answer, my voice just above a whisper.
"Hey, are you guys watching this show?"
"Yeah, you?"
"Yes. Will looks like he is on the brink of either crying or killing someone. Did you have any idea all this stuff had happened?"
I pour a healthy portion of gin in my glass, and top it off with a little tonic. "Some of it…but just the basics."
"How is Alex taking it?"
I glance over my shoulder to the entryway to the living room. I don't want Alex to know I'm talking about him. This is so personal to him, and even though I'm talking to Leigha, I would hate for him to feel I betrayed his confidence. He is already wound tight at the moment.
"He's pretty quiet—you know Alex, but he's had a death grip on his scotch glass since it started. I'll just be glad when it's over and he, Will, and the rest of the family can put it all behind them."
"Me, too. I only have one more case of beer left, and at the rate Will is going through them, I may run out before the end of the show." She laughs, but there is no humor in it.
"I better get back in the other room with Alex. I'll talk to you later."
"Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow," she says and ends the call.
The interior of a courtroom is on the screen when I walk into the family room. I lower next to Alex on the couch, and pass him the glass of scotch. James Wells attorney, Walter Sweeney, according to the name on the screen, is sitting at the defense table with his client. The district attorney at that time is addressing the jury.
"The trial lasted only one week. The prosecution called the coroner, who explained to the jury that because of the way in which the victim had fallen, and struck her head on the small table next to the couch, her brain swelled, and there was extensive bleeding."
They cut to a shot of Alex walking into the courtroom, a trail of reporters and cameras crowding around him. "The prosecution also put William and Patricia Wells on the stand, but the most poignant testimony came from Alex Wells, who recounted the events that culminated in his mother's death. At the conclusion of his testimony, the state rested their case. The defense also rested, following a motion to dismiss the charges on the grounds the prosecution had not met their burden of proving beyond a reasonable doubt that James Wells had murdered his wife. The motion was denied, and both sides presented closing arguments the following day."
The original news coverage of the verdict is playing, the camera trained on James Wells. He has the same stoic expression as Alex, but that is where the similarities end. Once the guilty verdict is read, Sweeney places his hand on James' shoulder, and leans in to speak to him. Wells shrugs Sweeney off, his eyes blaze with anger, and he says something that causes the attorney to pull back, early falling out of his seat.
"Coming up after the break…James Wells serves a life sentence for the murder of his wife, but is there more to this story than originally thought? We'll talk with Mr. Wells new attorney about a bombshell that could change the outcome of this tragic story."
"What the hell does that mean?" Alex asks through clenched teeth.
I take a deep breath. It could mean a whole host of things—many of them I'm not sure I want to discuss with Alex for fear of sending him over the edge of sanity. The tension radiating off him is palpable.
"I'm not sure. He has a life sentence without parole…I don't know if he has exhausted all of his appeals or not. It could be that, but it's difficult to get a new trial on appeal, especially if none of his previous appeals amounted to anything."
I glance at Alex who is staring at me, his eyes demanding more of an explanation. "I mean, presumably, his best shot would have been the earlier appeals. They would have gone over every piece of evidence admitted, every word of testimony, all of the motions, objections, and sustainment's by the judge—everything would have been scrutinized for potential errors that would amount to an unfair trial that requires a retrial."
"So, this is just bullshit by this new attorney?" Alex asks.
I take a drink of my gin and tonic, letting the alcohol burn a path down my throat and ignite my lungs. "I would guess so. Unless he has new evidence, I can't see where there is anything to appeal."
The show returns and the reporter is standing in the middle of an empty courtroom. "After sitting in prison for eighteen years, and nearly exhausting all of his appeals, James Wells decided to reach out to attorney, Geoffrey Hamilton, whose success rate in the courtroom is eighty-five percent."
"Have you heard of him?" Alex mutters, his jaw clenched.
"Yeah, I have." I suck in my breath, my stomach ties into a knot, and a chill runs down my spine. Holy shit. This is not good news. Geoffrey Hamilton is amongst the best attorneys in the country, and his success spans from criminal trials to the appellate courts. He is excellent at finding the tiniest of threads in his clients convictions and pulling them until the case begins to unravel and the trial looks like a farce.
"In a letter to Mr. Hamilton, James Wells admits that he had been drinking the night of his wife's death, but that when he left the house that night, she was alive and there was only one person who could have caused her death. The only other person in the room that night—the couple's eldest son, Alex Stone."
Oh my God!
Alex jumps to his fee
t. "What the fuck?" He whirls around and faces me. "He killed her. He was convicted!"
"I know, Alex." I place my hand on his arm. "Let me hear what he has to say, so I can figure out what angle he's taking."
Geoffrey Hamilton sits in his office, casually leaning back in his desk chair. "According to my research, Alex Wells—Stone, as he is known now—hated his father. He also resented his mother for not leaving Mr. Wells. That night, Alex confronted his father hitting and punching him. James retaliated in defense, eventually punching Alex in the face, knocking him out. Can you imagine how humiliated Alex would have been that his father was able to dominate him? It's not hard to imagine that when he regained consciousness, he was enraged, and took it out on the only other person around—his mother—and accidentally killed her, covering it up by blaming it on his father."
The exterior of the courthouse flashes on the screen. The camera follows the current District Attorney, Matt Gaines, a microphone in front of his face.
"Mr. Wells never made this allegation before, during, or in the eighteen years he has been incarcerated," Matt says. "It has never been brought up in any of his previous appeals, and has only come up recently." Matt opens the driver's side door of a car, and pauses before he gets inside. "It makes for great drama, but is nothing more than a final desperate attempt to avoid punishment for taking the life of a vibrant, beautiful woman."
Officer Markenson appears again. "The children were all in the back bedroom when we arrived. The oldest boy told us what happened. He was very calm—gave a thorough account of the events. He seemed somewhat detached from the scene. His younger brother and sisters were crying, but Alex showed no emotion."
Cut to Hamilton. "The issue I've been struggling with since I initially read through the case files is why it took Mr. Stone two days to make a statement to police regarding his mother's death. And when he finally did get around to making a statement, he had prominent criminal defense attorney, Jack Daniels, with him. Now, I have to ask myself, why would he need a criminal defense attorney if he's innocent?"
Revenge: Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Two Page 5