by Eva Charles
But what he doesn’t know is that no matter what he says, I won’t stop. I can’t.
“Mrs. Marshall invited me to supper regularly, Friday movie nights, and to the carnival when it was in town. In exchange, I entertained Richie while she fixed supper or cleaned cupboards, or when she visited with a friend.”
This was the best part of my childhood. It might be trite to the listener—but not to me. It’s part of my story—and the end can’t be fully understood unless you know the beginning.
“As the years went on, I spent more and more time with the Marshalls. They insisted on it. When I was old enough to understand, I realized they were the shield between my developing teenage body and the men Mama brought home.”
Gray comes around and takes the seat next to me, twirling the chairs until they face one another, with nothing between us. He runs a gentle hand over my hair. I want to hang onto it, because the saddest part of the story isn’t yet told and I’m already feeling shaky inside.
“Did one of those men hurt you?” he asks, the wariness seeping around the edges.
I shake my head. “No. There were a few close calls.” One in particular that still makes my skin crawl. “But it never came to that.” I hear the air leave Gray’s lungs.
He brings my hand to his mouth and places a kiss on my knuckles.
“Tell me more.” He kisses my hand again, then rubs small circles with his thumb on the inside of my palm. “Tell me about your mother.”
My mother. She’s both a central figure and inconsequential at the same time.
“She was weak, and I don’t doubt for a second she would have traded my innocence for her survival, or perhaps even for a piece of jewelry or a pretty dress.”
I hear the words as they emerge, and the events are achingly familiar, but the thin, detached voice isn’t mine. It’s as though someone else is telling my story.
Gray is outwardly calm—for my sake, I’m sure—but rage flickers in his eyes.
“While they never let on in front of me,” I continue, dispassionately, “I’m sure the Marshalls knew it too.”
The clouds are back, obscuring his vision. This time they’re dark and angry, threatening an eruption that would rival anything Mother Nature might summon.
“Mr. Marshall was a math teacher at the high school. He tutored me in algebra, and helped me fill out college applications. We cobbled together enough financial aid and scholarship money so I could have a fresh start. Like his wife, he stepped in to help whenever he could. But I was a huge burden.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” In his rush to protect me, he’s dismissive. “You were a little girl. I’m sure they were happy to help.”
“You don’t understand.” I jerk my hand away. “They were black. I was a cute little blonde thing. It was rural Mississippi. They were harassed by the sheriff, social services. Even the principal called me into his office one afternoon to question me about the untoward relationship I had with Mr. Marshall. He almost lost his job. No one gave a goddamn that my mother left me alone for days on end without a morsel of food, but they lined up one after another to accuse the black man of diddling the pretty white girl.”
I pause to rein in some of the skyrocketing emotion. “But you know what? The Marshalls never blinked. They never once turned their backs on me, not even when the association threatened their reputations.
It wasn’t my mama who saved me from a life of poverty, barefoot and pregnant, with a brood of young ones chasing me through the weeds. It was the Marshalls. I owe them everything. Everything.”
The clouds are gone again, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Not funny. Sweet, actually. You barefoot, running through the fields with blonde babies trailing behind you.”
“More like a nightmare,” I grumble.
“Do you still keep in touch with them?”
I squeeze my thighs so hard, Gray takes my hands, gently prying my fingers loose.
“What happened, Blue Eyes?”
This is the wretched part of the story, where my brain requires additional oxygen to churn through the sludge. I draw a large breath, and then another, to sustain me. “When I was in college, there was a scandal at the church in town. The priest was accused of molesting little boys.” The passion has crept into my voice, accompanying the dull ache inside my chest.
“Richie was one of them,” Gray says with the utmost care, as if helping to unburden me of the especially difficult parts.
I nod, my heart breaking like it happened yesterday. “He was fifteen when it became public. It was humiliating. No matter how many times we explained that he was a little boy when it happened—a victim—it didn’t help. He was bullied at school, called all sorts of names that were too hard for a teenage boy to bear.” I shield my face, because I don’t want him to see the anguish twisting through me. “He shot himself with his daddy’s gun.” I let out a small, strangled sigh.
“Delilah.”
Gray pulls me onto his lap, and I let him. Because I still need to finish, and I can’t stop to argue or it’ll never all come out. And because I feel safe there—safer than anywhere I’ve ever been.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, softly. “So sorry.”
I have no doubt he’s sorry—no doubt he would carry my pain if he could.
“The Marshalls never got over Richie’s death. Two years after he was gone, they were gone too. Mrs. Marshall developed a brain tumor. It was only a matter of weeks. Mr. Marshall died of a heart attack five days after we buried her.” My chest is so tight, I can barely breathe.
Gray holds me closer, and strokes my back with strong, nimble fingers, lightly kneading the stiff muscle.
“Archbishop Darden put that priest—that child molester—in the parish.” The rage is building inside me. “He had a history of molesting little boys. But it was a poor parish and our children weren’t worth saving.”
I nestle into Gray’s chest, letting the angry energy tell the rest of the story.
“I’m not Catholic, and I never thought about an archbishop, or how priests are assigned to churches. But while Kate was being questioned, I was there, listening to every detail. Something told me it was the same sonofabitch who kept moving bad priests around, hiding them, to avoid scandal in the church. Sure enough, it took about ten minutes of research to put the pieces together. When I discovered it was the same bastard—I had to do it.”
I sound vindictive and hateful, but I refuse to sugarcoat any of it. “There was some element of revenge involved, I’m not going to lie. But what drove me more than anything—I was not going to let that man ruin any more innocent children—or women, or families. He was done.”
The emotion—grief, anger, sorrow—it’s welled up, and beginning to seep out. I wipe a lone tear from my cheek.
I don’t want him to watch me fall apart, so I reach for the anger that’s right on the surface, and turn my face to Gray’s. “At the time, you accused me of going off half-cocked, but it wasn’t like that. I planned his execution to a T.” I feel no remorse as I say the words. None.
“I’m sorry about…” He pauses. “I was going to say your friends, but they’re your family, really.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “They were.”
We sit quietly for a long time.
“I’m honored—beyond honored, Delilah. Humbled,” he tucks my head under his chin, “that you shared this with me. But why today?”
I’m wrecked, and it’s hard to think. But I quietly play with the words and the feelings. They’re looped together in complex knots. But the answer to his question doesn’t require pulling too many threads.
“If something happens to either of us—I don’t want it to go left unsaid. It bothers me to have you think I’m a crazy woman who runs around murdering clergy.”
“Hey.” He tilts my head up, until he’s peering into my eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen to us. There are too many monsters left in this world that need
a reckoning. Do you feel bad about it?” he asks, without judgment.
“Killing the archbishop?”
“Yeah,” he says softly, his lips grazing my forehead.
“Only that he didn’t suffer,” I admit, with neither real joy nor remorse. “Otherwise, not in the least. I suppose that makes me a vile human being.”
“Ever read Hemingway?”
“Only the SparkNotes. I prefer books with adjectives.”
Gray laughs softly. “Hemingway believed, ‘What is moral is what you feel good after, and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.’ It’s my favorite quote.”
“It sounds like a justification for bad behavior.”
“Maybe for some. But not for those who take stock of their humanity.”
I appreciate the effort to soothe my conscience. Although a few choice words from Papa Hemingway will never convince me that I’m not a sinner who deserves to burn in hell. I’m not at all repentant, and therefore don’t deserve forgiveness. God will do what he must, but I hope Gray is able to see past my moral failings.
I let my fingertips explore the taut ripples below his rib cage. “Did you notice there wasn’t a single adjective in that quote?”
Without warning, Gray stands, tosses me over his shoulder, and slaps my ass. It lifts the mood. Something I desperately need right now.
“Put me down!” I squeal.
“Not a chance.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where we can have a little more privacy. There’s no way I’m fucking you out here where everyone can hear you scream.”
32
Delilah
Gray deposits me on the edge of the bed, and lowers himself until we’re nearly eye level. He weaves his hands through my hair, devouring my mouth until we’re both gasping for air.
His warm skin awakens the notes in his spicy cologne—bergamot and leather swirled together, wafting gently, enveloping us in his achingly familiar scent. I’m home.
Gray brushes the tendrils gingerly off my face. “Thank you for sharing that part of you with me. For letting me in everywhere.”
Everywhere requires no further explanation. I know exactly what he means. Before today, I welcomed him into my body, and even into my head—but that takes little courage. The harrowing places are the dark corners. The shadowy spaces that leave you naked and ashamed.
I reach for him, clinging to his chest with both hands. “I need you.” With every cell in my body. “I need the pain—please.” There is no shame in my plea. It comes from somewhere dire, but pure.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of you. Give you everything you need. Do you trust me to do that?”
I nod.
“Good girl.” He places a small kiss on my nose. “Take off your clothes for me—everything but your shoes and jewelry.” His voice has made the subtle shift it always does before he takes command—when the moment calls for more than the normal bossy Gray, when it demands the power and control of a man who takes no prisoners. “Leave your panties for me.”
I undress, for him, laying each item neatly on the bed, until I’m left in a piece of lace, sandals that crisscross around my ankles, and the noisy bangles on my wrist.
“You are spectacular.” He’s seen me naked more times than I can count, but his voice is almost reverent, filled with awe as if he’s seeing me anew. “I don’t know what I’m going to do after the mission—I’m not prepared to let you go, Blue Eyes.”
I’m not prepared to let you go, Blue Eyes. I don’t have time to sift through the tsunami pulling me under before he demands my attention.
“Get back on the bed.” When I’m seated, he spreads my knees apart until my cunt is fully exposed to him. “Touch your breasts. Explore the smooth skin.” My hands move without embarrassment—all I can think about is pleasing him—pleasing myself. “Silky, aren’t they?”
I nod, because I can’t speak.
“Squeeze your nipples. Harder.”
“Ahhh.” Every cell in my being welcomes the bite.
“Can you feel the throb in your pussy?”
My eyelids are heavy, and I let them flutter shut, as my head falls back, following the curve of my spine.
“Open your eyes, Delilah. Don’t hide from me.”
I force the lids open, gazing at him.
Gray lowers his hand to his thickening cock.
I see the outline through the denim.
“See what you’ve done to me. How are you going to fix it?”
I don’t respond because the words have vanished with all thoughts.
He rips the delicate thong off my body and casts it aside. “I think you need to rub your pussy, make it swollen and uncomfortable like you’ve made me. Go ahead,” he drawls. “Rub your pretty cunt, until it aches for me.”
My fingers find their way to the wet, slippery folds. I slide the tips of my fingers over my clit, while the other hand digs into the bed linen. My body is on fire. I’m slipping away, but I don’t close my eyes. Not even when the urge to hump my hand consumes me. Not even then.
I let Gray see me—all of me—until the impulse to end the torment has my thighs inching together.
“Don’t you dare close your legs. I want to see your fingers strum that tight little pussy.”
I’m close, and squirming with abandon, when he gets down on his haunches and shoves my hand away. No! I push my fingers back between my legs, but Gray isn’t having it.
He lifts my legs up and apart, holding them behind the knees. With the first long sweep of his tongue, I gasp and whimper.
He raises his head, and meets my eyes with a wicked gleam. “Pinch your nipples while I lick you. Don’t let go until you’re coming all over my mouth.”
I gasp as my fingers wrap around the sensitive furls. But I don’t shy away. I lean into the throb, letting each pulse carry me higher.
Gray licks me with abandon, pushing his long tongue inside my slick core, swirling, before withdrawing. He sucks my clit, gently nudging me closer to the precipice, but releases the swollen bead as my body begins the dance to release. “No!” He’s going to play at the edge—oh my God. No. “Please. Gray. Please.”
“Shhh,” he admonishes. “The more you beg, the longer you’ll wait.”
I squeeze my nipples harder.
“You’re a dirty, dirty girl, Blue Eyes, and I’m going to give you the release you crave.”
My words are a reflection of the cluttered nonsense running through my head. Please. Yes. More. Don’t stop.
His tongue sweeps across my slick flesh. I buck and moan—and his hands are on mine, prying my fingers from my nipples. When I let go, the blood floods the sensitive peaks, sending currents to my throbbing pussy. I tremble, begging him to end it.
And he does. Spectacularly. Nipping, and sucking, lapping my pussy until the tremors weaken, and I’m wrung out.
When he climbs onto the bed with me, he’s naked.
“You don’t need pain. You might choose it, but you don’t need it. Pain is just a lazy way to ramp up the intensity. But there are other ways to find that high during sex, where your mind empties and peace rushes in to fill the space. Sometimes nothing but pain will do, but there are so many ways to get there. It doesn’t always have to hurt.”
I’m sobbing. I don’t know why. But I’m overwhelmed by everything. All of it. The powerful orgasm. Telling him about the Marshalls. And for letting him in—fully inside. Because that’s what I did.
“It’s okay to cry, darlin’. Sometimes it’s the quickest way to get it all out.”
“I’m a mess. We have a mission—I need to be ready.”
“Think of it as all part of getting ready.”
He flips me onto my belly and straddles me, a knee on either side of my hips. His hard cock brushes against my ass, and I wiggle toward it. “Keep still.” He holds me steady between his muscular thighs, his hands massaging my back with long, sensuous strokes, lulling me into a dreamlike trance.
“I killed my mother.”
My body lurches out of the sex-induced stupor. His confession comes out of nowhere. In a voice that’s eerily calm. I wait, with my heart pounding, for him to say something more. Julia Wilder was killed in an automobile accident. She drove off the road after being drugged by her husband. There seems little dispute about that among those in the know.
“You were a child,” I say with as much compassion and empathy as he showed me earlier.
His hands freeze, and he stiffens over me.
I reach behind and clutch his hips, digging my fingers into his backside.
“She didn’t simply lose control of the car,” he says flatly. “She was poisoned. I gave her the sandwich that contained the poison.”
Oh Gray. My heart breaks for the little boy forced to carry this burden, and for the man tormented by guilt. I want to turn around and wrap my arms around him, soothe his pain. But when I try to move, he holds me in place. I don’t like it, but I’ll respect his wishes. He doesn’t want to look at me—or maybe he doesn’t want me to look at him.
“You were eleven years old. You didn’t put the poison in the sandwich. How could you have known?”
“I was angry at her. I lied about where the sandwich came from. She might not have eaten it if she had known it was from my father.” He lowers his forehead to the hollow of my back. “I was happy to help trick her into eating it. They would all still be alive if I hadn’t been such a little asshole.”
“Gray. You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“Our lives would have all been different. Even JD’s and Chase’s, who didn’t die, but who live with the consequences of what I did.”
“Surely your brothers don’t blame you?” I’m ready to wage all-out war on those Wilder boys.
“They don’t know. I’ve never told anyone besides you, and a therapist I was forced to see in college.”
“The one who recruited you to the FBI.”
“Mmhm.”
I’ve never told anyone besides you… It’s a gift—the gift of trust.
“Let me see you,” I whisper into the mattress.
After a few minutes, he moves his legs enough for me to flip onto my back. I reach up and cup his jaw, easing my fingers over the stubble. His jaw is clenched. His skin sallow. But it’s the suffering in his eyes that reaches in and twists my soul. I don’t say anything. I’m just here—fully present, for whatever he needs.