by Kilby Blades
Against the wall in the hallway, she’d dropped curses of her own. She’d gotten his shirt off by then and had become obsessed with touching his chest. A soft tuft of hair in the middle held warm concentration of his scent. Every chiseled plane underscored his virility. He was a man in his prime: exceedingly fit and impossibly strong.
Touching turned to licking turned to biting at his nipples. They’d stopped only to shed more clothes, but Shea found herself on her own trip—the ecstasy of her own exploration melding with her enjoyment of the sharp, breathy sounds he made when she bit. The glass-walled house made it so that—even in the hallway—views to the outside could be seen. The halls were mostly dark, but the raging weather persisted in bathing their exploration in flashes of periodic light.
She hadn’t been fully cognizant of the fact that her pants were already off until his hand found its way between her legs and she realized the only thing separating them was the thin scrap of her thong. He didn’t touch her at first, only pulled the front part up and away from her skin in a rolling caress of the fabric before pulling it all to the side.
What he did then with a single knuckle surpassed the whole of anything Keenan had ever done with any part or parts of his body, combined. It had occurred to her early in their marriage that there was more pleasure to be had than what narrow view she’d seen from the man who deflowered her. She had wanted and expected better out of this new phase of her life, but she hadn’t dared to expect anything so good.
Dev and his patience. All of his circling, and nudging, and teasing of her clit was intoxicatingly slow. When he took his knuckle lower down to tease her opening, the simple motion shouldn't have even been that sexy. But somehow, when Dev did it, it was. How a man could do so much with one wicked finger was something she had never imagined. It didn’t hold a candle to what he could do with two.
His thumb teasing her on the outside while a long, capable finger stroked her slow and hard from within, made her want to get lost and suspend the moment forever. But just when she thought that Dev would sustain it, keeping her on the precipice of untold ecstasy, with the deft acceleration of the motion of his fingers, he let her come.
She was not prepared for the perfection that came next. She thought she had discovered perfection with the Rabbit Pearl years before. She had known sex with Dev would be great and that a caring, skilled lover could give her something that no toy ever would. She just hadn’t expected that something to be a better orgasm.
It went on for what felt like minutes. Shea knew in her mind it couldn't have been, but the warping of time was a thrill. She did not hear the sound of her own voice because of sheer ecstasy, but she was pretty sure Dev had heard her pleasure loud and clear.
Afterward, she felt boneless and sated and content and might have been happy in the afterglow for hours. She opened her eyes to a version of Dev who looked to be some combination of shell-shocked and reverent and impressed.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he rumbled in his deepest voice.
He smiled a little and looked as if he wanted to say something else, when the whole house suddenly went dark. With so many windows everywhere and the storm outside, it didn’t go completely black, but it would be difficult to see from there on out.
“That was just a matter of time,” Dev remarked.
“The kitchen.” Shea named the most open room.
“The counter.” He raised an eyebrow.
She finished the thought. “I have a fantasy about you fucking me there.”
Only, what he did when he got her to the kitchen definitely wasn’t fucking. Dev didn’t hurtle them toward the satisfaction he had certainly earned. He splayed her out slow and tenderly, and not for the sake of teasing—because slow was the only way to act out with their bodies what they’d told one another with their eyes. Every stroke of him inside her reconciled a touch that had been longed-for, a word that remained unsaid and a kiss that had been denied.
Epiphanies crashed over her. There was power in her body that rivaled the power of the storm. The need within her body and the rage of the storm were one and the same. Being with Keenan had been a performance, each one of them playing their part. But she and Dev were connected, and connection was the truth.
Watching him was beautiful—every flex of his back, every breath that escaped his lips, every lull of his eyelids as his cock throbbed within her depths. He was working his body and playing hers like an instrument and placing her every nerve ending on alert. And she was delivered when he lost control.
29
The Morning After
Dev
Despite the most restful, and possibly best-deserved sleep that Dev had enjoyed in years, at six in the morning, he was still awake with the sun. He’d never spent the night in a house made of so many windows. There was something disorienting but beautiful about the constant sense that you were on the edge of outside.
They had ended up in her bed—just to sleep—after their marathon breaking-in of nearly every fuckable surface in the house. Upon further reflection, Dev could think of a few they had missed. He wanted nothing more than to pick up his phone, call down to Betty and offer triple overtime pay at The Freshery if she would cover Dev’s shift for him.
Slow down, cowboy…
There it was—his inner reasonable voice being an asshole again and not wanting him to have his fun. That was all going to have to change and soon. Dev needed this woman—maybe even more than that. He needed something and someone for himself.
That meant getting serious about hiring someone to manage The Freshery. It meant getting serious about talking through what was next with Duff. For reasons that didn’t have anything to do with Shea, both were overdue.
Thinking about Duff made Dev think about what other duties would call. Even from where he lay in bed, he could tell the storm damage would be bad. The electricity going out was par for the course. But the trees looked worse for wear. If trees as thick as the ones in the forest behind Shea’s house looked the way they did, plenty on the roads would be down.
The least I can do for her is get her generator going. Don’t want her food to spoil…
Even as he knew what he had to do next, it was hard to get out of bed. He had to check in with Brody. He had to get to work. He had to make sure there was no damage to her house and to get her electricity going. That was what his mind told him. But his body told him not to leave her side.
I’m in love with this girl.
There was no point in denying it. Nobody to judge him except him over something that was true. Not being able to tear himself away from watching her breathe—fighting the irrational fear that, if he left, nothing would ever again be this perfect—was proof positive that he was feeling something he hadn’t felt in years.
For a last long minute, Dev sat up on his elbow gazing down at her lovely face. Even in sleep, she was gorgeous. After a solid minute of willing her awake, if only for a final kiss before he went, he gave up, kissed her cheek, and went in search of his clothes.
Five minutes, a trip to a guest bathroom, and one finger-toothbrush later, Dev was carefully descending the stairs. Since the staircase was in an inner column of the house, the morning light did little to illuminate the steps. If this were Shea’s house, Dev would offer to show up and do some work, maybe path lighting near the floor. Maybe a skylight to go over the stairwell. It sounded precious and domestic and just about perfect to him.
Now, where’s her utility room? Dev wondered to himself as he unpocketed the phone he’d made sure to find for exactly this purpose. The flashlight feature had come in handy on more occasions than Dev could count. He had a Mag Lite—and a headlamp—which would come in handy right about now, but both were in his car.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the room layout he saw offered no clues. He couldn’t even tell which direction to go in, to reach the garage. Utility rooms tended to be tucked away somewhere discreet and close to other utilitarian rooms. Dev guessed he was just going to have to star
t trying doors.
The familiar tinkling of Butters’ tags came from behind and Dev shined his light on the canine briefly, before greeting her with a good scratch behind her ears and the back of her neck.
“Let’s find it, girl,” Dev said to the dog, who walked obediently beside him as he struck out on his first three tries: behind the doors he opened were a bathroom, a laundry room, a very high-tech-looking office of some kind—peculiar, since he and Shea had made good use of the desk in her glass-walled office upstairs the night before. The space down here was orderly and beautiful, but cavernous given its smaller number of windows. Plus, being on the bottom floor gave the sense of being underground.
By the time Dev reached the fourth door, he wasn’t expecting to hit pay dirt on the generator, but part of being thorough was turning over every stone. All the earlier doors he had opened, he had closed quickly following the simple confirmation that no generator was likely to be found. But the fourth room stopped him. Its contents were baffling. The fourth room gave him pause. Though he could immediately see that it contained no generator, and should therefore have compelled him to close the door, the fourth room found him stepping closer in.
What the hell is this? Dev thought as he bent his elbow upward and raised his arm, moving it from one side to the other as he scanned the room with light. From the bed in the middle of the room and furniture that was just as well-coordinated and tasteful as everything else in the house, Dev could see its intended purpose. But why did every surface and inch seem to be taken up by fancy duffel bags?
For some reason, he wanted to count them. There had to be three dozen. It was weird, how they were almost all the same. Pure instinct caused the hair on the back of his neck to raise and warn him that, whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Because these weren’t unused bags. It was clear that they were in use—that something was inside them. The only question now was, what?
Give her some privacy. It’s none of your business, a voice inside him said. It warred with a different voice that told him to look. He didn’t want to think about that second voice—didn’t want to consider that his duty not to turn away when he saw something suspicious might put him at odds with her.
But a third voice was more alarming than the first and second voices, combined. And it wasn’t his voice—it was that of Delilah. How many times had his sister insinuated or outright said there were things about Shea that he didn’t know?
Yes, Dev concluded, there was something about Shea Summers that was out there to be known. The universe seemed to be nudging him in the direction of finding out. He didn’t feel good about stooping down to one of the bags or taking the irrevocable action of pulling a zipper until he could see what was inside. He felt even worse when he saw the money.
Part III
The Past
30
The Aftermath
Shea
Shea awoke to the morning light streaming through her bedroom windows for the first time in more than a week, astonished somewhat by the presence of a normal event—normal inasmuch as she was in her actual bed rather than on the couch. The night before was the first night she’d been able to bring herself to sleep in her own bed. Though, after where they’d been together, every space in the house reminded her of Dev.
The couch, however, had been her preferred place for wallowing. For one, it had the best TV. It was closest to the kitchen, which meant minimal effort to keep herself and her dog alive. Even someone as listless and unmotivated as Shea could manage to walk a few steps to pour kibble. She was well-stocked on dog food and biscuits and bones, but she needed to sort herself out. She was running dangerously low on human food.
Peering down over the edge of her bed, she found the ever-obedient Butters, not so bad of a service dog after all. Butters had seemed to sense Shea’s despair and stood guard, laying her head in Shea’s lap when she needed comfort, nuzzling and licking her hands and chin when she needed a lift. And whenever Shea had gotten a bit too complacent—too sedentary after binge-watching moody television series and films—Butters had shown up carrying her leash to tell Shea she needed a walk.
“You hungry, girl?” Shea asked, reaching her hand down to show Butters a little love. Hearing Shea’s movements from before already had her dog at her feet. Shea pawed around for her glasses—which had landed on a pillow—and looked toward the nightstand to see the time. The clock read 11:30 AM. First of all, damn. She needed to get herself together. Second of all, seeing that particular time made her heart hurt. It was the hour of day she usually kicked into gear—getting showered and dressed to go work with Delilah.
You need to call her, Shea chided herself. Regardless of what happened with Dev, you owe her better than this.
But both of them had deserved better than this—especially Dev. Shea felt paralyzed about what to do. How could she be honest with Delilah without putting her in the middle of things between she and Dev?
Tomorrow, Shea promised herself. Today, I’ll take Butters for a long hike, and actually take a shower and figure out what I’m going to do about food.
Her trip to Gator’s Sports Bar was intended to be a quick in and out. In no mood to see anybody, she’d taken the time to call the order in. Plenty of folks in town who frequented The Big Spoon also had Gator’s on their circuit. At least she wasn’t likely to run into Delilah or Dev.
She’d deliberately waited until after what should have been the lunch rush and had called to make sure the kitchen would still be open at two o’clock in the afternoon. The place was so deserted, it didn’t look like there had been much of a lunch rush at all.
“Hi. I called in an order?” Shea’s statement sounded more like a question. Her voice was scratchy from disuse and she did her best to muster a smile. From what little she got back from the bartender, she doubted it worked. He tore his eyes away from one of the large, wall-mounted televisions long enough to take a few steps back until he had a line of sight into what must have been the kitchen.
“He’s working on it,” the bartender said dispassionately. “Maybe ten minutes or so. Want something to drink while you wait?”
“No, thanks,” Shea replied. “But can I go ahead and pay? I want to be able to take it as soon as it’s ready. I’m kind of in a rush.”
Wordlessly, the bartender turned his back to her, tapping the screen of his computer until a receipt began printing from a small box. She slid three twenties across the bar and told him she didn’t need change. He took it, and that was that.
Noting the pair playing pool off to the left side of the bar, Shea walked toward an empty booth on the right, thinking to wait for her order there. She sat with her back to the door, just in case anyone who she knew happened to walk in. Her pouf of hair was hard to miss, but she figured she could at least try for the incognito thing.
She’d monotoned herself, sporting three-quarter-length gym pants, a long-sleeved wicking running shirt, and a light vest. All were in a drab, unflattering gray. She’d even defaulted to her prescription sunglasses, with their clear, understated rim.
So busy stewing from the imposition of waiting—because she had taken the time to call the order in—she didn’t even hear one of the pool players approach, and she didn’t think much of it at first because he could have been en route to the jukebox or the bathroom. By the time she looked up, wondering why he had stopped at her side, he was already uttering the only two words that could chill her to the bone.
“Elle West,” the voice practically boomed, a familiar one’s, but not Keenan’s. Her husband standing in front of her in the flesh was the only thing that could have made things worse. Nearly as unwelcome of a vision was that of the much-discussed Don Packard Jr., who apparently, did know who she was after all.
After realizing who he was and putting together that he really was from New York, she’d been too cautious to write off the possibility that he really did know her as paranoia. Staying away from him had been Shea doing her part to not tempt fate. She couldn’t have bee
n doing more at that moment to avoid all humans. She couldn’t have come any closer to being a recluse than she’d been that week. Why, oh why, was the universe punishing her like this?
“I knew I recognized you,” he said self-righteously, punctuating his proclamation with a slap of his palm to the table. “I didn’t know Keenan had a place up here.” He motioned to himself in introduction. “Don Packard. I think we might’ve met at one of Baron’s things…”
Shea nodded dumbly, too paralyzed with panic and surprise to make small talk about how they probably had air kissed at one of the tiresome parties Keenan had dragged her to on Baron McIntyre’s yacht. For a split second, the notion flashed in her head that she had yet to answer anything and that now was her last chance to keep up the ruse.
“I’m so sorry…” she shook her head, as if shaking out fog, still not sure what she would say until the instant she said it. “I’m in a bit of a different head space here. Of course. I should have recognized you before.”
But as soon as she did speak, she knew how she had to play it. Because the other split-second flash in her consciousness came from the idea that had terrified her when Cliff had uttered it in front of the EDC. It had made no sense to even consider when circumstances had been different. But it was one she could absolutely execute on now.
“How long has Keenan had the place?”
Shea gritted her teeth and smiled against Don’s assumption—that anything she might be doing in Sapling was tied to Keenan, and to some house that Don was so sure that Keenan owned.