by Dee Palmer
“Need something, angel?”
“Oh, God, Logan, you! I need you, now!” she groans, her hands at my shoulders, trying to pull me closer. My arms have locked my body above her, close, but obviously not close enough. I chuckle.
“I’ll let you have that one, angel, but I’m not sure I’m a fan of sassy Tia. I like my women compliant.”
“And I like my men mute, but we can’t all get what we want, can we?” she quips and bites the sass back with a cute grin.
“I can, and I did,” I state with absolute seriousness. She beams the brightest smile, but then frowns with frustration when her tugging on my shoulders has little impact on my position.
“Me, too; me, too. Now, please, Logan, I need you.” she begs. Now, that I do like the sound of.
“As you wish.” I lay my weight on her, lining up the tip of my cock at her entrance, and we both catch our breath when I push forward. Her whole body trembles, and I hover. It’s killing me to be this close to heaven and stop, but I have to be certain she’s sure.
“Tia?”
“I love you, Logan.” She smiles, and her soft lips form the perfect ‘o’ when I sink into her. I hold her gaze, and I push deeper, sinking every inch, until she can’t take anymore. My balls rest against her intimate centre. There’s absolutely no space between us. Her legs lock around me, arms wrap around my back, and her hands spear into my hair as mine thread into her silky mane. We are and we move as one, sharing more than our next breath. This is everything, heaven, utopia. Whatever trite words are available for such a moment, they wholly fail to describe this feeling.
All I know is it’s fucking perfect.
“Logan, Logan,” she sighs my name, her sweet breath on my lips. “Logan! Logan!” Her voice is muffled, angry. Why the hell is she… No, fuck, no!
“Logan! Open the damn door I need to talk to you!” Tia bangs on my bedroom door, and her voice is now much clearer. Now I’m awake. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and double fuck!
“Fuck!” I curse into the pillow that I now have held over my face. I didn’t want to let my frustration out full volume. It would wake the fucking dead and scare Tia. I pull myself out of bed and stomp over to the door. Flicking the lock, I pull it wide open.
“Jesus, Logan, erection!” She slaps her hand over her eyes, a little too late given her shocked observation.
“I was having a rather good dream, Tia. Get used to it, because trust me, this is not going down anytime soon.” I was expecting her to laugh or curse or something, but her eyes fill with tears. “Tia, what the fuck! What’s wrong?” I pull her to me and wrap my arms round her. She does this inverse bend thing trying to avoid crushing my cock, but I couldn’t give a fuck about that, she looks so unbearably sad. She hugs me back as best she can, but all too quickly, her arms slip from mine, and she walks over to my bed. I grab a pair of boxer shorts and jump into them before sitting beside her. I take both her hands in mine. “Talk to me, T. Whose arse have I got to kick, virtually of course, unless you can invite them round.” I try and nudge her into some sort of smile, but I’m getting nothing. I get a sick twist in my gut.
“Logan, I’m so sorry. It’s not my fault.” Fat tears burst onto her cheeks, and she rubs them dry before I can.
“What? What’s not your fault? This isn’t fucking funny, Tia. Tell me what’s going on.” My jaw fixes as worry and something worse begin to bubble deep inside.
“I have to leave here. I have to go and live with Atticus for a while.” She could be holding a blade at my chest right now for the pain about to slice into me. I stand and spin to face her. My hands are shaking with rage, and I clench my fists to try and hide the level of my fury.
“Like fuck you do! I’d rather you went back to jail than live with that son of a bitch!” I yell.
“Would you? ” Her soft tearful voice halts me dead.
“What? What do you mean would I?” I drop to kneel in front of her, clasping her hands in mine. Her head drops and then after a moment and a deep breath, she lifts her tear filled eyes to meet mine.
“I mean would you rather see me in prison, because that’s what’s at stake here. I either go and finish my probation with Atticus or I go back to jail and they add a bit more time on for bad behaviour.” She sniffs back the tears, failing to stem the flow now that they have broken. I grab a tissue from the bedside table and help to dry her face. This is fucking killing me.
“I don’t understand, Tia; you haven’t been bad…have you?” I tip her chin high when she drops it. I need to see her face, need to look into her eyes.
“No, I haven’t, but—”
“But…” I repeat after her when she falters.
“Look, it’s kind of irrelevant now. It’s a done deal, and unless you were serious about wanting me back in jail, this is really my only choice.” She scrunches her eyes tight as if pain is coursing through her. I feel exactly the same.
“Humour me.”
“What?”
“I don’t care that it’s a done deal, tell me what the fuck happened.” She gives an imperceptible nod and lets out a heavy breath before she elaborates.
“My boss, Maria, put some art supplies I didn’t know about in my bag. They caught me red-handed, leaving the building. I didn’t know at the time why I was being taken away, but my bag was pretty much packed with Kruse office supplies.”
“Tell them it was Maria,” I state flatly and let out a derisive sniff. Simple.
“It’s not that easy. She’ll lose her job, and she needs it. She needs that pension. That zero tolerance policy they have is not just an idle threat; she’d get jail time too. She was only trying to help. I’m not going to throw her under the bus, Logan.”
“No, you’re going to throw yourself, for fuck’s sake.” I drag my hand through my hair. I know from that look alone, I have a fat chance changing her mind, but it still doesn’t make any sense. “I can’t believe that arsehole is going to send you back to jail for lifting some office stationery.”
“Well, that and a hundred million pounds,” she mutters and rightly avoids all eye contact.
“What the what, now?”
“A hundred million pounds has gone missing, and he thinks I’ve stolen money from the company,” she explains and my stomach drops, now I get it.
“I see.”
“I see? That’s what you say to that?” She pulls her hands from mine, and her back is ramrod straight. “Not, ‘oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s ridiculous, Tia, why would he think that’?”
“Why would he think that, T?” I paraphrase and take all the attitude out of her air quotation.
“I don’t fucking know. You trust me, right?” she asks, and her voice catches. I don’t hesitate.
“Of course.” I cup her cheeks and hold her gaze. She’s a dreadful liar, but I still trust her. She needs to hear that more than she needs this dumbass revenge. “So what now?”
“Now, I keep my head down and bide my time with Atticus for twelve months.” She gives a light shrug.
“Twelve fucking months! I don’t like it.”
“I’m not over the moon, either, but I can’t go back to prison, Logan.”
“I know, T, I know… fuck!” I throw my head back and yell. The room falls silent, and when I feel calm enough, I ask the question I don’t want to hear the answer to. “When do you have to go?”
“He’s in the car outside. I said I had to pick up my stuff and tell you.”
“You told him about me?”
“I told him nothing. This isn’t a sweet reunion type deal, Logan. I have no intention of making this anything other than a living hell for him.”
“Oh, I’d pay to see that.” I can’t quite make the smile work, and the humour in my joke falls flat.
“It’s only a year.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes a little comfort. It’s not nearly enough.
“You’ll be able to visit though?” I hate that our time is no longer our own.
“I don’t know. I hope so.” She
shrugs, and I get a flash of unbearable rage igniting my blood. I fail to temper it and have to pull away. Snatching my hands back, I jump to my feet. My tone is hostile, and I practically snarl when I dismiss her comment.
“Fine, whatever. Do what you’ve got to do.”
“Logan, don’t be like this,” she pleads, her soft words are a faux balm, they sting like a motherfucker right now.
“Like what, Tia, I said I can’t lose you, and yet—”
“You haven’t lost me, please, Logan, don’t make this any harder.” She is instantly at my side, her hand on my arm, her fingers resting on the curve of my bicep, and I can’t stand it.
“This is fucking bullshit, Tia.” I drag my hand through my hair and storm off, slamming the door to my en suite. “Fuck!”
Maybe forty minutes pass when there is a light knock on my bedroom door.
“Logan, can I come in?” I don’t answer, several painfully long seconds pass when I hear her let out a sigh. “I have to go now. I’ll try and visit soon. Take care of yourself, Logan.” I wait until I hear her retreating footsteps. Skidding across the landing in my bare feet just as she opens the front door, I can see the man standing on the porch. I know it’s him. I’ve done my background checks on her ex, and there is more than enough Google fodder on the Kruse family to fill a meaty dossier.
“Tia! Wait!” I yell and bound down the stairs.
“We have to leave, Tia. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.” The arsehole speaks but wisely doesn’t enter my home.
“I don’t know, Atticus, have I kept you waiting six years?” she snaps and steps away from the door as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Logan.” She turns to me, her tentative smile nearly breaks my fucking heart.
“Tia.” I step flush against her, my arm sweeping around her waist, and I pull her up my body, her legs instinctively wrap my hips, and she grips tight. I support her weight in the palm of my hands, which fist the cheeks of her arse. Her breath catches, but before her lips can form a smile, my lips crash into hers. Her hands are in my hair, and I turn and slam her against the wall, chasing the depth of the kiss with my entire body. Her taste is so familiar, but then it wasn’t so long ago I was drenched in her scent. Even if it was a dream, I still drank her in, just as I am now. Her tongue dances with mine, lips sucking, biting, teeth clashing, an urgency we both feel in our bones, and as much as I hate this, I take a little comfort that she feels the same, finally.
There is a cough behind me, and I let a deep disapproving growl escape as Tia breaks our kiss. She drops her forehead to mine, her eyes wide, and her smile even wider.
“What was that?” she exhales, her tone shocked and filled with awe.
“That was just the beginning.”
“Can’t I stay here?” I actually grip the kitchen table as if rooting myself to the small piece of flimsy pine furniture will help my situation.
“No, sweetheart, you can’t. Seven-year-old girls are not allowed to stay home alone even if you think you’re all grown up. Mummy would get into serious trouble, and you’d be taken away from me.” Her warning words send a panic to my heart, and my stomach rolls so much I get that watery liquid pool in my mouth, and I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t know where I would be taken, but she says this as a warning whenever I’m naughty, so I think it will be a very bad place. Almost as bad as the place she wants to take me to today, but still I’d rather stay at home.
“I wouldn’t tell, Mummy,” I plead as she manhandles me into my coat, roughly tugging the woollen hat over my ears. She drops down to help me into my wellington boots, and my heart just drops at the inevitability of this day, like every day of my school holiday. I hate it.
“I know, sweetheart, but you can’t stay here. You have to come with Mummy to the Hall. You can bring a colouring book, and I’m baking cookies today.” She tries to placate me with treats and even plants a soft kiss on my nose. I still don’t want to go, but the cookies do sound good.
“Really?”
“Yes.” She tugs me toward the door, and I fall into step right behind her.
“Is Cass going to be there?” I know the answer before she replies. If he was, we wouldn’t be having this daily battle.
“No, sweetheart, he’s still away at school.”
“Doesn’t his mummy love him?”
“Of course she does, why would you say that?” She stops at the door and spins to face me, shock and outrage on her face.
“She sent him away.” I explain my summation of what seems to me a very obvious observation of the Cass situation. She shakes her head emphatically.
“No, no, darling, he went to boarding school. She hasn’t sent him away, and yes, she loves him very much. That’s why he’s gone to the best school in England, because his mummy wants what’s best for him,” she adds with a strange sense of misplaced pride.
“Oh.” I shrug because I really don’t understand.
“And I want what’s best for you, but we will have to wait for that day to come,” she mutters as she opens the back door and we brave an icy February dawn
“Hmm?”
“Nothing sweetheart, come on, let’s get moving. It might only be a short walk up the drive, but it snowed last night, and it’s freezing, so no time to be dallying. I can’t have you catching a cold.”
“Okay, Mummy.” She locks the back door, holds my mitten-covered hand, and tugs me the length of the drive.
I hate having to go with my mother when Cass isn’t there, I know I’m not welcome. Mrs Kruse rarely comes downstairs to where my mother spends most of her time. However, when she does, she makes a point of ignoring me and looking down her nose at my mother. Not that my mother seems to notice or mind. She is so grateful for the job, she practically kisses the ground that snotty woman walks on. Working as housekeeper gives us free accommodation and security. The latter is of the upmost importance since Mum told me my dad left the day he found out I was more than just a bad case of stomach flu.
There are two drives to the main house, one from the main gatehouse where the head gardener lives and one at the rear of the property to our lodge. This gravel drive is lined with overbearing oak trees. The branches hang low, and in the winter, they seem to reach out for you as you walk beneath them. I cling to my mother’s hand and try to calm my overactive imagination. It’s only about a half-mile walk, but to my little legs, it feels much longer. My skin is red raw under my sweatpants by the time we walk the distance in several feet of snow. Chilblains are my own personal hell. Tight swollen skin that prickles and feels like it’s on fire the second we get inside. After a start to the day like that, I never get warm; even huddled next to the open fire in the kitchen trying to thaw out, I never manage to get toasty. I just defrost enough to not die of hypothermia.
It isn’t just the sense that I’m not welcome, but the house itself is terrifying to most adults, let alone a child. It’s a Gothic monstrosity. Some of the older parts were built in the twelfth century, although only the East tower resembles a typical Castle structure with battlements, arrow loops and a turret. It was renamed Tartarus Hall when it was extended and updated in the nineteenth century. It has hundreds of rooms spread over three stories. It sprawls in a hexagonal shape, has an East and West tower and five angled ranges, the sixth being open and giving the perfect view down to the gatehouse. Some of the rooms are enormous; the great hall, I think, is larger than our entire house, yet it has such small panes of heavily leaded windows that they barely let in any sunlight. The smaller rooms are worse, and with the thick velvet curtains always only partially drawn open, it feels like night time all the time.
The furniture and deep carpets are in keeping with a more modern period. Mrs Kruse kept some of the authentic pieces, but she isn’t one to sacrifice luxury, style, or comfort in order to maintain authenticity or a more sympathetic interior to the period of the house.
The artwork, however, is an acquired taste and one that I hope I never acquire. In most of
the reception rooms, the walls are dominated by the most horrendous oil paintings. Whole walls depicting some bloody battle or mythical underworld carnage, even the smaller portraits of Kruse ancestors sends an icy chill through my veins, if I was unfortunate enough to accidentally catch a glimpse.
My mother is the only housekeeper, and I am more than happy to stay in the kitchen and not keep her company on her rounds cleaning the rooms in rotation. She prefers it that way too, since I’m apparently always under her feet. The family employ some extra staff that come in to help for special occasions, like holidays and if they are having guests to stay. Extra waiting staff and Michelin starred chefs are brought in for those special events, but other than that, my mother takes care of the house and the meals when the family are in residence. It’s more than a full-time job.
She told me once that old houses are special and need extra care, because they hold on to the secrets of whoever lived there, past, present, and future. This didn’t help me to warm to the place. If anything, that makes it just a little creepier and as far as I am concerned, secures my spot by the fireplace in the kitchen until I am old enough to stay at home alone.
At that time I didn’t realise Tartarus Hall was very special. I was unaware it had secret passageways, corridors, hidden staircases, or an attic that was a labyrinth from which you could access the entire house. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was happy in the kitchen, either drawing at the table or curled up in the old saggy armchair by the fire, reading or more likely falling asleep from boredom.
Then I met Cass.