by Dakota Gray
It's not about worship or my skill in the kitchen. The emotions playing across her face opens a world of possibilities. If I'm hungry for happiness all I have to do is reach over to her and pluck it. Depending on what I've fed her I can taste lust, anger or giddiness. I never have to delve into myself, and inside me is a bottomless pit of darkness, jagged edges and hungry mouths.
I can’t fight the smile at her reaction as she goes for another bite. “When are you going to admit I'm the better cook?”
She’s polite enough to swallow before she asks, “Who taught you?”
“Back to this.”
Her cheeks glow as she digs out the last bit of meat from the lobster tails. “I need to know what asshole gave you this as a weapon.”
My life is no more groundbreaking than anyone else's. “I spent time in the kitchen because it was always warm. The turnover was pretty high, so there wasn't a person who made a difference in my life and then I could be a soft man, with unwavering morals.”
Her eyes widen at the small confession yet she doesn't intrude with platitudes. I sit in the quiet for a moment longer before adding, “I learned cordon bleu from Piper. She also guided my hand in tamales and menudo. Stacy had an affection for stews and salads. Georgina had an unwavering belief that the best ingredients were fresh. My parents rarely went into the kitchen. It was the safest place to hide in plain sight to do what I wanted to do.” I laugh. “I know. Poor me. I learned about the passion of cooking from the help.”
“You...don't see it that way?”
I shake my head. “I learned from people who actually make a living from what they do—professionals. Someone who doesn't get it would say my mother was a professional hostess, but they wouldn't understand making business men and women happy. She had the ability to make everyone comfortable, no matter how tense things could get over dinner or lunch or whatever.”
She pushes the food around her plate and then meets my gaze. “I would have never seen it that way.”
“How would you see it?”
“I would...” She shakes her head. “I learned how to cook along with my father.” She laughs at a distant memory. “Before my mother...My father could burn boiling water. After…” She clears her throat. “He gave this speech about how he couldn’t teach me how to wear makeup, and since he’d been young once, he’d want to choke anyone I brought home. Together we’d learn how to cook. There was no one to save us from burning down the house.”
“Did he get good at cooking?”
“God, no. He remarried a chef.”
Her life is bittersweet. She’s managed to make it more sweet than not. “My mother believes in caterers. There is no meal that can’t be delivered.”
She brushes her hair over her shoulder and breaks my gaze. “Your mother...” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
Kennedy draws her hands into her lap. “I'm supposed to tell you everything. Put all my dirt on the table?”
My shoulders tense like someone punched me in the spine. “Yup.”
“I came to your father's funeral for you and I met your mother.”
“You met my cousin. I didn't think about you meeting my mother. You would.”
The way her gaze latches onto me my words are salvation. I push around food on my plate and add, “You did more than meet her?”
“I liked her. We...”
The words hang in the air as silence follows her abandoned declaration.
I’m doing my best not to cast any judgment until I’ve heard the full confession and all the damning evidence. My stomach doesn’t wait to knot. I fall back on my experience.
A guilty man thinks silence is acceptance. So I sit in quiet non-judgment.
“We've become friends of sorts,” Kennedy pushes out in a rush. “I wanted to tell you, but that seemed...I don't know. I didn't check in on her because of you. More time passed and...”
Seven months. For seven months Kennedy nurtured a friendship with my mother. I should have realized that the moment she told me she came to my father's funeral and I didn't see hide nor hair of her. She had to be somewhere and with someone.
And Kennedy...would be comforting someone. How could she not?
Why wouldn’t she just tell me?
In all the years I’ve been a criminal attorney, there has only been one reason for anyone to keep the truth a secret—it makes you look guilty.
A client lies about seeing the victim the day they died because admitting that makes them look like they had all the opportunity in the world to kill the victim.
That one heated argument never happened because that gives them a motive for killing them.
Their financial straits were not as bad as everyone said so why would they embezzle from their company?
Kennedy spent seven months being my mother’s friend.
What does she look guilty of doing?
“I see,” is all I say, trying to pull the full picture into focus.
“Don't,” she practically pleads. “Madison is like a favorite aunt I see occasionally. You rarely come up in a conversation. Me and her...it's not about you.”
Rarely.
Seven months is...I think about that number. I think about that number real hard and do the math. It’s about three-hundred thousand minutes. Rarely could mean an hour or two in the scheme of things. In two hours Kennedy could have my entire life story from my mother’s perspective.
The knot in my stomach transforms into lead. Is that why Kennedy suddenly had a need to be with me? My mother told her childhood stories about me being wide-eyed and sweet. My mother told Kennedy about the man I am now. A man who will let my mother cup my cheek so she can go to sleep at night.
An invisible fist tightens around my skull. Kennedy needed the pieces of me I cut out to sleep in my bed. She needed the good guy. That’s worse than looking at me and seeing the Institution.
I try to breathe, but all I can think is that it was never me she wanted.
The ache in my jaw is the only warning I need to relax. “Is that everything? All your secrets now?”
Her cheeks flush. “Yes.”
Lies. Fucking lies. Every part of me I felt softening goes hard again. “You came to my father’s funeral to support me?”
“Yes.”
“I was being...myself so you decided not to approach me.”
The non-good guy didn’t deserve comfort or sympathy. He could bear the loss of a man he called father. A father who never showed him an ounce of affection. Of course that guy wouldn’t need a woman who smelled of flowers and cinnamon. A woman who made him ache for three years. I ball my hands and bury my fingernails into my palms.
“If I remember correctly, you told one of your father’s old cronies to take his head out of your ass. And that was after he said I’m sorry for your loss.”
I believe I told that to Chancy. The man had spent years kissing up to my father for any chance to become a named partner. He hated my father. I try to recall that day. I really do, but most of it is a fog.
When did I tell Chancy to fuck off? At the repast. My mother and I were greeting guests at the door. After Chancy, I walked off to find a stiff drink. “After I walked away, you approached my mother?”
“It’s not like that.” She slams her palm against the table. “Stop trying to make it seem like I was a vulture.”
Weren’t you? “I walked off and you comforted my mother?”
“You walked off and your mother stopped trying to hold it together for you. I did what you would have if you weren’t...I took care of your mother.”
“And after that day?”
“I checked in on her. I got to know her. You have to know how your mother is.”
She’s the warmth in the family. Knowing that, I don’t hold it against Kennedy for like recognizing like.
I can be pissed about the fact she told me nothing about it. I can be fucking furious she’s lying. For almost half a year my mother never told Kennedy anything that made her change he
r mind about running from me? I’m supposed to believe that?
Yeah, I can be sick to my fucking stomach that her sudden change toward me has nothing to do with coming to terms with the man I am. I can feel stupid for not seeing it. How many times did my mother tell me to be nice to Kennedy? How quiet did my mother get when I told her, happily, I wanted to introduce them to each other? Or rather joke about the fact they never would. I was too busy reveling in how I felt to see how vulnerable I’d let myself be.
Here I thought Kennedy had been living in my blind spot for three years. I should have felt the heat of her at my back for months. I should tell her to leave and process this new information. I should give myself more than a moment to let the reality settle on me.
Kennedy’s here for the good guy and there’s just me. And I’m not good enough. I’ve shed all the blood I can and she needs one drop more.
I should let her go knowing that truth in my gut.
Instead I find my mouth opening to say, “Good. Are you well fed? Do you want anything else?”
Five minutes ago I would have fed her dessert, watched her gaze and eaten whipped cream off her ass. But I let control go. I let myself get caught up in the emotions of being with her.
She releases a breath and I can practically taste her relief. “No, Duke. I'm fed and happy.”
Happy. Right. Happy to know everything she could about me before starting the game. I can't be mad about it. Wouldn't I have done the same had I been in the right mind? I would have hunted down her father and fawned over childhood photos to get all the details to know her weaknesses, to know almost intimately her strengths. I would have known from the get-go about her mother. That truth wouldn’t have stunned me and made me think…
I wouldn't be sitting here feeling so goddamn stupid. She didn't change. She didn’t get a little darker during our time apart. That's not why she's sitting here across from me. She thought I had changed. She thought I was the good guy I pretend to be.
That's not me. That will never be me.
I should show her the door. Let her know things between us won’t work out if she’s expecting Prince Charming. Except that means never touching her again.
And I should at least one more time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
My mouth is more than eager to say, “Are you ready to see the toys I've picked up for you.”
“Toys?”
“You're always playing with your nipples, I wanted you to have something to help you along.”
She laughs. “I always think I'm ready for you, and you go and prove me wrong.”
I offer her my hand. She takes it a moment later. I lead her to my bedroom. It looks the same, but I know there’s a grease spot on my comforter. After tonight I’m going to have to get rid of it.
And the scar on your arm?
You can never get rid of that.
I push the thought away, guide her to my bed, and stand back.
“Take off your dress.”
She drops her gaze. “I want you to take it off.” She brings her stare up and I can't help but feel it's an act of bravery. “I want to feel your hands on my skin as you undress me.”
The thing about control is that you have to accept your weaknesses. Name them. Avoid them like your life depends on it. She's mine. There's no bracing myself from her words, her wants. I let her soft, almost hesitant words roll over me. I note the way my cock stands to attention knowing, remembering the way her skin feels underneath my fingertips.
Then I'm not knowing, I'm feeling. Her dress is barely a slip of material while I draw it down her body. She's revealed in slow degrees. Kennedy is delicate and strong, marked with scars, freckles, dimples and stretch marks—she's real. I let my mouth follow my hands as I push her onto the mattress.
I refuse to let myself get lost, though. Once her black dress, bra and panties lay at my feet, I concentrate on her nipples. I need them erect, tight and sensitive. She grabs at my shirt instead of my hair. I’m not wild today.
She's holding onto me, and the part of me that has no control loves the way my shirt tugs at my skin as she uses it as an anchor.
“Duke, I've always loved your mouth.”
I curl my tongue around one nipple then the next until they are both thick and I can use my mouth to pull them because they are so taut. “Keep playing with your tits, Kennedy. You're beautiful when you do.”
Her laugh is like daggers to me now. “Touching myself makes me beautiful?”
I step back from her, needing the air, a moment to go cold again, but I can't seem to get back to that dark place where I don't feel anything. I'm pulsing. I can inhale and drown in her scent. I need to be cold for what I do next. Shit, what I say next. I can’t forget she’s just someone else who wants another drop of blood.
“Do you know what trust looks like? You unrepentant when you touch yourself. You’re not scared to be, to do what you want while you’re with me. And you are a woman who likes to have her tits played with. You tug, or pinch your nipples and let me watch. That's beautiful.”
She flushes from hairline to toes at my words. My words have made her happy. I wait for the guilt to dig in, to make a home, and there’s only my pulse pounding in my dick.
And the simmer of anger.
Kennedy’s only here because she believes I’m a good man. She told herself I was kind and soft. She wouldn’t be here—she’s not here for me.
Take me or leave me.
I gave her this chance to fuck me over again. I have no one to blame but myself.
That makes it easy to pull away from her to go to my nightstand next to the bed. Even easier to pull out the clamps I bought for her when I thought we were... The clamps are for beginners. I don't plan to keep them on her long but an orgasm or two should hook her.
Why do you care?
I shake my head to brush off the question. I would like to say I go through the motions when I’m between her legs again. I have an end goal and the details of her don’t matter.
But…
The reason I’m in this fucked up situation is because I haven’t been able to forget the taste of Kennedy in my mouth. Any part of her. The tips of her nipples are sweet and tart, and the added rubber and metal of the clips just makes her that much more delectable. The way she balls her hands in my shirt as flick my tongue over the pebbled buds...Is there nothing better?
Yeah. My fingers buried in her cunt. Her wet and pulling against my fingers as I stroke her to a climax.
I can’t put it into words. Kennedy’s legs and arms wrapped around me while she moans my name is everything I thought—it’s winning, and not in a fucked up way.
Kennedy is not sweet, nice...incorruptible. She’s smart, sexy and fucking manipulative. She’s bent me into this man who needs her taste. I should applaud it. I should reward the fuck out of how she’s turned me into a man who would curl his fingers until he finds her g-spot then close his mouth over her clit.
And, fuck, she has. I’m going to eat her until she comes two times. I’m going to love the way her clit swells under my tongue. The way it’s stiff and soft, pink. I’m going to ache at the way she grips my hair—gel and all—when I go for a third orgasm.
With my nose pressed against her mound and my tongue swirling around her clit, I glance up. Her teeth have made a home in her bottom lip and her eyes are low, hooded. I reach up and tug the chain connected to the nipple clamps. Her areolas stretch and darken, making the tips sharp points. I loosen my hold then tug again. Her breath tangles with a sob as her come slides over my tongue. I groan and bury my face in her folds to get it all.
My dick is hard. My body is on fire. On the inside I’m trying to be cold. So fucking cold. I know what comes next. Her, again. Me. Then…
No. I can get past this.
I lap at her like she’s feeding me and try to get over the lies that are still twisting inside me. I’ve told worse. Though never to someone I cared about. I can learn to live with them, keep them locked in that dead part
of me.
I swallow and take her in. It’s not enough. I meet her gaze again. Her hand feathers over her left nipple. There’s no wince but it’s been too long. So I give her tits attention they deserve as I free them from the clamps. I use my mouth to ease any pain or discomfort. She trembles beneath me.
“Duke,” falls from her lips.
I taste my name. I barely take off the rest of my clothes. I make sure I’m wearing a condom when I sink deep into her. We fuck each other slow with greedy hands and mouths. The only hard things in sight are her nipples, her clit and my dick. I’m soft on the inside. That fucking gooey center I detest. I murmur shit that I wouldn’t say to her otherwise. This time is nothing like the first time. I know this could be the last time I touch her.
When her pussy tugs around my cock like she’s trying to milk me, I still to let the sensation work its way down to my balls. I grind into her when I feel the wash of wetness on my groin.
“I want you to come,” she murmurs.
Without any urging she closes her hand on my throat and squeezes. That permission is all I need. Her fingernails dig into my skin and it’s fucking heaven. I slam into her until I hit oblivion. It’s not until she grips my nape and laughs that any warmth drips into me. Her laugh is like the first time. She can’t believe what we just did.
I bring my mouth to hers. Her laugh dies away, turning into a moan. I slip my dick out of her and take the kiss deeper. I don’t stop until she breaks her mouth away to breathe.
I wish she hadn’t. I’m still too numb. I’m still too pissed. Too convinced I’m right. Fucking her was supposed to remind me that I’m human under this monster skin.
Fucking her when I’m feeling this way only proves I’m not.
I close my eyes and inhale. She’s my weakness.
See. Progress.
I can admit that without caveats. I’ve ignored my instincts for her, because of her. I told myself she understood my need to be an apex predator. That need that makes me want to crouch is why she was here with me. I had myself half-convinced I had a soft underbelly and that I had rolled over to show it to her and that’s why she was here for me.