“So good,” he murmurs, kissing me as his hips start moving, painfully slow at first and then deep, punishing thrusts and the cyclone of heat and desperation and need. “I love this, the feel of your softness and slick, the eager pull of your snug little cunt tightening against me as I pull out, drawing me back in…”
I can’t stop, not this time. It’s too much and my back arches and I scream, blissfully, mindlessly, capable of feeling nothing but him and me and how he explodes inside me and when the needle plunges into my bicep, my husband is right.
I barely notice.
Chapter Thirty-Five
In which brother Sam has bad news.
Mason…
A week later…
“Mason? It’s Sam Cavendish.”
I’m at my desk at MacTavish International, going over the deeply tedious audit results from my department. When my personal phone rang, I would have been happy to answer it even if it was one of my cousins needing help disposing of a body.
“Sam. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?” Afton’s brother didn’t seem fond of me when I married his sister, understandable, of course.
“I need to meet with you. I’m in Glasgow at the Kimpton Blythswood.” His voice is strained, I’m picturing him yanking his necktie loose.
“This sounds like a serious matter, Sam.”
He couldn’t have learned about the attack on Afton and my mother, we took care of the entire situation in-house. I know my wife didn’t contact her family. Dad took point on learning the identity of “The stabby feck who nearly murdered our women,” but I spent quite a lot of time terrorizing his two accomplices who tried to hold down my mother for answers. They were useless, merely hired help, but our tech ninjas are still combing for clues about the gutted corpse.
“It is,” he says bluntly. “Can you meet me now?”
“I see. Shall I bring Afton with me?”
“God, no!” he blurts. “Just you.”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Thank you, I’m in Suite 316.” The relief in his voice is obvious.
Tapping my cell lightly on the desk, I think about Sam’s urgency and insistence on secrecy. If he’s coming to me, he’s desperate. We haven’t spoken once since the day of the wedding. I’ve assumed he was a slightly more affable clone of his father, but the man I just spoke to sounded genuinely terrified.
When I knock on the door of his suite, I have Devon stand to the side of the door, out of sight, his hand inside his jacket and ready to pull his gun.
Trust, but verify.
Sam is not doing well. His suit is wrinkled and he hasn’t shaved for a few days and by the smell of him, he hasn’t showered, either.
“You look like shit,” I say bluntly.
“Come in.” He opens the door wider and when Devon appears, he sighs and steps to the side. “Go ahead and search the place. Then kindly ask your man to fuck off. We need to talk.”
Devon makes a quick circuit through the rooms and returns, shaking his head. It’s a huge suite, with marble floors and tan suede couches and leather armchairs in the living room, and a large four poster bed just past the bedroom door. The silk cover is halfway on the floor, like Sam had tried to sleep and woke up from a nightmare.
“Thank you. Please wait in the hall.” As he passes me, I lower my voice, “And keep your eyes open.”
Sam watches this exchange with a blank expression before seeming to come to his senses. “I’m sorry. Uh, would you like a drink?”
He’s working on a glass of whisky, probably his second or third. The bar cart is next to the tall French doors, one is open, letting in the breeze and the sound of traffic.
“A little early in the day for me, thank you.” Seating myself in a chair with a clear line of sight of the bedroom and main door, I let him pace for a while. “At some point, you’re going to have to explain why you’re here,” I say, rubbing my eyes. Afton and I had a late night, giving me about an hour of sleep before a 4:30 am meeting with an Australian investor, but the sight of my wife with her hands tied to the bed and a spreader bar keeping her nice and open for me was certainly worth my current exhaustion.
“My father has lost it,” he says abruptly, sitting down heavily like a puppet with its strings cut. He chose the chair furthest from me, which was wise on his part.
