I spear up into her as she does.
“Touch your tits,” I order.
She lightly flicks her nipples but gets distracted and stops.
“Pinch them, Lorien. Tight. Let me see those perfect nipples tighten into buds.”
She does, losing her rhythm for a moment, but regaining it. Her eyes are clamped shut. She is a sight to behold. Her face is the picture of bliss.
She’s flushed red from as far down as I can see, over her chest, up to her hairline. Her lips are parted and she’s breathing heavy. I lift and drop her, thrust up as she falls, until her breath stutters and I know she’s on the verge. I twist during the next drop and hit that spot so deep inside her that her eyes fly open and she explodes, calling out my name on a moan as the world’s deepest orgasm brings me along for the ride. “Liam.”
Ripples and waves of outstanding pressure milk me. “Lorien.” I hold her gaze, spill inside, feeling the heat melt us together.
I’ll never be able to be close enough.
I’ll never be able to let her go.
And I’ll never want to.
67
done done
Lorien
The next few days are tenuous. Tenuous and stressful.
Two nights later, I consider baking as a way to relieve my stress and to offer my husband something as a reprieve, but ultimately, he’s so edgy I can’t even do that.
Poe has taken up residence on his chest, constantly rubbing her ears against his chin or fingers. She’s a menace, but he’s smitten, even if he won’t admit it. She survived. Just like he did. Him saving her has made her eternally his, and him hers. She still hisses at me if I get close, but she doesn’t stop purring when I snuggle in, so there’s that.
His dad—though he loathes when I call him that—will soon go to trial. Discovery is nearly done and the evidence is overwhelming. We decided that my little adventure with him would go unmentioned. For one, I don’t want any connection to Briggs Barnett or Roger Briggs, whatever he called himself. It damns us as much as it damns Seamus, and we’re not interested in that.
If we need it, though, it’s in our back pocket.
Liam’s involvement with the thing that went down with Cian is also not front and center. That’s a whole other story, but, needless to say, we’re pretending for all the legal world to see that Seamus was terrible to Liam’s brother and sister while being completely dismissive to my husband.
Nothing could be further from the truth, but murder for hire with a dead assassin raises more questions than answers.
Liam’s told me to put it out of my mind. To not ask questions. And for once, my inquisitive brain is okay with that request.
My brain, it turns out, is entirely focused on how to make the auto-immune research come to pass. I can’t admit I stole the data. I can’t get into the folder on the server that held it before. The team in topicals has restricted access to that, so my current assignment prevents visibility to what I most want to know.
The Barones and the Murphys haven’t made a play yet for control, but a board meeting in early October should lay out the plans. In the meantime, I work with my team, getting knowing nods occasionally from the security team who learned from Liam of the bomb threat against PBP… and me.
We still don’t know why Troy Smith arranged for it. The breakup wasn’t really that bad. We dated, but it wasn’t serious. We weren’t compatible, and it wasn’t even like he fought for me when we parted ways. It wasn’t just amicable. It was… nothing.
My brain whirls as I pace. I have too much energy to sit still and too little focus to do much more.
Liam’s phone chimes at the same time as mine. He grabs his as I keep moving. Maybe I should cook dinner. Or sign up for a marathon. I’m not athletic. Like, at all, but this vibration inside my body needs an outlet.
“Come here, Wifey.” Liam opens an arm to me.
I sit next to him, daring a pet to Poe’s head. She allows it for two strokes before shaking me off and cleaning herself where I touched her.
“Rude.”
“So, that notification was from Sherman.”
