What kind of woman gets aroused by violence? The same kind of woman who melts into the arms of a man covered in another man’s blood? How could she let him fuck her still covered in that blood?
I try not to think about it. But at night, when I’m lying in bed next to him, I can’t help but remember. The memories come on strong, and then I’m left slick all over again.
My hand’s creeping under the hem of my nightie, and I’m pleasuring myself just to the memory…
A couple days before Thanksgiving, Chantal’s permitted to come over to Callahan House.
It’s the first time she’s visited since I moved in, and I’m pathetically grateful for the company.
None of the Callahans are home except Eddie, who came by to pick up some leftovers from Oona’s cooking. He glances at us as he grabs a Tupperware container in the kitchen and heads out of the room.
So the house feels safe to chat unheard.
I lead Chantal outside to the terrace—a small stone patio with wrought-iron furniture and a view of the overgrown garden and cracked water fountain statue. It’s cold, the November wind biting, but at least out here we have privacy.
Chantal wraps her coat tighter around herself and looks around, her nose slightly wrinkling. “Girl, this place is so dark and moody. I’ve never seen so much tartan in my life. It’s like living inside a Scottish castle.”
I laugh despite myself. “Tell me about it. But don’t let them hear you say Scottish. They areIrishafter all.”
“Fine. Irish castle? Are those a thing?”
“Did you really just ask that right now?”
We both laugh as we sit down in the cushioned patio chairs. I lean forward, elbows on the table, desperate for a distraction.
“Please. Tell me what’s been going on with you. I need to hear about literally anything other than my tedious, isolated, under-lock-and-key life with the Callahans. Any distraction helps.”
Chantal’s face lights up. “Oh my God, okay. So you know that fifty-three-year-old with the hedge fund I told you about?”
“Gregory? The one divorced three times?”
“Yes! We’ve really hit it off. Like, really hit it off.” She grins, her dark eyes sparkling. “He took me to the Hamptons last weekend. We stayed at his beach house, and let me tell you, the man knows how to treat a woman. We had champagne on the beach, and he cooked for me?—”
“Hecooked?”
“I know, right? Who knew rich old men could be domestic? Anyway, I’m thinking this could actually go somewhere. He’s already talking about introducing me to his kids.”
“Chantal, that’s… amazing. But they’re probably pretty grown, right?”
“Girl, they’re our age!” she laughs airily, swatting a hand and crossing her legs. “But you know I don’t care about that. What’s age but a number? Gregory can put it down too. Like, you’d think a man in his fifties would be a flop in bed, but let me tell you—the man can lay some pipe.”
Before I know it, I’m laughing too. The kind of carefree girl talk giggles I’d usually have whenever me and Chantal had one of our bestie dates.
She tells me all about how Gregory ate her pussy better than any man our age. Then she flips the question on me and my cheeks warm just thinking about me and Ronan.
As my best friend, she already knows what my sheepish reaction means. A gossipy grin covers her face as she pushes at my arm.
“Sim!” she gasps. “You’ve been fucking him, haven’t you? You’ve been fucking Ronan Callahan—and you’ve been enjoying it!”
“SHHHHH!” I hush, immediately glancing around. Suddenly I feel like a teenager creeping behind my parents’ backs. “Would you like to broadcast it over the household intercom?”
“Is there one? Don’t even tempt me, girl.”
I roll my eyes. “If you’re asking whether we’ve consummated the marriage… we’re adults. We’ve… we’ve…”
“Fucked? Smashed? Hunched? Got all up in them guts?”
“Chani!” I groan while laughing. “Let’s just say… Ronan knows what he’s doing. Which is good because I sure as hell don’t.”
