Page 135 of The Spider & the Storm

He was so certain, and I wanted to believe him, just as I'd believed him countless times before. But I never believed him about Tommy Wheeler or his mother's ability to move on. This wasn't a spat between childhood friends. This wasn't a silly rivalry over a girl. This was about death and justice, and I knew, as deep as my bones, that Tommy Wheeler was out for my brother's blood.

It was just unfortunate for me that Luke’s blood was also mine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY

Trauma had a way of tearing us from the present and propelling our souls back in time to relive those moments as if we’d never stopped living them. A cornucopia of smells surrounded me at once, and not a single one was the cinnamon and spice Stormy carried on her skin. The burger I'd eaten on that night eight years ago. The musty carpet of the courtroom. The sour, stale sweat and heavy, cheap perfume from the Wayward visitor center.

I could barely recall my mother's laugh or the inflections of my father's tone, but I'd never ever forget the metallic smell of fresh, hot blood, coating my hand and dripping onto the floor outside my bedroom.

My eyes were squeezed shut. I wasn't sure when I'd done it, if I'd made the conscious decision or if it had simply happened at some point in telling the first half of the horrible things I hadn’t wanted her to know. But I was aware of it now, and I rubbed my fingers against my brow before prying my lids apart to stare out the windshield at the sidewalk and street signs and the shrubbery outside that hotel she’d been staying at. I didn't want to look at Stormy though. Afraid of what emotions might be reflected in her emerald eyes. Afraid she'd realize that she had bitten off more than any one person could chew by breaking into my house and forcing her way into my life.

“You okay?” she asked after I hadn't said anything for a while. Five minutes maybe, or it could've been five seconds.

“Not sure I've been okay for a long time,” I replied, finding it best to be honest. Still unable to face her.

“So, that's why talking about Connecticut freaks you out.”

“Yes.” It wasn't the whole truth, but it was some of it, and that would have to do for now.

“Then, we won't go.”

I faced her then, my forehead crumpled with surprise and disbelief. “What? I didn't say—”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “If it bothers you to be there, then I won't force you to go. And clearly, it bothers you a lot. Understandably.”

My eyes danced over her face, catching glimpses of her heavily made-up eyes, the straight line of her full black lips, the firm resolve displayed in every one of her features. There wasn't a single bit of judgment or disgust found in her expression, only sincerity. She meant it. She'd give up a family Thanksgiving at home for the sake of my comfort and sanity, and she'd do it without regret … for me.

“I told you the right woman wouldn't run, dumbass.”

Luke's voice struck of its own accord, and a determined rush of tears prodded angrily at the backs of my eyes.

“No,” I replied, then cleared my throat to unsuccessfully push away the emotion making it hard to breathe. “The shit in my past might haunt my nightmares, but with you, I actually sleep, and that has to count for something. So, I want to meet your family, and I want to see where you grew up. I want what's important to you to be important to me, and for that, I can force the ghosts to leave me alone. At least for a while.”

Even as I said the words, I wasn't sure of my ability to keep my shit together once we crossed the Connecticut state line. But if she was strong enough to stay with me—aware of my demons and all—then I could at least be strong enough to try and face them with her.

***

Stormy thrived on being in control. I was no psychologist, but I suspected that characteristic had taken root somewhere around the time of her trauma at sixteen. She needed to call the shots, to know she had the upper hand, and while I was sure a great deal of men would feel emasculated by this, it only served to make me harder. In that way—and quite a few others, I was finding—we made a good pair.

After we got back to the cottage, she revealed the lengths of rope she'd found earlier while I was out with the leaf blower.

I tipped my head with mounting curiosity and an already-raging boner and asked what she intended to do with those. She then silently replied by securing my wrists to the headboard. She stripped down to nothing at the foot of the bed, leaving me in my jeans, growing tighter by the second, and then climbed up. I watched her through hungry eyes as she crawled toward me on hands and knees while a boulder of lust sat against my chest, making it impossible to get much more than short puffs of air in and out of my lungs. So pathetically needy and eager to please and get off.

“Now,” she purred, straddling my waist and continuing her slow pursuit, never taking her eyes off mine, “I'm going to let you come, but first, you'll do something for me.”

She crawled up further and further until her tattooed thighs were positioned on either side of my head and her hands were holding tight to the headboard. I stared upward between the valley of her bejeweled breasts, catching her satisfied gaze and wanting nothing more than to do whatever would satisfy her needs.

She already started lowering her wet and greedy desire to my mouth when she said, “Be a good boy and eat.”

And, God, I did. I licked and sucked and delved with my tongue as far as the muscle would allow, savoring every drop and pulse and moan she had to give. I worked that little barbell piercing her thin, sensitive flesh until her thighs quaked and clamped against my ears and her grip on the headboard was white-knuckled. She finished with a scream and a fresh boost to my constantly wilting ego, and then my mouth was left lonely until her painted lips came to join mine.

“I love how I taste on your tongue,” she muttered in between kisses. “Like I've always belonged there.”

“And what if you have?” I muttered back, my wrists straining against the ropes. Desperate to hold her more than I was to get off.

She sighed against my lips as her fingernails scraped over my chest and stomach until she reached the button at my waist. My hips jerked involuntarily, a silent plea for her toyes, keep goingand she hummed into my mouth.

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