Page 117 of What Lies Within

I kiss her. Steal her taste and relish in her whimper as she opens for me. Tongue against hers, I angle my head and deepen the connection. She sets her free hand against my chest, slides the other inside my jeans and my boxers, and takes firm hold of what's hers.

I rock into her, repeat the action when she groans, and fuck her hand as we continue to kiss like two horny teenagers left at home alone.

I’m goddamn seconds from blowing my load when the illumination of her phone behind her head snares my attention.

I’ll do this for you, BABY. But only because it’s not over between us. Not yet.

Rae’s grip tightens on the crown of my cock, twisting a little as her thumb rubs the tip before she continues to pump it harder, faster. I reread the message and grin as my climax rips into me, hot cum spilling over her fist.

He lost whatever chance he had left the fucking second that I laid eyes on her.

And he goddamn knows it.

46

TYKE

"Two months of planting," Terry says, sweeping his arm to gesture toward the saplings spaced at intervals across the hill's steep slope. "They said a project this size would normally take four to five weeks, but the terrain made it difficult."

He talks as though we’re old friends. As though I give a shit about his re-forestation project.

A few hundred trees putting oxygen into the atmosphere don’t make up for the people you took out to do the same. The squirrel who now has a home doesn’t give a shit about how or why the tree got there.

But the woman whose right to sleep through the night was torn from her the moment he decided to bury her husband does.

A tree doesn't fix her pain. A tree doesn't return children to their mothers or put men back in their homes. A goddamn budding branch won't cure a junkie of his addiction. And the timber milled from these trees will barely put a dent in the number of coffins required to bury those affected by Terry's business.

Nature doesn’t wash away one’s sin.

Nothing does.

A man must choose not to sin to begin with.

Thing is, there ain’t a single perfect soul among us. The basic requirements of humanity mean that we're forced to snub God's morals at least once in our lifetime. The only difference is that those who make peace with this fact are usually the ones most tormented by the guilt.

It's the delusional fuckers like this one who believe they're above that reproach. Who think a goddamn forest plot will wash the bloodstains from their hands.

That it’ll change the trajectory of their future.

Small stones dislodge beneath my heavy boots, skittering down the hillside track before us. My cut absorbs the winter sun, warming my back, yet my bare hands, face, and neck sting with the bite of the cold mountain air.

It wouldn’t surprise me if we get snow before the month is out.

"If you won't sign over the lot, why are you here?" Terry asks, pivoting the conversation to the elephant bumbling down the track with us.

“What are your plans for Connor?”

I need to get this done. Finish it and be back home with my family—the ones I love.

With Rae.

But curiosity has me need some questions answered before Terry can no longer do so. I'll kick myself if he takes secrets to his grave.

“How do you mean?” He shunts his fists in the oversized pockets stitched to the front of his cardigan and shrugs it closer to his body.

The weirdo is still barefoot. My mind trips over Jesus, over flagellants, and all the other crazy shit religious nuts do to prove their devotion. Terry doesn't strike me as a man of the church. But then, nothing about the man makes sense.

“I mean,” I say, rubbing my palms together to get feeling into my fingers. “Does he take over from you? What’s his role in your business?”

---