Page 62 of As Angels Sin

“Yes. Very much yes. It was Pete Abernathy.” There is another loud whisper. It’s as if she’stryingto tempt me. As if shewantsme to hear.

“No, not Pete.” The pearl-clutcher sighs. “That means he—”

“I know what it means, Deloris,” the first snaps back, annoyed at all the interruptions to the very important news she’s trying to share. “The newspaper article says the killer’s note revealed disturbing connections between Pete Abernathy and Lisa Morton’s disappearance. Together with other names from decades ago.”

Wrong. My note gave explicit details of where to find firsthand accounts of the insidious relationship Pete Abernathy forced Lisa Morton into. My question is, can you force a dead woman into anything? And she’d been dead a while, by the time I found him. Pete kept her in a barrel of formaldehyde until he needed a woman’slovingtouch. Her skin was hanging loose and on the verge of slipping straight off her bones. It was a truly grizzly sight. Not unlike the one I left for the Albuquerque police department to find.

“Boo,” Fiametta giggles behind me. I get a fright and drop the patty on my spatula. It breaks into pieces, many catching alight atop the coals. She steps up to my side, and slides her hand across my back and around my waist, settling it into a loose grip around my now tented swim trunks.

“Steady, old boy,” she says, using her swollen belly as the perfect barrier between me and the other hens nesting under anairy pink canopy. Her touch makes my legs buckle. One stroke is all it would take to push me off the deep end. I want to bend her over this barbecue and drivemymeat into her. To slip and slide while my roaring fire matches the one beneath the metal grate that’s cooking our lunch.

“You don’t want to make the old ladies jealous, do you?” she teases and strokes me again. A rumble barrels out of my chest, and echoes off the barbecue’s curved lid.

“That won’t make it any easier.”

“Who says I want it to be easy,” she whispers in the sultry way that turns my mind into mush.

“If you’re not careful, Little Flame—” I growl.

She strokes me again, twice this time, and hard enough to make my shorts ride up my ass in a wedgy. “You’ll what?” She sticks her tongue out at me.

“Take you inside and fucking destroy you.”

“You, my loving husband, are tending the fire.”

She faces the ladies, who are still fake whispering about Pete Abernathy. Then she looks at the dad’s in the distance, drinking beers and laughing aloud. Then the kids, but her eyes don’t stay on them long given her devious intentions toward me.

“We all know that once you’ve started, you won’t stop until you’ve given these people a perfect meal.”

Finally, once Fiametta finishes scanning the lawn and is sure we aren’t being observed, her hand slips down the front of my trunks and grazes my yearning length.

“Jesus, fuck,” I sputter a little too loudly, and the woman look over at us.

“He just heard about Pete,” Fiametta says. My cock flexes and her grip tightens. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from making another unwanted, attention-grabbing utterance.

“It’s a crying shame,” one of the women hollers back.

“You know, I don’t agree,” another says. It’s Deloris, fanning wind onto her face with a tablet computer.

“Me neither,” With Fiametta’s swollen belly blocking the view, she strokes again, and this time without stopping. I flip a burger patty, while sweat forms on the rim of my brow.

“I think whoever’s doing this has to be good,” Deloris adds. “It’s not for sport.”

That’s where you’re wrong, Deloris.

“He’s cleaning up our neighborhood.”

“Have you lost your senses?” the one who brought it up blurts out.

“I think he’s a hero,” Fiametta says. “Cleaning up messes we didn’t know the neighborhood had.”

My cock is in a constant state of flex and release with every word my wife speaks. Fiametta’s rhythmic motions snare each pulse in thrusting pleasure. It’s devilish, disgusting, and so fucking hot.

“Fiametta, stop.” I say. The others will think it’s out of embarrassment for her agreeing that the killer must have some good in him. Fiametta will know it’s because I can’t take any more of this.

Yet, she doesn’t listen, squeezing her fist even tighter as it rides over the head of my cock, which is soaked in precum. She replaces stroking, with a twist and pull motion over the swollen, sensitive tip.

“Well, this settles it. Our neighborhood has officially become crazy town.” The first speaker throws her arms up in surrender.

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