Page 46 of Accepted Precedent
My phone vibrates and I swiftly retrieve it, grateful it’s a notification that my driver has arrived. I lean in to tell Ileah, “Hey, sorry, I need to run. My ride’s here.”
“Shit. Okay, I’ll see if Tim is ready to go. I can’t take another minute discussing what we’re going to wear to the gala in a few weeks when we’re stuck at this sham of a wedding. Call me tomorrow.”
I take her hand and squeeze once. “Of course.”
I excuse myself and make my way to the entrance where the driver is waiting.
Traffic is minimal, but it still takes us nearly twenty minutes to get to Mickey’s. When we arrive, he pulls all the way into the garage to ensure privacy, and I make my way inside. I slip off my shoes and my eyes catch on a bright red stain smeared on the floor.
“Mick?” The house is quiet, but there’s a faint sound of the shower running upstairs. I follow it and find more of the crimson marks. “Mick?” I call again, and take the stairs two at a time.
I stop in my tracks halfway up, Aisling is nowhere to be found—no one is—and if this is what I think it is, I’ll need to be prepared. I rush back downstairs and retrieve rags and cleaning supplies from the garage. The car is already gone, but part of me wishes they were still here. I’m not afraid to be alone with Mick after he’s had a rough night, but it’s always been Andrew who takes care of him. If I need to leave, I’ll have to call a rideshare, and it would be a bad look for me to be seen leaving Mickey’s home this late at night. Everything Andrew’s worked for—and everything I’ve sacrificed—could be for nothing with one tabloid headline.
I cautiously open the door to his bedroom and step inside. A trail of bloody droplets leads to the ensuite. With a deep breath, I walk in, steam filling the space. Through it, I’m still able to make out his silhouette in the shower—head lowered and bracing himself with his palms on the wall.
“Mickey?” My voice barely carries over the running water. I shout louder, “Is everything okay?”
His head pops up, and he shuts off the water. Opening the shower door, he grits out, “Where’s Andrew?”
“He’s home, but I’m here.” I take a step closer. “What can I do to help?”
“I thought both of you were coming.”
I shake my head and drop the supplies next to the sink, then take three more steps. “He has a meeting in the morning. I thought you knew.”
“I don’t want you to see me when I’m like this.” He looks away, but I cup his cheek, bringing his gaze back to me. His emerald eyes are desperate and pleading. “Everything’s a fuckin’ mess.”
“Then let’s fix it together.”
“No, angel.” He gently grips my wrist, then sweetly kisses my palm. “It’s my responsibility.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’m capable?”
“You’re more than capable, love.”
“Then let me help.” I unzip my dress, letting it drop and pool at my feet before stepping out of it. My shapewear isn’t the sexiest, but his eyes don’t leave mine as I peel them off and toss them aside. “How many are dead this time?”
He pulls me into the shower by the small of my back until our chests are flush. “Only one… the wrong one.”
I think back to the news alert. It claimed Alex was in an accident… Was it supposed to be Chris? “You wanted Christopher dead, didn’t you?”
“You already know too much.” Mickey kisses me, but he doesn’t own me like he typically does. It’s full of regret and pain. It doesn’t make sense.
I need answers and mutter against his lips, “Whose blood is on your floor, Mick?”
“Not Christopher’s.” He rests his forehead on mine as we break apart. “Stay with me tonight?”
I nod and reach for a washcloth on the ledge. Adding a healthy amount of body wash to it, I lather it between my fingers and glide the soapy cloth up his muscular arms and down his chest. He’s already clean, but I still want to take care of him.
Dropping to my knees, I wash his legs and feet. I’m tempted to stay here. My pussy aches at the sight of his half-hard cock, but I stand and continue washing him until the suds slipping down the drain are white and not tinged pink from blood.
After making quick work of cleaning myself up, we step out of the shower and he grabs two towels. I snatch them from him and insist, “Let me.”
I drape the warm towel over his head and massage his scalp to dry his hair, then drag it down his body until every droplet of water on his skin is gone.
Mickey loves control. I may regret it later, but I can’t help suggesting, “Take what you need from me.”
In an instant, I’m pressed against the wall beside the shower, hands pinned above my head. “What I need is for you to let me feast on you until you’re begging me to stop,” he growls beside my ear, making my heart thunder in my chest. “But until I hear you scream your least favorite vegetable, I’m not going to let up.”
