Page 270 of Mangled Memory
He’s stoking a fire that will char from the inside out.
The sizzle and burn will do me in.
The pyre is lit, and I’m consumed.
He must be too. He places another kiss to the small of my back as he pulls out, his cum sliding from me as my insides still pulse with aftershocks. “Perfection.” If he says more, I have no clue.
Just like this morning, he cleans me up. He murmurs something as he tucks me under the covers. And just like this morning, I pass out after.
I could get used to this.
33
breathing peanut butter
Christian
My wife is as striking today as the day I met her, though I’m even more attracted to her. It could be her strength. It could be her passion. It could be the red hair, green eyes, and fair skin that are the antithesis of my dark on dark on dark.
In so many ways, we are opposites; more so, we’re foils. She is the light to my dark, the bold to my reserved, the flame to my ashes. She’s the art to my science. The color in my black and white world. How she could bloom in the orbit of Seamus Murphy is a testament to her tenacity. She’s the flower that grows in the crag of the rock, bringing beauty to barrenness.
I lie in bed, one hand behind my head, staring at the ceiling, unseeing. She’s rolled to spoon into my side, one long leg thrown over mine, pinning me in place. That happened about ten seconds after I got out of the shower and slid under the covers.
Her presence calms me. Hell, it’s always calmed me. Even on days like today… especially on days like today when the hits just keep on coming.
Ren Gallo is my brother and has known for more than a decade. He’s worked for me for two years. He came to me, all the while knowing. The whole thing was a farce to what—get to know me, be privy to my business, or was it for money?
My stunning wife has spent months assuming—or at least contemplating—I tried to kill her. Me—the bufferbetween her and the outside world. I’m the guardrail along the ledge she ventures. And she didn’t know it. And I didn’t recognize she had questions.
Liam texted tonight that Seamus is involved in some weird shit. He needs more time to investigate, but Ayla’s dad has business dealings, questionable ones for sure, with a ghost corporation called C-Bar Holdings. The name is not lost on me. It’s a subsidiary of a hedge fund group it turns out is backed by some über-wealthy Laotian businessmen. I had to look up Laos on a map because that’s how far out of my depth I am with this. It pinged due to foreign trade documents. No matter how deep Liam or his contacts dig, they can’t find anyone local. And since real estate isalwayslocal, it matters.
Why would Seamus buy, retrofit, or rent properties when there’s no one to use or lease them? The name of the game in business is profit. None of us trade our time for anything other than that. Murphy doesn’t have the capital to buy and hold at these levels for an indefinite time period. So why would they? And how are they managing it?
And how does this impact Cian? He’s shrewd in business and zero bullshit when it comes to dealings. How much does he know about the Laotian interests? While we once were competitors, he’s made a point since I’ve been with Ayla of keeping business strictly that. Where we both want a property, we let the chips fall where they may with the bids and then walk away. Family is supreme. No deal is worth risking what matters most. Besides, Cian’s ego isn’t tied to the size of his portfolio. I’d bet Seamus probably hates that about him.
Exactly one day of digging and my world wants to crater with what’s being exposed. I slide my hand around Ayla’s hip and tug her deeper into my body.
So long as this doesn’t impact her, I’m fine.
So long as she’s safe, I’ll be okay.
Money is money. I can make more.
But Ayla? I can’t live without her. She’s my priority.
I wake to an empty bed.
Chalk this up to one of my top five least favorite things. Since our early days, I’ve hated this, but it’s an area I’ve had to “compromise on”—Ayla’s words—because she’s not going to miss the shot “because I’m a controlling ass,” also her words. She rises way too damn early. It’s an occupational hazard.
The list of things we’ve compromised about skews heavily on the side of my wife getting her way and me feeling the stress to avoid being the aforementioned controlling ass I absolutely can be.
This isn’t like last time. Or the time before that or the time before that.
Grabbing my phone, there’s no message from Fitz detailing her movements. He lives on the grounds and deals with her ridiculous wake-up times too. He doesn’t like it, but the military drilled it into him, and he was the best of the best, so, Icompromise.
I navigate to the cameras and find my wife at her desk in her studio, clicking across the screen. Workaholics, the both of us. I sigh and throw back the covers, yank on some sleep pants, and make my way to the kitchen. Two coffees made, I head upstairs and slip into the open studio door.
Ayla has one foot on the floor, the other on the seat of the chair, chin propped on her knee. Her eyes roam the screen as if scanning pixel by pixel for any imperfection in the image. She swivels to the door and a soft smile breaks across her features.
