26 - Did somebody die?
Logan
The Delaney household doesn’t replicate the calamity bestowed upon it by the funeral guests.
Every clock is frozen in time, both hands pointing to the twelve; the estimate of death according to the coroner, which turns out to be pretty accurate.
I know, I was there, remember? Mirrors and picture frames are blanketed with various drapes and materials, and all the windows are wide open.
Irish tradition suggests it’s a way of allowing the spirit to leave and move on without interference from malicious entities.
It’s odd, if you ask me. And the whole process of having an open casket the day before is just fucking wrong.
We’re lucky Scar never forced us to attend that.
Why the fuck would you want to sit with the body of your dead brother, mother or any other family member for that matter?
Religion is screwed up, and that’s why I choose not to dabble in it.
But like I said, judging by the ruckus from the floor below and the explosive, very colourful language, one wouldn’t assume we’re at a wake at all. With free food and more booze than you can shake a stick at, things are bound to get messy before long.
I keep stealing glances at the clock on the wall, trying to figure out if we’ve stayed long enough yet, except the damn things stuck on the wrong time.
Sighing, I tap my fingers against the arm of the leather sofa.
Cordelia sits quietly beside me, with her small hand resting on her belly.
She hasn’t stopped stroking it all day, so I’m pretty sure the world and their dog suspects she’s pregnant by now.
“Psst, Winters,” I hiss, trying to get Clarke’s attention.
He’s sitting across the room, playing cards with Ezio, his cousin and another couple of randomers.
There’s a lone hand laid out on the table, untouched.
It’s supposed to be for Fionn—creepy shit, right?
I waggle my phone, urging him to check his.
He pulls it from his pocket, and I shoot over a message, watching the feral smirk grow on his lips as he reads.
Clarke: I don’t owe you shit, amigo
Me: You told Scar about my girl. Just fucking do it
Me: Besides you love throwing shit to the wind
Clarke: That I do, buddy
Clarke doesn’t waste another second. And with absolutely zero consideration for the consequences, he stands up and socks one of the Irish straight in the face.
It’s as hilarious as it is stupid. The audible crack of the guy’s huge nose is oh, so satisfying.
His head snaps back from the impact, and the room falls to silence.
Then chaos ensues. The dude lunges at Clarke, sending him reeling through the middle of the table.
Ezio leaps onto the guy pinning our friend to the floor, clawing at his shirt and hair.
Before long the entire room erupts in an uproar of flying punches and vulgar threats.
Alonso appears from the sidelines and stalks towards the brawl, gun raised, safety off. I take that as my moment to flee the scene. My fingers close around Cordelia’s slender wrist, pulling her to her feet.
“Logan, what— “
“Come with me.”
Reluctantly she stumbles behind me in her heels, as I drag her down two sets of stairs.
“Logan. What’s gotten into you?”
She yanks her arm back, and glares at me, hands on hips. With my patience quickly declining I shake my head and within seconds she’s draped over my shoulder, screeching at the floor like a banshee. A cute one.
“What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”
Laughter peals from my lips as I jog down the steps, double time, distancing us from the commotion above. Cordelia barely weighs enough to warrant two humans growing inside of her.
“Nothing you need to worry your sexy little arse about,” I reply, giving said arse a light slap. Her body goes rigid against mine, and in turn my cock does as well. My girl likes being spanked. Which is only confirmed by the wet patch seeping into my cotton shirt.
“Logan, I swear if you don’t— “
“You’ll do what?” I snicker, eyes widening with excitement at the thought of her wrestling me again. “Bite me? Scratch me? C’mon sweetheart, we both know you’re fucked either way.”
She huffs, wriggling around on my shoulder. Her laughter is dry, short lived, but a clear indication that she’s enjoying my teasing more than she’s letting on. A grin lights up my face as soon as I step through the large metal doors.
I’d overheard a couple of the guests upstairs discussing a swimming pool in the basement.
Well, they weren’t lying. The room almost stretches the whole footprint of the main house, with four Greek-style pillars standing strong at each corner.
The tiles lining the walls are pure marble, glossy, expensive, and ivory in colour.
To the left there’s an ample sized jacuzzi, the water on its surface calm and undisturbed.
“Where are we?” Cordelia mumbles, shifting this way and that, trying to scope out her surroundings.
The door labelled changing rooms catches my eye.
Once inside, I drop Cordelia onto the balls of her feet.
She bounces lightly, crystal blues scanning past the lockers, showers and cupboard housing an abundance of neatly folded towels.
Then she swings back to face me, her expression laced with confusion.
“You said you wanted to experiment,” I remind her, brushing her pink cheek with my knuckles. “Be more daring.” I follow it up with a wink, and her sparkly eyes round in disgust.
“Oh my god, Logan,” she squeals, stomping her foot. “Not at some kids fucking funeral.”
Her voice raises to a higher pitch. She sounds panicked, a little fearful, and I love it.
“Wait. Did somebody die?” I ask in mock horror.
I cock a sarcastic brow at her, tilting my head. From this angle I can see straight down her dress to the milky skin residing beneath the thin material. I want to see more. No, I need to see more. It’s always a need with her.
“Take your dress off.”
Her shoulders stiffen, breath quickening. And her pupils grow to twice their normal size. All signs that she’s nervous and excited. “No. We’ll get caught.”
“Does that scare you, little vixen?” I drawl, taunting her, circling her like she’s prey. I mean, I’m going to devour her either way, so near enough. I click my fingers in front of her face, patience waning. “Dress. Off. Now.”
Her eyes burn brightly, defiance echoing in her stare. But, luckily for her, she chooses the sensible option and tugs the black garment over her head. If I’d had to do it, her dress would be in tatters, and then we’d have a very big problem on our hands.
Just one look is all it takes for me to get swept away by the goddess before me.
Her sunlight dipped hair has come loose from the elegant bun, now cascading in waterfall waves across her shoulders, the tips kissing the swell of her breasts.
Every line of her body flows with effortless grace, delicate, yet quietly dangerous.
Despite her petite frame, her legs seem to go on forever.
And she’s still wearing those glittery heels that accentuate the subtle curve of her calves.
Damn.
I sweep my gaze from her light lacy lingerie, back to her face. Her bottom lip juts out ever so slightly, anticipation swirling in her innocent crystal blues.
“Good girl.”
She laps up my praise, as if she’s been waiting to hear those words for a millennium.
I give her a sharp nudge, and she lands on the wooden bench behind her, skin slapping against the smooth wood.
She glares up at me, thinking she’s intimidating.
I smirk, fingers dropping to my belt buckle, tugging my trousers and boxers down in one, and admiring her face as my cock breaks free.
Then I whip my tie off, unbutton my shirt, and discard it over my shoulder.
Her eyes fixate on my hard on, so I force a cough to get her attention.
“You look fucking divine,” I tell her, practically salivating at this point. I grip the edge of the bench, pinning her in place, revelling at the little whimper that slips from her throat.
My lips glide over her skin, across her collarbone and down towards her cleavage, peppering wet kisses everywhere I touch.
Her back arches, thrusting her tits further into my face, and I use the moment to hook my fingers around the clasp on her bra and tug them free from their wiry prison.
Normally, I’d be over the fucking moon about her boobs in my face, but my intentions are slightly more immoral tonight.
My hand hovers over her belly button, pushing her flat against the bench.
I don’t miss the yelp she makes when I lift myself off her and go rummaging through the pile of clothes in search of my tie.
Snatching it up off the floor, I reach over her and begin wrapping the silken material around her dainty wrists.
She elongates her neck, lifting her head to watch what I’m doing, but I grab her chin and pull her back down.
“Ah, ah. Trust me,” I say, tying the knot.
She nods pouting. Fucking gorgeous.
“Alright,” I say, lifting her hands above her head. “These stay here,” pressing down on her wrists I reiterate exactly where I want them to stay. “If they wander, I’m going to punish you.”
No words fall from her mouth when she parts her lips. I watch the barrage of emotions flash through her eyes, waiting to see if she’s going to try and deny me my fun.
Then I lean forward again and press my lips to hers.
Just softly, barely a whisper of a touch really, but enough to get her full attention back on me.
I drag my mouth down to her right nipple, that’s erect and standing to attention and take it in my mouth.
It sits perfectly between my lips like it was custom-made for me.
With my free hand the tips of my fingers flick her left nipple, and that gets a squeal of delight out of her.