Chapter 2 #4
And my inappropriate desires infuriated me to no end.
But now—
I shove the welling deep within me. Where all my other emotions are buried.
I remember why I’m here.
My hands leave her. I try to step away. But then her doe-like eyes find mine. She’s absolutely lost in this world without him. She needs someone to be strong. To take her and make her forget about what she’s lost. Her hands go to my chest. Her lip trembles. She says my name. “Rockland.”
She’s always had a beautiful voice. It was the first thing that drew me to her. Low and husky and just so damn… sensual, though she doesn’t mean for it to be. Hearing her speak has always made me wonder what noises would arise from her if I were to—
“Rockland.” She says it again and I’m watching her full lips as they wrap around the syllables of my name.
I can’t. I won’t.
But now my lips are on hers.
My dead brother’s wife.
I’ve wanted to taste her for so long, the guilt doesn’t even come.
I lean down further, taking in more of her. My mouth presses against hers. Warm and wonderful and softer than I’d imagined. My hands go to either side of her precious face. Holding her cheeks against my palms. Feeling her smooth skin for the first time. Her face is tiny in my hands. So delicate.
But I know how strong she is.
Her tongue finds mine. Her cheek nuzzles against my palm. She gives a little moan. And it’s my undoing.
Before I can stop myself, my hands are tangled in her hair. My lips move against hers and I’m gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. It’s bundled between my fingers. I slip my tongue into her mouth and tug at the handfuls of the soft tendrils I hold.
With that small gesture, she catches fire. And I’m engulfed in her flames. Her tongue is exploring me, desperately seeking what she needs. Her hands are on my waist, grabbing my ass.
To hell with decorum. I know what I do is as immoral as the devil himself. But he’s got his burning clutches around my soul. And I’ll take what I can get.
After all, half a decade is a long time to lust after a woman.
Her fingers are undoing my buttons. They are trembling and I grab them in mine.
I press her hands to my waist, removing the shirt myself.
I push the fabric from my shoulders and her gaze falls on my tattoo.
I toss the shirt to the chair; it lands flat and smooth.
I look to her and her hands press against my bare skin.
They’re warm. And small. She strokes the outline of my black marking with the tip of a finger. She begins to say, “I’ve always wondered what this was for. Why do you have it—” I stop her words with the passion of my kiss. I don’t want to talk.
I want to fuck.
It’s all so wrong. But feels so right.
My gaze locks on her and time freezes. In her eyes I see grief, lust, desperation.
My gut twists.
Despite my desires, my long infatuation, I’ll not go any further.
Fucking a widow? One year after her husband’s death? A day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think of him.
She would never forgive herself.
And the last thing I ever want to do is cause her more pain.
I hold her, one last time. My lips find the top of her head. Kiss her gently.
I hold her for another moment. Feel the warmth of her body pressed against my bare chest. Inhale her sweet scent. Wrap my arms tighter around her until her trembling ceases. I kiss the top of her head. Give her one last squeeze. Then I tell her, “We need to go.”
She looks up at me, trusting, vulnerable, broken. Nods. Accepting that this will never happen between us.
I release her. Put on my shirt. Button it with shaky fingers. Tuck it in. We straighten our clothing.
I take her hand and lead her to the dinner.
Tess
We’ve just arrived at Brett’s memorial dinner, and I can only think of one thing.
That kiss.
I must focus on the day. I give my head a little shake, forgetting the kiss. In the void of thinking of our lips pressed together, the memory of him spanking me drifts in. Now I can only think of one other thing—
My throbbing ass.
It’s unbelievable that he spanked me. I should have seen it coming—hell, I knew it was coming—but still, having him take me over his knee was shocking.
In some strange way, Rockland’s punishment was… cleansing. The pain somehow drained the anger from me, taking away my gritty edges and softening me. Allowing me to focus on the task at hand—greeting and accepting condolences from our precious family.
Rockland holds out a chair for me. It’s not lost on me that he’s chosen a hard wooden one over the plush velvet chairs we have at the rooftop bar.
He leans down, whispering into my ear, “Sit down. Let the soreness of your ass remind you of how you’re to act.
” His hand presses down on my shoulder, the skin beneath it tingles at his firm touch.
His gold-flecked eyes lock on mine. “Be a good girl and I’ll go get you a drink from the bartender. ”
My eyes are burning from crying. My ass is aching, pressed against the unforgiving surface of the chair.
But the pain is good, cleansing. And it’s keeping me grounded in this tumultuous time.
Rockland brings me a chilled Chardonnay.
My hands tremble as I take it from him. Our fingers brush against one another as we make the transfer.
The hand that punished me.
Our eyes lock and the gaze that passes between us is so intense, my stomach clenches. My eyes rove over the full lips of his mouth.
The one that kissed me.
The energy is still there between us, but now in the presence of others, it seems more of a partnership. You spank my ass and I’ll not put on a crazy emotional display that I’ll later regret.
I look away. I sip from the glass. The cool wine slides down my throat, calming me. Rockland stands behind my chair. His hand rests heavy on my shoulder—and it feels as if it belongs there. It makes me feel safe, protected. His touch relaxes me and I take another sip of wine.
The first of the family members arrive. I greet them with a smile.
Now more people are arriving. Rockland grasps my hand, helping me from the chair.
He leans down, his beard brushing against my cheek, his lips only inches from mine.
He whispers into my ear, “Behave yourself. I’d hate to have to take you home and whip your ass with my belt.
” My sore cheeks clench together at his warning.
And something else… there’s a melting in my core at his words. A shameful hungering buried deep below my belly. An awakening in the center of my being that’s been dark, forgotten for so, so long.
Years. All the years.
I shift in my seat, ignoring the flames in my belly, the longing in my core.
I’m so horny.
And it makes me feel a terrible, heavy sense of guilt. For it’s only been a year since my husband’s passing. Is that long enough to have moisture pooling between my legs—put there by another man? Or should it have been a decade, hell—a century?
And my husband’s brother, no less.
I take a deep swig of chilled wine from my glass.
I think of Brett—what his thoughts, his wishes would be.
This past year every action I’ve taken, I’ve thought, ‘Would Brett approve?’ When I think of what happened…
the kiss… the spanking… my swollen, pulsing vagina and damp panties…
all that comes to mind is this; Brett would want me to be happy.
But I’m too lost to even know what that would look like.
Wanting to do right by Brett, I focus on my family. Brett had a huge heart and love for people. If he’s looking down on me today, I’d want him to be proud of me. I know he’d forgive me that kiss—a mistake made when I wasn’t in my right mind.
And so, though my heart is heavy, I’m smiling, shaking hands.
Accepting condolences. Laughing at funny memories, thanking people for the beautiful ones.
I tire quickly. Every so often, a wave of grief will come rushing out of nowhere, threatening to knock me down and drag me under its strong current.
Those times, I want to crawl into my bed.
Polish off a bottle of wine. Pop a few sleeping pills and bury myself under my covers.
Every time my mind drifts, thinking of the sweet bliss of my bed, Rockland’s hand goes to my lower back.
Pressing gently and guiding me to the next family member to accept their condolences.
He whispers in my ear, “You’re doing great.
” His touch, his words, they keep me from utter and total destruction.
Without him by my side, I would crumple to the floor like tissue paper. I never would have made it through this day without him. Brett knew it, Bronson knew it, Rockland knew it.
I guess deep down, even I did.
When there’s a lull in the guests, I take Rockland’s hand in mine. Give it a soft squeeze. He looks down, surprised by my gesture, by my hand in his. I whisper, “Thank you… for everything.”
His eyes are soft. His lips part, as if he wants to speak. Then his brow narrows and his jaw snaps shut. He gives me a simple nod in response. Wordless.
But he gives my hand a gentle squeeze before he releases it.