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“Do you think he was aware of what was happening to him when he had the stroke?” She sounds pensive.
One could wish.
“Don’t know,” I say instead, plopping on the other side of the bed. I start undoing my shirt buttons. “Don’t care.”
“Do you think he thought about us? The few seconds before he died?”
Though I’m unhappy about Douglas passing away—it is never good news when someone in your vicinity pegs out—I don’t understand why Grace is trying to humanize the man.
“Maybe.” I bristle. “Why does it matter?”
“Oh, no reason. It’s just that, you know ...” She drops her phone on the mattress, whipping her head toward me. “Mom said Doug left something for me in his will.”
I still, my fingers pausing around one of the buttons. The air between us crackles with silent competition; I consider my next words, knowing we’ve started a brand-new mental chess game.
“I hadn’t realized Miranda and Douglas were in touch.”
She presses against me. Her hands lace over my back, kneading it in a massage.
“They were. They were in talks of reconciliation. Doug had been signaling to her that he was tired of his meaningless girlfriends, and you know how Mom broke things off with Dane not too long ago.” She watches me closely for a reaction. Our imaginary swords are still tucked away, our fingers itching to yield them. “But I’m not sure how serious they were.”
“That’s very convenient.” I smirk.
“What are you insinuating?” She rubs at my back.
“Nothing.” I push her away, let my shirt slip off my shoulders, and toss it at the foot of the bed. “We’ll see if he made some last-minute changes in his will.”
I don’t care one iota about Douglas’s money. I make enough on my own. What I do care about is Miranda getting her claws on something she doesn’t deserve. Grace too. They’d been loitering around him for scraps for decades.
“I’m getting a drink.” I exit the bedroom and stroll to the living room. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey. Sip it, one shoulder propped on the wall, glowering at the Central Park view.
Douglas fucking me over with a last-minute will before kicking the bucket is a valid possibility. He liked Grace well enough. Hell knows what he felt for Miranda. They’d had their ups and downs. But me? I’d always been a bone in his throat. My indifference toward him, toward his wealth, paired with my financial and mental independence always made him feel emasculated and unimportant.
Then again, Iamhis biological son. Doug always cared about keeping the fortune in the family.
Grace’s hands crawl over my chest from behind, splaying over the dark hair.
Her naked body presses against my shirtless frame.
Her tits are hot, her nipples erect. She nibbles on the side of my neck, licking and biting softly. Her breasts feel heavy. Has she finally put on some weight?
“Come to bed, you big grump,” she purrs into my ear, nipping on the shell of it.
I stare at the bottom of my glass of whiskey. “Sell it to me,sis.”
She cups my crotch from behind. I’m hard. She drags her hand higher, pushes it into my pants, and closes her fist around my shaft.
“Jerk you off?”
I put my whiskey down on a nearby table, catch her wrist, and tug her to stand in front of me.
I flip her around like she is a rag doll, bend her over a side table, grab one of her hips, and use my free hand and teeth to rip a condom wrapper. I always have condoms handy in my pocket.
I’m inside her within seconds. She is soaked.
I ride her from behind, closing my eyes, remembering all those times.
When she stabbed me in the back.
