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Mission accomplished, she yanked on her shirt and shorts and stuck her bra in her front pocket. Her panties were torn in two and unsalvageable, so she decided to leave them wherever he’d flung them.
Eye contact must have been painful for him, as he was clearly uninterested in any sort of goodbye hug, or a “let’s fuck again real soon” conversation.
“Um, I guess I’ll be going.” She pointed toward the door and he remained mute, staring at the floor, his hands on his hips.
She tried to discern which Lucas she had the lack of pleasure to be working with, post-coital bliss. Although his multiple personalities could wear thin at times, identifying which one was front and center helped her to avoid becoming emotionally blindsided from a misidentified persona who could ruthlessly crush her like a bug.
One thing was for sure, as quickly as he came, Lusty Lucas had, once again, left the building. The good news? She wasn’t facing Repulsed Lucas, and for that she was ever so thankful.
His silent stoicism said it all.
Standing before her was Resolute Lucas.
Who was, more than likely, conjuring in his mind all the reasons why this was a mistake and how to disentangle himself from her web of sexual proclivities. Or eliminating any chance of future Lusty Lucas sightings.
Well, she had news for him. She wasn’t a mistake. She wasn’t some charitable act gone wrong. Nor was she an unavoidable accident. He didn’t trip and inadvertently slam into her with his dick.
Opening the door, eager to exit the premises and his blank expression, she gave him a lame-ass wave she wasn’t sure he saw, considering he was clearly contemplating resurfacing the floors, so she quietly closed the door behind her.
Leaning against the door, she allowed herself a moment to bask in the memory of finally having sex with Lucas Santos. It wasn’t the romantic interlude she had fantasized about for years, but it was certainly inventive and oh so satisfying.
“So much for missionary,” she mumbled, making her way to the car. Yep, he most definitely gave her what she asked for. A good solid fucking to make the horror of her past evaporate for a solid forty minutes.
Who was she kidding? Lusty Lucas barely lasted thirty.
But oh, what a thirty minutes that was.
The air outside was hot and humid, but still cooler than the hot yoga studio he had going on inside his garage slash sauna.
She slipped into Angus’s car, turned on the engine and air conditioner.
Her geriatric ginger friend let her borrow his car for the evening while dropping Mia off, as he was more than distracted entertaining the Pinkie Posse back at the inn. Enthralling them with his pronounced brogue and embellished stories on his less-than-factual knowledge of the filming locations for the scenes at Craigh Na Dun, Castle Leoch and Lallybroch.
It had been years since the burly Scot had visited his homeland, but you would think he had recently rubbed elbows withOutlander’sJamie Fraser himself or arm wrestled with a craggy Dougal MacKenzie.
Women between the ages of fifty and eighty-five ate that shit up. And there was nothing Angus liked more than having that age group eating from his ham-fisted palm.
Sitting in the car, she finally allowed her thoughts to meander toward her parents’ deaths.
Sighing, she said, “Marshall, why didn’t you tell me?”
To protect her? To spare her one last thing to be ashamed of and deal with?
Probably.
But more importantly, how couldtheydo such a horrific thing?
How could two people be so twisted to actually kill themselves? Like some sort of dark, religious sacrifice?
She thought of Mia. Her smart and sassy daughter, who had such idyllic assumptions about her grandparents and even her aunt Maisie.
Maisie.
What would she think if she were still alive?
Probably be indifferent. As she had been about most things before she was killed.
Laying her head on the steering wheel, she considered her bad luck in the parental lottery. How could she have been so unlucky to have been born into such a messed-up family?
