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Preton’s pleasure, like hers, is within reach. It’s building, a lit firework ready to go. His head drops into the nook of her neck, his breaths hot and erratic, tickling her skin.
Billie’s first to be hit. An explosion deep in her clenching core. A squirm in her tummy. And a muffled cry that’s met with a groan from Preston.
Beneath him, she writhes, the shudders of her climax pressed between the bed and Preston’s muscular body.
He follows—and he does it hard, his erratic hard thrusts into her aching heat, the slap of skin and her moans until…
“Fuck!” A husky growl of a word against her neck.
He pushes himself in deeper and she feels it all. The pulses that throb his cock against her walls, the spill of warmth that stirs a groan deep in his chest. Then, slowly, the descent.
They stay stuck in the calm after, their sweat clinging their skin together, and their breaths steadying.
He fucked her like he hates her, but the kiss he traces up the side of her neck to her temple is of love… her silent tears are, too.
7
In a baggy t-shirt and still-damp hair, Billie sits on the edge of the bed. Legs crossed, she runs her hands down her face as Maria—a tenured housekeeper at the Gilded Age’s Preston Estate—silently brings in a silver tray stacked with breakfast foods, coffees and OJs.
Preston is under the rain of the loud shower, and Billie doesn’t wait for Maria to fix the platter on the foot of the grand canopy bed before she swipes the glass of OJ from the tray.
No shame in it, she tops it off with vodka from the nightstand.
Maria says nothing. Never does, not once in all the mornings she’s served Billie has she so much as thrown a look of judgement at her.
No, she keeps her opinions to herself, whatever they might be, and after fixing out the plates and pouring coffee into the mugs, she sets out three different newspapers on the foot of the bed…
At least, that’s what she normally does.
For the first time in all these years, Maria strays from her routine.
The newspapers don’t go on the bed.
She carries them around the bed and—with Billie’s frown tracing her every step—places them on the other nightstand. Preston’s one.
With that, she leaves and closes the door behind her.
Billie eyes the papers for a moment. The only sound to fill the room is the stream of the shower, occasional splashes from Preston moving around in there, washing himself.
Gripping the glass of vodka-OJ that’s damp in her hand, Billie slides off the bed. Her mind flickers back and forth between this moment—and waking to find Carmine’s corpse at her feet. Blood all over, hot and wet and slippery.
Is that why Maria put the papers down away from her?
Is the report of Carmine in these articles? Pictures?
The thought has a burn of bile reach from her heart to her throat. She cringes, advancing on the nightstand. But pauses a bit away, enough distance that she can’t see the images printed on the folded faces of the papers.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
And she doesn’t.
Instead, she looks to the clock. 1.23PM.
And it sinks in.
Yes, the newspapers would have all the gory details by now. Especially the local one. But with three dead—first Cletus, then Gigi, now Carmine—state news might pick up the story.
