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Focus. This is your time with Dornan! And it was bonus time, too. It was a Monday night. He never showed up on a Monday night.
An orgasm was building inside me, much slower than normal, not through Dornan’s lack of effort. I gasped, squirming as he pushed one finger inside my tight slit, then two. When he added a third finger, I started to moan. The feeling of fullness was overwhelmingly satisfying, and it was enough to send me up over that elusive edge as I fisted the sheets and cried out, my pussy clamping around his fingers as I came.
As I crested down the precipice of my afterglow, a delicious warmth settling in my belly and limbs, Dornan stood over me, thrusting into me in one fast stroke so that I cried out. He didn’t last more than a few seconds before he, too, was spilling himself inside me.
I imagined John taking his place for a split second, how his face would look as he came, and blood rose uncomfortably in my cheeks. Don’t think about him. Do not think about him! What was wrong with me? Suddenly, after nine years with Dornan I was thinking of somebody else just because we’d shared one stupid kiss?
No. I refused to give in to those treacherous feelings that had been gnawing at me ever since I’d kissed John in the shower.
But it raised an interesting question.
If I had a choice, who would I choose?
‘Goddamn, that was hot,’ Dornan said, pulling out of me and handing me a towel.
I cleaned myself off as well as I could, kissing Dornan’s stubbled cheek as I headed for the shower. He responded by grabbing a handful of my ass and squeezing, sending little shooting pains through my body that felt oddly good. I pushed him away playfully, knowing if I wanted to get a shower and some dinner I’d have to avoid another round of our lovemaking.
Standing in the middle of my bathroom, I stared at the empty shower cubicle as the image of John continued to taunt me. What the hell was going on with me? Was I hell-bent on self-destruction? Was I just looking for something to distract me from the memory of Murphy’s death stare?
Turning away from the shower, full of self-loathing and arousal, I ran myself a bath instead.
The water pressure was excellent in the building, and it didn’t take long for the tub to fill. I dumped a good amount of lavender body wash into the warm water and sank my weary body into the bubbles, sighing in appreciation as my limbs were caressed by liquid heat. It felt divine, and I reminded myself to take more baths.
I grabbed a rolled-up towel from the stack next to my head and nestled it under my neck. I wouldn’t be long. I’d have a quick dip, a wash off, and then get dried and join Dornan out in the kitchen, where I could hear him banging and crashing things. I thought of Murphy, of how he’d died here in this very apartment and nobody had even mentioned his absence to me, yet.
I thought of John, closing my eyes as I let my mind drift. I barely ever relaxed, always too tightly wound, but grief and killing had numbed me in some small way. I was too exhausted to be strung out. I was too devastated to be anxious.
It felt good to let go a little. I skimmed my fingertips over fresh self-inflicted wounds on my thighs, the ones I’d been able to hide from Dornan despite what we’d just done. It wasn’t too hard. I was good at redirecting his attention to other parts of my body.
The ends of my long hair floated loose around my shoulders, weighed down by the water, as I remembered John’s hands on my head, on my face. I licked my lips and thought of kissing him. I shook my head from side to side, trying to rid myself of thoughts of somebody I’d never be able to touch like that again, and remembered the way he’d cradled me.
I opened my eyes and sat bolt upright in the bath. Fuck! I just wanted to zone out for a while, but all I could think of was John.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DORNAN
He resisted the urge to join her again in the bath. He’d fuck her all night if it were up to him, but he’d heard her stomach growling. The woman needed sustenance. So instead he lit up a cigarette and went searching in Mariana’s kitchen.
He had one go-to dinner recipe: Italian breaded chicken and tomato salad. His mother had made sure to teach him at least one recipe before he’d married his first wife. He’d been such a kid when he left home, but at least he’d been able to cook a meal.
He was looking for breadcrumbs in the pantry when his eyes fell on a tub of flour. That’d work. He could use some egg and flour and smash up some of the stale bread he’d found in the freezer.
He reached for the cream-coloured canister but paused when he saw what looked like spaghetti sauce smeared along the side.
Or blood. Dornan had a way of judging situations. He got gut feelings about things and they almost always turned out to be correct. And his gut wasn’t thinking about pasta sauce when he looked at that red smear.
He was thinking about who’d been bleeding in his apartment, and why.
He took the canister out carefully, focusing on the tiny red smear. His senses were in overdrive, his nose conditioned for such macabre things. He scratched his fingernail against the dried red substance and took the cigarette from his mouth as he brought his fingernail up to his nose.
Blood. It was blood. But that wasn’t the only thing ringing alarm bells in his head. He shoved the cigarette between his teeth again so both of his hands were free.
Christ, how heavy is this flour? The canister weighed a ton, strange since it was made of plastic. Dornan set it down again, prised the lid off and, on a whim, stuck his clean hand into the white powder.
His fingers hit something solid.
He stopped for a moment, his heart rate increasing in excitement. But it wasn’t the kind of excitement that was, well, exciting. It was the buzz of a thousand angry bees, settling in his chest, demanding to know what the fuck was hidden in this container.
