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“Are you gonna keep missing morning chores?” Westin asks.
“I was with Keira,” I say.
“Could have guessed,” he laughs.
We don’t talk until we’re pulling up in front of Garrison Ranch. Westin swings out and his boots hit the gravel as he settles his hat on his head. I circle the truck and follow him up the remainder of the drive.
The barn is gutted. We’re both silent as we circle the house and meet by the still intact front porch.
“The house isn’t bad,” Westin says, resting his hands on his hips. “It looks like the part that burned was probably the original farmhouse. You can see the seam there.”
I follow his gaze and nod. It’s clear the house was once an older farmhouse with sizable additions built onto the southern and western sides. The burnt portion is the older part. It looks like the fire flickered out, perhaps due to flame resistant materials in the newer side.
Westin loiters around the side and I head up the porch. The front door creaks open as I step into the hallway. Everything smells of smoke and my eyes smart. I take my bandanna and pull it over the bottom half of my face, lowering the rim of my hat.
I move through the charred portion to the untouched upstairs. The first room is clearly made up for guests with a crisp quilt and no sign of dust. I glance over it, impressed. Miss Garrison was quite the homemaker.
I hear Westin downstairs on his phone and I lean over to look out the hall window. He’s standing with one foot against the truck tire, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Good, I want to be alone right now.
My boots creep along the floor and carry me to the largest room on the second floor. I push the door open and stop short.
It’s clearly the room she shared with Clint. But she hasn’t changed anything. He’s been dead for seven months and his boots are still behind the door. His flannel is hanging over the chair in the corner.
Like that motherfucker was going to walk in here at any moment.
I enter the room and shut the door and flick the lock.
Despite the smoke, there’s a faint feminine scent. I run my fingertips over the end of her side of the bed. Up to her pillow and lift it, bringing it to my face. Sweet like pomegranate shampoo. My cock twitches again, and this time I reach down and adjust it.
The bedside table is made of cedar. Over it hangs a painting of bluebells that match the embroidered blue flowers of the bedspread. There's a lamp and a short stack of books on top. I pick one up and flip it over. It’s a diary with a strip of leather tying it closed and a pen tucked underneath. I untie it and skim through the pages, but they’re empty.
She never wrote anything in it.
I push the diary in my back pocket and pull her bedside drawer open. There’s a makeup purse, a bottle of lotion, and a velvet drawstring bag. I open it and my brows lift.
Inside is a pink, rose shaped vibrator.
Arousal surges down my spine. She laid here on her back with her legs spread. Her slender fingers held this toy to her clit and her hips bucked as pleasure tore through them. I pull the blankets down, revealing the fitted sheet.
There’s a faint stain, right at hip level.
I’m so hard my eyes swim. This is the bed she shared with her husband, maybe the bed she’d lost her virginity in on her birthday. When she was too young to be used like that.
But it’s also the bed she slept in alone for the last several months.
Blood surges. I fucking hate that I wasn’t the first man to have her. It should have been my name she cried out all along. I shouldn’t care because she’s mine now and she’ll never walk away, but I do because I'm a jealous motherfucking bastard.
I unzip my pants and take my cock out.
My hands wrap around my erection and my fist grips her vibrator. How many times did she push her pretty, tight cunt against it and come? Was that stain from lubricant or had she squirted hard enough to soak the sheets?
I brace my knee on the bed. I’m primed from eating her out this morning and it takes less than a minute for pleasure to shoot down my spine. Cum explodes from my cock and hits the bed she shared with her husband. Soaking over the stain she left from pleasuring herself.
My head spins. My cock tingles as I push it back into my pants and fasten my belt.
I have good, solid reasons to hate every member of the Garrison family, but I’ve always hated Clint the most. I hope that whatever part of hell he’s burning in, he knows I fucked his wife.
