Page 18

Kael

O h, fuck. Fuck. Fuck a thousand times.

That alcohol is hitting hard, but not hard enough that I couldn’t stop myself from doing this. Truth time? I wanted to.

This is what I wanted to do when Dravin pinned me up against the wall at my house.

In the backyard. When I saw his anguish and realized that he’s no monster at all.

He’s just a person, fighting hard and still drowning, just like me.

I blamed him for wrecking me, abandoning me, for ruining my life repeatedly, but none of that was the truth.

It was just convenient and if I hadn’t been so absorbed in my own self and in my grief, maybe I could have seen that before.

For just one blissful minute, I wanted him in ways I couldn’t even understand because it was so surprising and out of the blue. It’s that passion that’s all mixed up and messed up.

I don’t know what’s happening except that my body wants what it wants. My spirit wants what it wants, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, my heart is confused, but it wants what my body and soul crave, and that’s not to be alone .

It’s selfish. It’s wrong. I know that and I do care, but I can’t stop.

Not before Dravin groans and opens his stubborn mouth to me, and certainly not after.

Not when his tongue traces my lips and his hand curls around the back of my neck, fisting a rough handful of my hair, but tilting my face back gently.

It’s a warning before he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.

The wicked caresses create a firestorm in my blood.

I don’t care if he’s heaven or hell, he’s delicious.

The finest, headiest, richest, decadent temptation I have ever tasted.

He devours me, eating my mouth almost frantically, like he can’t get enough, fast enough.

My body erupts in flames. I can’t hold myself up and sag against him.

I don’t know if it’s the way he’s stroking my tongue or the alcohol.

I don’t have to worry about falling. His hand fists my hair, and his arm slips around my back, bracing me.

He snugs me in against him, so tight that I can feel the long, thick, hard length of him straining against his jeans.

I free one hand and shove it between us, cupping his cock and squeezing.

He makes a sound that’s barely human, something guttural and pained, and punishes me for my hard grasp by kissing me until I can’t breathe.

He’s not gentle, scoring my lip with his teeth, but not hard enough to damage anything.

My hips drive forward, trapping my hand against my jeans and his cock.

I can actually feel my wetness on my fingers, that’s how drenched I am, and I wonder if he’s soaked his boxers too.

I want to sink down on my knees and smell him, unzip his jeans, and pull him out, have him hot thick, and weeping, fisted in my palm.

I want to part my lips and take him into my mouth, memorize his taste along with his scent and all the sounds he makes.

I want to store it all away in my brain, so that when I paint him, I can capture the true, visceral glory of him there on the canvas.

Sure, it’s just for painting purposes.

He asked me what he should wear. I have an answer for that.

A black button up dress shirt, done all the way to the top, hair slicked back with oil to make it shine, suspenders, and expensive, tailored black pants with black leather shoes.

Black eyeliner on his good eye, done heavily.

A black glass eyeball in the other socket, but it’s not like he can just pull one out of his ass.

He groans against my lips as though he can read my thoughts. I pour them back into him, working his cock through his jeans, mashing against the head mercilessly, giving him the edge of pain that he appears to crave. He can’t contain those heavy groans that he pants over my mouth when I do it.

A loud cough behind us goes straight to the parts of my brain that the whiskey hasn’t addled.

I immediately break away, but I don’t stumble. Not with Dravin’s strong hand at the small of my back and the other splayed against my shoulder blades.

A man just stepped outside. He’s a big guy, probably in his early forties, though every single person in there was huge and hard living can play havoc with aging a person.

I know who Tyrant, Raiden, Gunner, Bullet, Atlas, and Crow are because the women made sure I was introduced throughout the night, but I don’t know this one.

All the blood rushes out of me. My stomach spins violently and it’s all I can do to swallow convulsively to keep all that whiskey from vacating and ending up all over the asphalt parking lot that starts pretty much right outside the diner’s front door.

The guy stares hard at us both and then gives Dravin a lopsided smile. “I’m not one to judge, but please tell me that when you said she was your sister, you actually meant stepsister.”

Dravin sucks in a breath, choking on the back half of it. His face is nearly bloodless. Not his lips. They’re swollen and red from kissing me. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“We’re not blood related,” Dravin confirms. “But we did share a brother.”

That whiskey burns right up to the back of my throat.

Does anyone ever come back from loving someone so fiercely and losing them?

The worst part is the love. It remains, torturously, a ghost that won’t ever rest because it’s dwelling so far down inside of me, woven into my tissues, bones, and cells.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this to anyone else,” Dravin mutters. He withdraws his hand from my back, but keeps it hovering in the air like a crutch.

Aside from still feeling like I’m going to throw up because I was punched in the stomach by Dravin’s words, I’m suddenly quite sober.

“This is Preacher,” Dravin says, eying up the older man.

Preacher offers a bearlike hand to me. I stick mine out and he shakes it with a gentleness I didn’t see coming.

“That’s right. I’m Preacher, and I’m good shit.

Been through enough and seen enough in my own time to know that most people are walking a difficult road.

If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t.

Not everything is straightforward, and we all can all fill in the blanks as to the fact that whatever you left behind you, it might not have been all that pleasant.

I’m just fucking relieved that I don’t have to go douse my eyes with bleach after this.

” His face lightens, giving the impression that he’s laughing about how mortified we likely both look.

Dravin doesn’t seem like he’s going to come out of his skin, not the way he did a few days ago, but he does look ill, so pale that I nearly reach for him and offer my hand to keep him from falling over onto his ass.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“You both good? Do you need a ride or anything?”

“I haven’t been drinking,” Dravin responds, producing his keys. “I have my car. Thanks for offering, though.”

“I might have offered, but I’d have to find someone else with a cage. Not like you can both double up on the back of my bike.”

Maybe I am still a little bit drunk, because I giggle at the image of Dravin’s huge body crushed up on the seat, clinging tight to this massive man.

Where would I fit? Between them? On the back?

Standing up in some weird double version like how I used to ride the pegs on Marcus’ bike when we were kids?

When I nod goodnight at Preacher, it’s through a fresh veil of tears.

I suddenly don’t even have enough strength to fight it when Dravin takes my arm and guides me to his car.

It takes me a few minutes to gather myself and shore up my strength, so I don’t sass him until I’m in the front seat, buckled up, and he rams himself in beside me.

He did something with his SUV sold it or stashed it somewhere, and this is what he drove us here in. An older, sleek, tinted Bimmer.

He starts the car. It’s old enough to still require a good old fashioned key.

This particular one has an attitude.

It’s amusing that the key sticks in the ignition and refuses to turn.

Dravin curses, flips the middle console, and gets out a screwdriver.

He yanks out the key, jams the flathead in, wriggles it at all different angles, and eventually the car purrs to life.

It has a distinct smell that even I know is burnt oil.

But still. As soon as he gets it going, it’s like riding on clouds and the leather interior is a chef’s kiss.

My stomach spins with the motion and I concentrate very hard on not upchucking all over the place.

He doesn’t look at me, but he can probably hear my deep, forced breathing, which helps with the nausea.

“What was that?”

I inhale and exhale. My belly is still pitching a fit, so I unroll the window a crack to let the fresh night air in. It smells leafy, like trees and grass. That’s probably not a thought I’d have sober.

I wouldn’t have kissed Dravin if I was sober either.

I know that’s what he’s talking about, but I still play dumb. Buzzed me can admit to the thrill that hums under my skin like a bug light. “Define what part of what you mean exactly.”

“Why did you drink all those shots?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

Why did you let me?

I focus real hard on the crack in the window and the dark scenery flashing by. “I don’t… know.”

“Do you know anything right now?” He’s not trying to be rude. He’s frustrated. Confused. His voice even shakes slightly, betraying just how rattled he is.

“For the past year, not fucking much of fucking all.” The words pour out of me, raw and unfiltered. I make a mental note never to drink again. I don’t remember ever having this honesty problem before.

The silence fills up the car, thick and uncomfortable. I have to say something or I’m going to burst, even if it’s unwise. He dropped his questions. I should just let it ride until we get to the house, and I can hide in there.