The Catacombs (Cult 2)

I walked him to the door. “Be careful.”

His eyes regarded mine, shifting back and forth as he took me in. “Always.”

My arms crossed over my chest. “I wanted to say…I know it’s kind of awkward, but…when you’re with other women—”

His eyes grew angry, really angry. Just the look was enough to make my words die right in my throat. The look was livid, violent, full of rage. “I don’t leave my daughter every night to fuck a whore.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then say what you mean—and do a better job of it.”

My arms crossed over my chest, and I felt myself cower because this was a version of him I hadn’t encountered in a while. I’d gotten used to the version that I loved, the calm and open man who let me in…just a little bit.

“I know we aren’t exclusive or anything—”

“I’m not sleeping around—if that’s what you’re asking.”

My hands tightened on my arms, and I felt the relief fill my lungs when it shouldn’t. “I wasn’t asking, because it’s none of my business—”

“I don’t want to sleep with anyone else—so yes, it is your business.”

My eyes locked on to his, the surprise making me go immediately still. There wasn’t even a breath in my lungs. There wasn’t a beat to my heart. I’d turned to stone.

After a long stare, he moved for the door.

My hand acted of its own accord—and reached for his arm. My brain didn’t even have time to process what I was doing before it was already done. I pulled him toward me, pulled myself into him at the same time, and I found myself against his chest.

Instead of letting his arms hang by his sides as he rejected me, he encircled the small of my back and hugged me flush to his body, his chin resting on my head. He enveloped me with warmth, like his skin was my favorite blanket on the couch.

I rose on my tiptoes and planted a kiss to his lips, feeling that shock move all the way down my spine to every other inch of my body. My fingers dug into his arms, and I’d do anything to keep him there with me.

His hand cupped my cheek and brushed the hair from my face as he kissed me, taking the lead with his mouth, every kiss deep and purposeful.

My fingers tugged at his shirt, wanting it off his body and somewhere on the floor. I wanted that naked chest against mine, smothering me into the mattress while he moved deep inside me over and over. That high…there was nothing like it. “Do you have a couple minutes…?” I spoke against his lips, not wanting to break the trance that bound us together.

As if I was a box of feathers, he picked me up and carried me to his bedroom, kissing me the entire way. He laid me at the edge of his bed and pushed his jeans down so he could shove himself inside me.

Both of our shirts were on, and we clung to each other as he moved hard and fast, careful not to rock the headboard against the wall to wake up his daughter down the hallway. Our moans were suppressed to stay quiet, and our bodies became wet with sweat instantly. It was quick, desperate, animalistic.

It felt so good.

I said his name as I came, and the second he heard that word on my tongue, he released too, filling me as I climaxed. My hand tugged on his ass as I kept him inside me, feeling both his size and his load at the same time. “Benton…”

Six

Benton

The silent auction was held at the museum, where priceless pieces of artwork earned bids worth millions of euros. Artwork was a currency for the rich, another way to display their wealth when the mansions and cars weren’t enough. A piece was sold back to the community, and then another was purchased in its place. But it wasn’t real estate, so it was worthless.

In my opinion.

Everyone was in gowns and tuxedos except the two of us. We were in our street clothes, but no one said a word to us.

Bartholomew and I stood in the corner together, and when a waiter walked up, he offered us each a glass of champagne.

I declined—because I didn’t like that bubbly shit.

Bartholomew took a glass and a sip.

I watched him, already knowing how this was going to end.

He savored it in his mouth like it was a wine tasting—and then spat it back into the glass. He tossed it onto a nearby flower arrangement. “Yep. Piss.”

“Then why did you take it?”

He shrugged. “Thirsty.” He surveyed the room and gave a nod to one of the gentlemen. “Kline Weatherton. I’ll be the good cop. You be the bad cop.”

“You want me to shoot him?”

“Okay, not that bad.”