Jesus, he’s a thing of beauty. Naked but tortured passion. A perfect reflection of the cataclysmic event inside of me. His hips slow, finally stopping, and his head drops, his hair swinging forward and hiding his face from me.
Only our serrated breaths reverberate in the room, but the muted sounds from the party beyond the closed bedroom door penetrate, vividly and jarringly reminding me of where we are.
Who we are.
What we’ve done.
I shiver and, freeing my fingers from his hair, allow my arms to fall to the mattress.
I’ve just had sex with Knox.
Connor’s brother. My brother-in-law.
There’s no taking it back; there’s no going back. We’ve crossed a line that definitely changes our relationship and could permanently damage it. If anyone outside these four walls ever suspected what’s taken place inside them, we both could lose our friends, our family.
Without the scorching heat of lust to cloud my mind, the same question rises like a specter to haunt me.
What have we done?
Knox raises his head, and his eyes clash with mine. Every damn thing I’m thinking and feeling is probably reflected in my gaze; I’m shitty at hiding anything. Unlike Knox, whose face is the equivalent of an impenetrable steel vault. Usually. But as he straightens and shifts off the bed, his hooded stare gimmers like jade fire in the dim room. Swollen lips damp from our kiss, hair tangled from my fingers, skin taut and flushed from sex—he’s the epitome of erotic satisfaction.
Without releasing me from his visual snare, he removes the condom and takes care of it. In seconds, he’s crawled back between my thighs and is crouched over me on his palms and knees.
“I shouldn’t have touched you.”
His statement is bald, rough, and squeezes my heart in a vise grip. I close my eyes, needing to block out his harshly beautiful face, block out his terrible—but true—words. The pleasure that still hums through my body slowly dissipates, leaving a heavy weight on my chest. And that weight is composed of anger, pain…regret. Not mine, but his.
I turn my head, eyes still closed and shutting him out. “I’m—”
“I promised I wouldn’t. And not just myself. Mom.”
Thatadmission, said in the same stark, abrupt tone, jerks my head and attention back to him. I stare at him, stunned. Speechless. But my mind more than makes up for my paralyzed vocal cords.A promise? ToKatherine? How was that possible?How did she know about…whatever was going on between Knox and me?
Shock ebbs, and dread washes in. Oh, Jesus. Did she hate me now? Think I’d betrayed her and Connor?
“H-how…?” I stutter. Pause. Shake my head. And try again. “How does she…?” But I can’t say it. The lump in my throat won’t allow me to finish the question.
“She doesn’t know about what’s happened between us these past weeks.”
Relief floods in, leaving me so weak, I’m thankful I’m already on my back. Immediately, remorse and guilt swell behind the relief. Because I’m relegating Knox to the status of a dirty secret, and he’s worth more than that. Still…the fear of losing my family, their respect and love…
“I made this promise to her two years ago.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand, frowning, confused. I don’t need to ask about the “two years ago.” There’s only one event that changed all of our lives then. But why in the hell would the topic of Knox and I come up that night?
If possible, Knox’s expression becomes harder. No, no, not harder. More closed off. Shuttered to any emotion. Even his eyes take on the flat, dull sheen of stone. Green stones that stare down at me.
That shut-down demeanor only solidifies the dread pooling in my chest to a brick of lead. Part of me doesn’t want to know the answer to my question. Because I recognize that face. It’s the same one he wore after Katherine lashed out at him at the dinner table those weeks ago.
“Knox,” I whisper, lifting and touching trembling fingers to his cheek.
“She didn’t only blame me for Connor’s death. She accused me of wanting him to die. So I could have you.”
Jesus Christ. My arm drops to the bed. Disgust rolls through me, over me, snatching me up in a blazing whirlwind, and I’m consumed by it. How can he state something so…so profane in that hollow, almost matter-of-fact voice? How is he not howling at the injustice of that accusation, the ugliness of it?
I part my lips to ask that very question when I glance up and look into his eyes. And I have my answer.
Oh, he’saffected.
