Bernadette lifts her eyes to mine and then, slowly, carefully, she kneels down in front of me. I don’t stop her as she unbuttons and unzips the jeans, releasing the inked length of my cock. One of her thumbs finds the piercing on the underside, rubbing at it as she takes the tip of me into her hot mouth.

My breath escapes in a rush and I lean my head back, knowing this is a stupid thing to do but letting it happen anyway. I’m not sure if Callum would kill me for making such a dangerous choice … or applaud me for it.

Bernadette wraps her hand fully around the base of my shaft, letting her saliva drip down the length of me. She uses that wetness as lubricant to pump her hand, licking and sucking at the tip of my cock as I dig my fingers into her hair. With the other hand, I grab onto the wooden dowel used to hang clothes and squeeze it until I hear a definitive crack.

With her opposite hand, Bernadette cups my balls, massaging them and drawing a sound from my throat that I wasn’t sure I was capable of, one that sounds all-too human.

In an instant, I find myself moving, pulling Bernadette up by her hair and slamming her into the back wall of the wardrobe. My hands pin her wrists as I kiss her, tasting the saltiness of my own pre-cum on her tongue. When I release her, my hands drop right to those borrowed boxers and shove them down her hips until they hit the floor.

She doesn’t fight me when I hook a hand under her left thigh and lift her leg up, driving into her and catching the desperate moan that falls from her mouth by pressing my lips to hers. We kiss so deeply as I fuck her that I’m not sure what the hell I was just talking about. I hate being touched? How could I possibly, when this feels the way it does?

Of course, trauma doesn’t resolve itself in a single instant. I know that as soon as we’re done here, I’ll feel that coldness come over me again, those tremors that take over in the dead of night.

As we’re fucking, as I’m driving her into the wall and wishing I could just tell her goddamn everything there is to know about me … the door to the room opens and I hear heavy boot steps.

My hand clamps over Bernadette’s mouth, but I don’t move, not even to pull out of her.

From my position, it isn’t difficult to glance over and see through the crack in the doors.

James Barrasso stands in front of the bar, eyes surveying the impressive array of liquor bottles on the wall behind it. He selects an expensive whiskey and pours himself a drink before slumping into a chair in front of the empty fireplace.

Bernadette adjusts herself slightly, but I won’t let her go. I tell myself it’s because we’ll make too much noise, but really, it’s because I don’t want to move. She’s hot and slick and tight, and I’m too selfish to give that up.

Less than a minute later, the door opens again, and Trinity Jade appears, wearing the red gown she had on at dinner. By now, my breathing is synched with Bernadette’s, and neither of us is moving at all, locked together and frozen in shadow.

“Jimmy,” Trinity says, pausing next to his chair and extracting the tumbler full of whiskey from his hand. The way she touches him speaks to a certain sense of familiarity. Bernadette, of course, thinks that it’s because they’re fucking. Because that’s how most people operate, in sex and intrigue. I think there’s something else to it.

“So, how goes it?” he asks as I do my best to stay still, Bernadette’s hot cunt still wrapped around my cock. If these morons hadn’t invaded our space, I’d still be moving inside of her, listening to her heavy breathing, and luxuriating in the feel of her palms against my chest.

Instead, we’re stuck watching whatever this nonsense is play out before us.

“How goes what?” Trinity snaps, like she’s frustrated with something. Very likely that something is Victor Channing. The man knows how to string a woman along and keep her wanting more, all at once.

James laughs, standing up from his seat and running his fingers down the side of Trinity’s face. There’s something in the shape of their profiles that makes me wonder if they aren’t related. That is, until James leans forward and captures her mouth like he owns it, kissing her hard and deep and forcing her back into the side of the fireplace. She drops the whiskey glass, and it shatters at their feet.

“Fuck,” Bernie breathes, still clinging to me, unable to move, her body wet and hot and tight. “I can’t see shit.”

“Shush,” I whisper, digging my fingers into her ass and praying that I don’t come from the sheer touch of her alone. Friction is nice, but this is enough for me. I don’t like to be touched; I may never like to be touched by another human for as long as I live. But Bernadette is different. I pull her closer and she grunts, the sound disguised by the moans coming from Trinity’s pale, blue-blooded throat.

“You know what I mean, baby,” Jimmy says, and it takes effort to keep my disdain to myself. The man is a pig, the uncultured son of a lucky mob man, one that thinks he owns the world because daddy knows how to shed a little blood and run a crooked business without getting caught.

Killing him would be the highlight of my year. Well, perhaps a distant second to the feel of Bernadette’s plump ass in one hand, her thigh resting on the other, her sweet pussy squeezing my cock and making my teeth hurt as I clench them together to keep from coming.

“Do I?” Trinity replies coyly, running her fingers down the front of James’ unbuttoned dress shirt. He lets out a harsh bark of laughter and uncurls her fingers from the lapel of his shirt, taking a step back. “Oh, stop that,” she chastises, following after him. “You can’t possibly be jealous of Victor Channing.”

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” James asks, lighting up a cigarette. He watches the girl like she’s a trophy, one that should be mounted and hung on the wall.

“I’m going to marry him,” Trinity spits back, as if that’s an answer to James’ question. She moves over to the bar and pours herself another glass of whiskey, taking advantage of the bar in the room as if she owns the place. She doesn’t; I checked. I would never have allowed us to come here if she did.

“No, you’re not,” James replies in an oily voice, sauntering back over to Trinity and taking her chin in his hand. “Our father—”

“Your father,” Trinity retorts sharply, pushing her hair back from her face. “He most certainly isn’t mine.”

“Only by blood,” James retorts with another laugh, and Bernadette stiffens in my arms as she makes the same strange, sudden connection that I do.

James and Trinity … are both Maxwell Barrasso’s children.

And, apparently, that doesn’t stop them from fucking each other.

Interesting.

“I’m marrying Victor Channing whether you like it or not,” Trinity spits back, cowering slightly when James squeezes her face in his fingers. But then he leans in and puts his mouth up against hers, breathing against her parted lips.

“Not if I can help it,” he retorts with another laugh as her palms come up to rest against the front of his chest. Their mouths meet again, tongues tangling, just before the door opens and one of the Oak Valley teachers clears her throat to grab their attention.

“Alright, you two, out.” She hooks her thumb in the direction of the hallway as Trinity’s face turns scarlet and she ducks under James’ arm. Scandal and propriety are important to that girl. As the daughter of Samuel Jade, they would be. I wonder if her father knows his daughter is from a different man’s seed?