Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (20 page)

“I’m so sorry, Raphael,” she murmured, her voice vibrating over his skin. “I’m sorry she lied and hurt you. I’m sorry I remind you of her and that time in your life.”

“No, baby.” He grasped her hand, pressed a kiss to the center of the palm. “You are nothing like her. Faced with everything you’ve endured these months, she would’ve crumbled. But not you. You’re stronger, fearless even when scared. I loved her, but I don’t think I can say I admired her. You, though? I want to be you when I grow up.”

She laughed, but it ended on a sigh that tore at his heart. Flipping the hand he held, she enclosed his in hers. And squeezed.

Several quiet moments later, her mouth brushed the top of his spine through his T-shirt. “Raphael?”

“Yeah?”

“You would’ve made a good father—you
will
make a good father.” She looped her free arm under his and cupped his shoulder. Pressed another kiss there. “I don’t know much about your childhood, about your father. But you’re not him. You’re a protector, honorable. I feel sorry for any person—man, woman, or child—who would dare hurt your son or daughter.” She softly snorted. “There’d be hell to pay.”

He closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the constriction in his throat. How had she known about the tiny kernel of doubt, of fear, that he would be a complete fuck-up as a dad? If there was a time when his dad had been loving and kind, Rafe had been too young to recall it. He remembered the monster—and a part of him worried about becoming the terror he despised.

“Damn straight,” he rasped, opening his eyes, staring at their clasped hands. “I’d kick ass.”

She disentangled her fingers and released his shoulder. With a soft murmur, she stroked up his back, then retraced the path to his waist where she slipped under his shirt. He hissed at the skin-on-skin contact, loving her hands on him. Anywhere she wanted to touch. Along his spine, over his abs, his chest. Her palms skimmed his nipples, and he groaned as the caress arrowed straight to his cock, which leaped in an ecstatic
hell, yeah
. When she eased her hands from under his shirt to grab the hem and tug the black cotton over his head, he laughed. And if it sounded a bit hoarse to his ears, well, fuck it. Her fingers circled his nipples while her lips traced his spine. He was grateful he could
breathe
, damn it.

“Is this pity sex?” he asked, reaching behind him and cupping her head, massaging her scalp. Her gasp whispered over his skin. “I mean if it is, I’m not complaining.”

“Yes, it’s totally pity sex.” She chuckled. “And I never did get to thank you for all the art supplies Gabriel brought by today.” A pause. “Why did you do it?”

Because I wanted to see you smile, a real smile. And hear you laugh. Most of all I wanted you to be happy.
“Because you’re sexy when you paint.”

She stilled behind him, but then she chuckled again, strummed her fingertips over his chest once more before shifting to his shoulders, trailing down his arms, and then up and over to his back.

“I love your tattoos,” she whispered, tracing the outline of the phoenix rising from the ashes covering nearly half his back. “They’re beautiful. Like living, breathing art. I’d love to draw you just like this one day.” The wonder in her reverent tone stroked his heart just as her fingers caressed his skin. No one had ever talked to him like her. As if she found him beautiful. Worthy. Special.

Hell
. Next he would be spouting a damn sonnet.

“What does this one mean?” she asked. He glanced down and watched her follow the circles of the Dara knot on his left biceps. The Celtic symbol resembling an oak tree was one of his first tattoos. One of the first meaningful ones. At sixteen, he’d stridden into a tattoo parlor, slapped down his fake ID, and later walked out with barbwire inked around his arm. Angry, a big
fuck you
to everyone. And the two afterward had been as well. Not until a couple of years later had he learned to value the art, appreciate the symbols that could be acts of rebellion or beautiful pieces that reflected his soul, who he was. The Dara knot came right after that decision.

“It’s called a Dara knot. It means oak tree and symbolizes the inner strength, wisdom, and power that’s deep within us in times of trouble. It reminds me to stay strong and stable regardless of the hell going down around me.”

“It’s gorgeous.” She replaced her finger with her mouth, grazing her lips over one of the roots. Her lashes lifted, meeting his gaze. Heat blazed so hot in the green depths, he almost touched his face, sure his skin was singed. Unable to not touch her, he rubbed the backs of his knuckles down her silken cheek, savoring the contrast of her soft skin with his rough fingers. She twisted her head, and he brushed her lips instead of her face. Keeping him visually ensnared, she lowered her hands, shifted them to his abdomen…lower…

“Greer,” he gritted out as she drew a haphazard pattern back and forth above the waistband of his jeans. “Fucking touch me.”

Her smile widened just a fraction. Damn, he wanted to bite that plump bottom curve, just sink his teeth in it, and hear her whimper. He lowered his head to mate fantasy and fiction, but then she pushed his belt through the buckle. Freed the button. Dragged down the zipper.

“Baby.” He moaned as she cupped him, wrapped her fingers around his cock and squeezed. She stroked up his length, over the dark and throbbing head, then returned to the wide base to begin the torturous and just fucking
good
trek all over again. One pump of her hand. Another. Two more, and he ground his molars together afraid he would start babbling.

Then she disappeared.

The abrupt loss of her touch startled him, and he parted his lips, prepared to kick pride’s ass to the curb and beg her to touch him again, to keep destroying his mind with pleasure. But before he could utter the first word, she was in front of him, kneeling, her sexy mouth only inches away from his cock.

Oh. Shit
.

Once more he was seconds away from pleading. Only this time for her lips on his dick, sucking him deep, swallowing him.

“I’ve never…” she murmured, flickering her gaze up to him before focusing on his hard, aching erection. “Can I?” She trailed a fingertip up the vein standing out in stark relief under his taut skin.

She’d never what? Given him a blow job or given head, period? One thrilled him. The other…
Mine
roared in his head, had him gripping her hair, tugging until her face tipped up to his. He pulled her up. Met her halfway. His mouth crashed over hers, his tongue plunging deeply and claiming all that sweetness for himself. He swallowed her gasp, offered a dark groan. Their mouths tangled, mated. Fucked. Imitating how he would take her soon. Very damn soon.

Pushing him away, she lowered to her knees, recaptured his cock, and slowly—so damn slow he almost lost his mind—opened her lips over him. Engulfed him in her moist heat. Her tongue slid over his length, flattening as she took him to nearly the back of her throat before retreating in a slick glide of tongue, lips, and pleasure. In moments, he had the answer to his question in the untutored rhythm and uncertain strokes of her hand. But fuck if it wasn’t the best he’d ever had. The most beautiful.

A growl rumbled up from the depths of him, rolled in his throat, and out his mouth.

“Fuck, Greer.” He grasped her head, held her steady as his erection bumped her damp mouth. “Open for me.” She complied, and he watched through narrowed eyes as his cock disappeared between her lips. “That’s so pretty, baby. So fucking pretty. Again.”

He withdrew, pushed forward. Withdrew, pushed forward. She started an eye-crossing suck that demanded everything in him—his pleasure, his come, his heart. Pleas and commands spilled from him.
Suck it harder. Faster. Take me deeper. Good girl.

His gut clenched with the need to come, to explode in her mouth, down her throat. But shit, he wanted it to last. To never end. Yet as an electric pulse tingled at the back of his neck, the base of his spine, and in his balls, he couldn’t hold it off. And she wouldn’t let him. Her fist tightened on his cock, and she concentrated on the rounded tip, by now so sensitive one flick of her wicked tongue and the top of his fucking head would probably blow.

“Damn it,” he swore, and yanked on her hair, trying to alert her without words that he was going to come. “Baby.”

But she didn’t heed the warning, just sucked harder. And he was gone. The orgasm slammed into him, and he jerked under the power of it. He poured into her mouth, felt her recoil at the first blast before taking it all. She grabbed his hips, held him in her mouth and accepted every last drop of him.

Jesus.

She’d destroyed him. With desire. With pleasure. With her selflessness.

He studied her, unable to move. A faint blush stained her cheeks at his blatant scrutiny. Her shoulders moved in a self-conscious little shrug, her fingernails scraping over the denim covering his thighs.

“Come here, princess,” he murmured.

She rose, and didn’t utter a protest as he quickly stripped her of the long-sleeved shirt, jeans, bra, and panties. Her hands fluttered nervously by her sides as she stood naked before him, and even that was sexy. Innocent. She’d just given him the blow job of a damn lifetime, and still retained enough modesty to be embarrassed about standing naked in front of him.

Affection and humor kicked the corner of his mouth up as he moved to his feet and pushed his jeans down. Passion softened the anxiety in her eyes, around her lush mouth. She tipped her head back, and he took what she offered so sweetly. This kiss was gentler, more tender but no less hungry. He swept inside, drew on her tongue, invited her to dance with him. And she accepted the invitation.

He cupped her face, planted one last kiss to her mouth, then turned, placing her on his bed. Leaning back on his heels between her spread thighs, that sense of rightness overwhelmed him again. She belonged here, in his bed, saturating his pillows and sheets with her unique scent. Would he be able to walk into this room again and not see her lying here, writhing under his hands, eyes hazy with need, hands reaching for him? Doubtful.

He smoothed his palms up her slender legs, glimpsing the wet, glistening curls between them. On a groan, he plunged two fingers into the grasping, hot core of her. She cried out, arched high and hard, nails digging into his arms. Firm, slick muscles quivered and clutched at his fingers, and he pulled free. Then drove deep again. God, she milked him, and his renewed cock complained, demanding to be buried in her tight-as-a-fist sex. Not yet. “Not just yet,” he murmured, setting up a fast, erotic rhythm and surging into her until his knuckles bumped her swollen folds.

“Raphael, please,” she gasped, bowing off the mattress. Sweat gleaming on her breasts and stomach. “Please. Inside me.”

Her words snapped the tenuous, frayed rein on his control. With movements he wished were gentler, smoother, he gripped her hips, tilted them high until her ass hovered above the bed, and thrust. Twin groans of pleasure—one high and soft, the other low and rough—filled the room. He fell forward, his palms denting the pillow on either side of her head. His head dropped, and he struggled to breathe past the hunger clawing at his balls, sizzling up his spine, and the ecstasy enveloping his cock like an oiled, two-sizes-too-small glove.

Slim thighs wrapped around his hips, embracing as snugly as the arms around his neck. She slid her hands up his nape and into his hair. The tiny pinpricks on his scalp as she pulled on his hair were another erotic sensation.

“I can’t go slow,” he whispered, grinding against her clit, and rewarded with another of those breathy whimpers in his ear and a milking of his cock. “God, baby. You’re so wet and tight for me, I can’t go slow.”

“Then don’t.” She buried her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. And it was all the permission he needed. Grasping her ass, he leaned back, pulled out until only half his dick remained buried inside her, then plunged inside her. He widened his thighs, dragged her higher over his, and went wild. He rocked into her, rode her, driving so high and deep he almost feared losing himself. Damn, he lost it. Became lost in her. In the fire and rapture of her.

She spasmed around his cock, her muscles rippling like a hot pond. Her cries caressed his ears, spurred him on to take her harder, faster. Just to take. And hell, he did. With a wild rawness that shook something loose inside him. That splintered a wall deep in his soul that had kept a part of him separate from his partner. Greer—her abandonment, her selflessness, her trust—fractured the barrier into so many pieces, he would spend the rest of his life trying to gather them up.

With a broken cry, she came. Her sex clamped down on him so tight he grunted. Fuck, she was beautiful. Head thrown back, she came with a freedom he envied. Craved more of. A guttural growl vibrated in his throat as he continued to fuck her through orgasm, and only when the quivers started to abate did he let go.

Ecstasy crashed over him, through him, and he vaulted over the edge, incinerated by pleasure only she had been able to show him.

His breath soughed in and out of his tortured lungs. His hips slowed, his cock still twitching from the orgasm that by all rights should have left him dead, his toes pointed toward the ceiling. Chuckling hoarsely at the image, he lowered to the bed, pulling her into his arms, careful to maintain their physical joining.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, her soft pants bathing his chest.

“I was just thinking,” he said, rubbing a hand over her shoulder and planting a kiss to her damp forehead. “Pity sex is seriously underrated.”

This time he didn’t try to evade the pillow smacking him in the face.

He was laughing too hard.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Explain to me again what we’re doing here,” Raphael grumbled as he pulled the SUV to a stop in Noah’s driveway.

Greer rolled her eyes, releasing her seat belt.

“You didn’t have to come, Raphael.”

“The hell I didn’t.” He snatched the key out of the ignition. “The last time you were with him, he made you cry. That’s more than enough reason to tag along on this venture. Oh, not to mention there’s still a stalker on the loose. One who’s graduated from letters to guns.”

“Sarcasm duly noted,” she drawled, stepping down out of the truck. He’d better be glad she found his sarcasm sexy or else her hand would’ve been up close and personal with the back of his head already.

“Shit.” He groaned, and when she rounded the hood, he dragged her into his arms. “I’m sorry for being a dick.” He propped his chin on top of her head, rubbed her arms. “I’m just…worried.”

Two days had passed since the confrontation with Noah, since he and Chay had been shot at. He hadn’t left her side in that time, but his search for the elusive Tag had continued. With no success. And his friend Leah hadn’t been able to find anything from her sources, either. Maybe Tag didn’t have a police record or went by another nickname—either way, Raphael couldn’t locate him. And the setback ate at him. Hounded him. He probably didn’t know she’d overhead him on the phone with Chay planning another trip to find Justin and pry more information about the dealer from him. A part of her tried to dredge up sympathy for the other man. But the other side of her argued—and quite effectively—that the hood had delivered a bomb to her attention. Yeah, sympathy was in short supply.

Perhaps Raphael perceived it, too. The sense that they were running out of time. After months of letters, suddenly in the last week the acts had escalated, become more violent and risky. The last being someone firing on Raphael. This—whatever
this
was—seemed to be coming to a head whether they were ready or not. Whether they understood why or not.

She slid her hands under the hem of his hoodie, hooked her fingers on the waistband of his jeans. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against his chest. The dull pounding at her temples amplified, reminding her that the headache she’d woken with hadn’t abated yet. Last night, the nightmare came again. It’d lingered so when she jerked awake, violent images of blood and death had taunted her. Grainy images loitered right outside the edges of her conscious. Close enough to tease but vague enough to mock her with their presence.

“Your head still hurts?” he murmured, pressing his fingertips to her temples and circling. She sighed, the pressure easing the tiniest bit.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Another reason we shouldn’t be here,” he reiterated, but without the irritation this time.

“I need to check on Noah.” She raised her head and decided to let his low “fuck him” pass without comment. “Yes, he hurt me, but he’s still my friend. And he hasn’t been answering his phone. I’m worried. No matter what happened between us, he would answer my call.”

“All right, fine,” he mumbled, back to annoyed. He stepped back, scrubbed a palm over his nape. A tight, feral smile stretched his lips as he swept an arm in front of him. “After you.”

She headed up the walk of her friend’s home, Raphael beside her. When they reached the door, she knocked. Waited a few moments, then rapped again. Then again. She glanced toward his driveway. Frowned. His black Nissan was parked next to the house. Noah should be home.

So why wasn’t he answering?

Maybe he was angry with her for rejecting him and allowing Raphael to throw him out of his house. Or maybe he’d decided to give her space. Or, she frowned as she knocked again, maybe he’d left the city for a while and had traveled by something other than his car. While that would be out character for Noah, what had happened between them a couple of days ago had been far out of the realm of usual. Her heart twinged. In the long years of their relationship, there’d never been an estrangement like this. Yes, Noah had lied to her, had hurt her, but with distance she saw—if not understood—that he’d acted out of a misguided love. One act didn’t wipe out a friendship, especially theirs. He’d defended her, supported her, encouraged her, stood by her…loved her.

This morning after her last call to him had ended in another voicemail prompt, she’d surrendered to the stir of urgency in her heart and decided to go check on Noah.

“The television is on.” Raphael lowered his cupped hands from the big window stretching across the front of the house. “And I think there’s a plate and glass on the table.” That sounded right. Noah enjoyed eating in his living room in front of the TV. His little form of rebellion against the formal dinners they’d both been subjected to by their Boston Brahman parents during their childhood. “But I don’t see a sign of him. Princess”—Raphael turned to her, sympathy softening his voice—“maybe he just wants some time.”

“He’s had two days.” She yanked a ring of keys from her jacket pocket and flipped through them, stopping at Noah’s house key. They’d exchanged keys long ago for emergencies.

“You think this is a good idea?” Raphael asked, skeptical.

Warning from Mr. Computer B&E should have given her pause. But worry overrode caution, and she unlocked the door and pushed it open. The beep signaling that a door had been opened chimed, but the house alarm didn’t blare. So either Noah was home or he’d forgotten to set the alarm when he’d left—which was unlikely. Since he’d moved into this home seven years earlier, she’d never known him to neglect setting it. When they were fifteen, his family’s home had been broken into, and the crime had stamped an indelible fear on his psyche.

So if Noah was home, hadn’t answered her calls or the door, then maybe he really didn’t want to see her. The ache in her chest intensified. Well, tough shit. He’d hurt her. She was dealing with it. He damn well could, too.

“Noah.” Silence greeted her. Moving farther into the foyer, she called out his name again and received the same response. Sighing, she headed toward the living room. “No—”

“Greer, wait.” Raphael grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder, impatient.

“Raphael, what—” But he held up a hand, his narrowed gaze scanning the foyer, hall, and staircase. Her exasperation vanished, replaced by a concern and burgeoning fear that coiled in her belly.

“You don’t smell that?” He edged past her, halting in the living room entrance, again surveying the room.

“Yes,” she said, an uneasy apprehension clogging her throat and mouth. But the oily stench of her worry couldn’t mask the odor caught somewhere between spoiled food and old meat. “What is it?”

He didn’t reply to her question, but instead eased in front of her. “Don’t touch anything. Nothing, Greer, okay? Wait here while I go check through the house.”

Hell, no
. She was right on his heels when he aimed for the back of the place. Scowling, he ground to a halt, glared at her. Maybe he spied the determination on her face because he sighed. “Fine, but keep your arms close to your sides and try to follow directly behind me.”

She nodded. They trailed through the kitchen, the den, and back to the living room with no sign of Noah. By the time they climbed the steps and topped the staircase, the odor had grown stronger.

The pounding in her head worsened. And the beige carpet and walls of Noah’s second floor shifted to hardwood floors, light blue walls. She blinked and the image boomeranged back to reality. But for a moment she’d traveled to her old apartment. What the hell? Groaning, she willed the pain from bass drum to low drone. She coughed, trying to expel the cloying stench from her lungs, throat, and nose. But it clung to her. Cursing, Raphael whipped off his hoodie and passed it to her, pressing the warm material over her nose and mouth.

Noah’s study was the first room on the right. The door was ajar, and on the floor… She swallowed. Blinked. But the view didn’t change. Didn’t disappear. On the floor, a dark stain pooled just past the doorjamb, obscene and ugly against the wheat-colored carpet.

Raphael’s lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him above her heart pounding away. He grabbed her shoulders and tugged her in close.

“Greer,” he said, his voice coming to her as if spoken through rolls of cotton. “Baby,” he said, his lips grazing her ear. “Please wait here. Let me go in first.”

Numb, she shook her head. No. She had to see. Had to know.

“Please, Greer.” He closed his eyes, pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’t want to know you saw whatever is in there. Please wait here.”

“I can’t,” she rasped, her voice muffled behind his jacket. “I need to see.”

He lifted his lashes, his expression flattening until only a blank mask remained. “Keep that”—he nodded toward his sweatshirt—“over your mouth and nose.”

Not waiting for her consent, he turned and approached the study door. He skirted the large stain but didn’t go into the room.

He didn’t need to. And neither did she.

She cried out, stumbled backward, her hands stretched out in front of her as if she could ward off the scene laid out before her. Her spine struck the opposite wall, and she crumpled to the floor, her legs no longer capable of supporting her. Dimly, she heard Raphael call her name, but she didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t tear her eyes from the room.

The room where a man sprawled across the floor, blood surrounding his body like an oil spill. She narrowed in on the black-and-red joker on the back of his right hand. The same tattoo that had inked the skin of her assailant from the restaurant.

She focused on it.

Because if she continued staring at the floor and the hand of her dead would-be kidnapper, she wouldn’t have to look at the body of her best friend swinging from a beam above.

…

Forgive me…I love you…didn’t mean to hurt you…wanted you to see me, to run to me…

Though the words had been printed out on a piece of paper, Noah’s voice reverberated in her head, reading the suicide letter like an audio recording on a constant loop. And if she closed her eyes, his voice accompanied the image of his body swinging slowly back and forth from the exposed beam in the ceiling like a macabre soundtrack.

Suicide
.

It was too soon for an official determination, but the detective whom Raphael seemed to be familiar with had come to them outside Noah’s house and relayed what they’d found. After questioning them, Rider—had that been his name?—had gently explained that it appeared as if Noah had shot the man on the floor, then hanged himself. Greer’s objection had been immediate and fierce. But then Detective Rider had handed her a paper that had already been sealed and labeled in a clear plastic evidence bag.

The typed letter had been addressed to her, and in it Noah confessed to killing Gavin because he’d been cheating on Greer, that she had surprised him by arriving home, and so he’d knocked her out. He also admitted to the harassing letters and being behind all the acts that followed, including the kidnapping and attempted murder of Raphael. He’d done it for love, hoping she’d turn to him for safety, and they could finally be together. And when Raphael stepped into the picture, he’d tried to remove his rival for her affection. After their argument, he’d realized she didn’t love him, and he’d decided to end it, including taking out the man he’d hired to kidnap her and kill Raphael.

The letter hadn’t been signed, but everything—Gavin’s murder, and the person and motivation behind the threats—had been tied up in one neat bow.

And she didn’t believe any of it.

Greer shivered on the couch, pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around her body. God, she was cold. Almost as if the blood in her veins had crystallized into ice, freezing her from the inside out.

Maybe I’ll never be warm again.

Gathering the blanket around her like a robe, she rose and crossed the living room to the floor-to-ceiling window and stared into the darkness beyond. Flames from the fire Raphael had built after they’d returned to his house reflected in the glass, and the trees surrounding the house appeared ablaze. Usually, she would’ve studied the tableau before her and itched to paint it. But not today. For once the urge didn’t surface, submerged beneath the grief and fury that beat within her like a second heartbeat.

Another shadow joined the others in the window’s reflection.

“What did you find out?” she asked Raphael.

He remained leaning against the living room’s entryway, watching her. She turned, and though he didn’t move, his gaze roamed over her from the haphazard knot she’d scraped her hair into after a shower to the white socks peeking out from under the blanket’s edge. He crossed his arms. Maybe to keep from reaching out and shaking her. Or holding her. God, did she need him to pull her in and cradle her against the hard, solid lines of his body. In his arms, she could breathe, could release some of the agony that swelled within her to the point of bursting through her skin.

But she didn’t blame him for not making a move toward her. Since they’d left Noah’s house almost four hours ago, she’d been like a block of ice: unreachable, untouchable, impenetrable. She’d stridden to her room, showered, and settled on the couch. Raphael stayed with her for a long while, but he’d retreated from the room about an hour earlier. To his basement, his lair. And though she’d known him for only a short time, she would bet the trust fund she would come into at thirty that he hadn’t been just watching another Bruce Willis film.

“Please, Raphael,” she said, hitching the cover higher over her shoulders.

He straightened, stepping into the room. “His name was Adam Morgan aka Adam Smith aka Aaron Smith aka Aaron Chandler. Nicknames include Ace, A, Twist, and Tag. He’s been convicted of driving under a suspended license, petty larceny, breaking and entering, and yes, there is also a defacement of property charge on his record, too,” he added, acknowledging her guess about that particular crime. “He was released from a Delaware prison five months ago after serving five years on the B&E. All of his crimes were in either Delaware or New Jersey. Which would explain why Leah wasn’t able to find out anything. He hadn’t been busy in Boston long enough to be arrested here or familiar to the cops.”