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I was even less worthy of her than I’d feared.
I wasn’t just the man who’d destroyed her life.
I was the man who’d destroyed her life twice.
Clover’s soft moans of pleasure pulled me back into the present, but it was too late. My pain had returned, along with two lifetimes’ worth of guilt and self-hatred.
But the deeper I spiraled, the higher Clo climbed.
Cradling my face with both hands, Clover whimpered against my lips as she finally sank all the way onto me. Stretched to her limit, she stilled and pressed her smiling lips to mine, as close to me as she could physically be, while emotionally, I was as far away as I could possibly get. Clo had found what she’d been missing her entire life, and witnessing that joy, being a part of it, was the only thing keeping me out of the darkest corners of my mind.
She might not have deserved a selfish, murderous piece of shite like me, but my sweet girl deserved to feel good. And I could do that for her.
Using all the self-control I could muster, I grabbed Clo’s arse with both hands and slowly rolled her hips back and forth so that her clit ground against my pelvis. Her soft, throaty moans vibrated against my lips as she sealed her mouth over mine, and the sound alone was enough to have my cock leaking pre-cum inside of her.
I wanted so badly to lose myself in her, to pound out all of my fears and regrets and failures until I was nothing more than a sweaty, mindless animal, and my resolve was slipping. With every passing second, my movements grew faster; my pressure increased. Clo’s moans grew louder. Her pussy clenched. Nails pierced skin. Fists pulled hair.
But it wasn’t until my girl captured my bottom lip between her teeth and cried, “Kellen,” that my willpower snapped completely.
Diving to the floor, I sank into her and unleashed everything I’d thought she was too delicate to handle in an uncontrollable torrent of thrusts and grunts and growls and moans. I clung to her body with white knuckles as I tried to exorcise the ghost of my past, and Clo clung to me just as tightly for the opposite reason.
She couldn’t get close enough to it.
Digging her nails into my back, Clover sank her teeth into the curve of my neck and whimpered through an orgasm that made her entire body contract around me like a fist. She held me as tightly as she could with everything that she had—her limbs, her mouth, her throbbing cunt—and in that moment, I realized that Clover wasn’t the delicate one.
I was.
Because her strength, her unconditional love and acceptance—it fucking broke me.
When I thrust into her fully, a flood of pleasure and unspeakable pain surged through my body, exploding in a river of hot cum and silent, blinding tears. And my angel took it, just like I’d begged her to. She drank my darkness, welcomed it in, but relief never came. The past still festered like a cancer in my soul. I could feel it growing, gnawing at my consciousness. It demanded to be acknowledged. It demanded to be seen.
I held Clo’s soft, warm body until her breaths slowed and her eyelids began to flutter. Then, I picked her up and laid her on the bed.
Our bed.
I didn’t remember sleeping there. I didn’t remember a single thing about that house.
But I remembered the barn.
And it was fucking calling to me.
CHAPTER 35
DAMIEN
Kellen’s clothes fit perfectly, down to his boots. But I didn’t put on his jacket. That I returned to its rightful owner, draping it over Clo’s beautiful, naked body before I tiptoed out the door.
I took a candle to light my way through the house. None of it felt familiar—antique furniture, old paintings, old lamps—but I’d found it in the dark. I’d led us straight there from the lake, and that fact left a sinking feeling in my gut.
Closing the back door as quietly as I could, considering the rotten, creaking doorframe holding it up, I stood on the patio and stared at the looming building to my right.
The entire sky was blanketed with clouds that seemed to glow from within. I couldn’t see the moon illuminating them, but I knew it was there, just like I couldn’t see what was inside the barn, but I knew it wasn’t fucking stables and hay.
I knew.
With every step I took through the overgrown weeds, the scent of blood and sawdust grew stronger in my mind. By the time my fingers wrapped around the door handle, bile was searing the back of my throat. And when I finally pulled the heavy wooden slab open and stepped inside, I did it with my eyes closed and my heart slamming into my ribs.
I didn’t need to see to know what I’d stepped into. Every detail of that woodshop was tattooed on my soul. I could picture every tool in the tool chest, the make and model of every gun I had stashed in those cabinets. I could picture the exact size, shape, color, and wood grain of the workbench directly across from me. And I could see the patch of concrete, covered in blood, where I’d held my wife’s dying body before I followed her into the dark.
