She looks vulnerable. Something I don’t care for, to be honest.
But she also looks… alive. Happy, I think. And expectant. Waiting for me to give her more.
She has always wanted a wall fuck.
Why? I don’t know. It’s not as fun as she thinks. It’s kinda dumb, if you ask me. But I’ve got her up against a wall, and I didn’t have to be rough to get her here. And anyway, it’s just way too easy to fulfill that little fantasy of hers.
I reach down, grab her behind both knees, and lift her up.
She squeals a little, laughing. And my cock is inside her so quick—she’s so wet—that I’m already thrusting a second time before she realizes it’s actually happening.
Her arms go around my neck. Her lips kiss mine.
And I’m left thinking… hmm. I think she’s been right all along. Because this is pretty damn nice.
I fuck her like this.
Not hard, and fast, and rough. But slow, and easy, and smooth.
But she doesn’t even notice that I’m being careful with her.
And this time, when she comes, I come with her.
And I don’t pull out.
The orgasm seems to go on forever. We close our eyes, bodies tense, and moan into it.
Then we are still and silent for a few moments, catching our breath.
I carry her over to the bed, let her flop down onto the mattress—making her squeal with delight—and crawl up next to her.
We assume the position. Her head on my chest. Leg over mine.
And I think to myself… if she is the only thing in this world I can ever have, I’ll be satisfied.
Wendy falls into an easy sleep after a few minutes, her breathing slow and steady. But I untangle myself from her, get dressed, and go downstairs.
I need to talk to Adam again.
So much has changed in one day, I can barely wrap my head around it.
Our plan—the plan Wendy and I put into motion to get access to Donovan’s brilliant genius of a mind and thus Carter—is going a thousand times better than expected.
We’re here, staying inside Adam Boucher’s Old Home. And we’ve got people working on our plan.
The cure that isn’t there.
There is no cure. There is only truth and lies.
I came here to feed Wendy lies. Good ones, for sure. Lies so well formulated, she wouldn’t ever question them.
But my earlier internal monologue about lies and truth has me reconsidering.
Because I’m lying to myself too. I’ve got my own blindfold on. I’ve spent the last seven years convincing myself that what I was doing to Wendy was necessary. It was for her own good.
And I still believe that.
But if truth is something you seek, why do I duck away from it every chance I get?
I’m starting to think I should take my own advice. It’s just this tiny nagging feeling that there’s more to what I’m doing here, but I’m too preoccupied to take notice.
I see Donovan, I see Carter, I see Adam, I see Indie, I see Nate, I see Merc…
But you know who I don’t see?
Maggie.
There’s something more to that little girl.
Adam is standing in the living room, looking out the front window.
Is he my brother? Maybe. In a genetic sense, at least. That’s at least possible. I saw the pedigree. We’re from the same line, whatever that means. Right now, I’m not even sure I had a mother. Maybe they grew us in labs?
Who knows?
Who cares, really?
The only thing I know is that Adam wants us to be brothers.
He wants me to be on his side.
I’m willing to do that—as long as he’s on mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ADAM
I love Old Home. I do.
I love the woods, and the swamp, and the house, and the lake, and the river. But even more than that, I love the darkness, and the danger, and the stifling heat. I love the mysteries of this place and how they wrap around you tight. Like a snake.
Old Home is a cage just like the one Indie was in when she was ten.
But it’s not there to hold me in, it’s there to keep the rest of the world out.
That’s why I brought McKay out here after we spent most of our lives living in the crowded French Quarter. I like the space, I like the freedom, I like the privacy.
But the thing I love most about Old Home is the gardens. They require a lot of work to make them nice and then, once they’re so beautiful they make you want to cry, they require maintenance. Year-round. Some years they look spectacular. But others, they look like shit. Those were the bad years or the too-busy years.
This year they look like something right out of a French fairytale. The beds are blooming, the trees are growing, and the bubbling fountains are the cherries on top.
Even though this is the first summer I’ve spent here in four years, I made the gardens a priority while I was gone. I hired a local company to take care of them and they did… maybe not a great job, but a decent one. A good enough job that when I came back here in the spring, it was easy enough to pick up where I left off and have it turn out like this by summer’s end.