Filfthy (37 page)

R
oyal

T
he flicker
from the TV screen lights my apartment, and I’m sprawled across my Murphy bed, waiting for sleep to take a hold of me when a knock on the door wakes me from my trance.

It had better not be fucking Misty again.

Or Pandora.

Shit, it’d be just like Pandora to show up here unannounced in nothing but a trench coat and a ninety-nine cent thong.

I slip a pair of navy sweats over my boxers and tug a white t-shirt over my head, combing my hair into place.

Checking the peephole, I smirk when I see who’s decided to grace my presence at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

I yank the door open, smacked with the never-ending scent of Downy April Fresh and the face of an angel dressed in all black.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” Demi asks, straight-faced.

“Who?”

She barges in, slipping under my arm, and I shut the door behind her. Plopping down on my bed like she’s been here a million times before, she exhales loudly. Whatever she’s talking about, she doesn’t seem upset in the slightest.

There’s something lighter about her, even compared to when I saw her a few hours ago.

“The girl Brooks was seeing. Afton,” she says.

“Ah, I never knew her name,” I say. “And no, didn’t know she was pregnant. Never looked pregnant when I saw her.”

Demi blows a curl of hair from her face and lies back on my bed, kicking her heels off and letting them drop to the carpet.

I crawl into my bed, lying next to her, and roll to my stomach. Resting my chin in my hand, I can’t take my eyes off of her.

“What are you doing here? Thought you had a fundraiser,” I say.

She rolls to her side, mirroring me. “Yeah. About that.”

I smirk. “What’d you do?”

“Brenda wanted me to give a speech. I didn’t want to lie to all those people.” She rolls to her back, staring up at my water-spotted popcorn ceiling. “So I left. I left, and I went straight to the hospital. And I confronted Brooks. And he denied everything.”

“He denied the affair?” I frown.

“Yep. Said he didn’t remember leaving me. Said he wanted to be with me and he was sorry for a lot of things, but he didn’t remember anything about an affair or why he would’ve been driving to Glidden the night of the accident.”

“Makes no sense. He left you. He picked her. Why would he pretend he didn’t?”

“At first I thought it was his memory.” She sighs. “The doctors said he was going to have short-term memory issues, so it didn’t seem unusual at first. But then I remembered the credit cards, and I thought maybe those statements might help jog his memory. I went home and got them, and when I came back, Afton was in his room. I overheard their entire conversation.”

“Jesus, Demi.” I run my hand down her arm, stopping short at her wrist. I want to hold her hand, comfort her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, it sucks being lied to. Manipulated. Conned.” She bites her lip and rolls her eyes. “The worst thing about it is having someone think you’re dumb enough to fall for the lies. Is it weird that I’m not freaking out right now? Should I be freaking out more? Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“Nah.”

“I mean, there has to be something said for when a woman finds out her ex-fiancé knocked up his mistress, and then she goes running into the arms of the only man who ever truly broke her heart.” Demi’s fingers drum across her chest as she stares at the ceiling, releasing an audible sigh. “I’m messed up. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t even know how to fix it either.”

“Maybe not everything needs to be fixed.”

Demi rolls to her side again, resting her cheek against her hand. Our eyes lock, and all the oxygen is sucked from the room. There’s still a trace of red on her lips from earlier. I washed the lipstick off my mouth hours ago, as soon as I got home, but her taste remained.

That addictive taste.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. “Like you want to devour me.”

“Because maybe I do.”

She smiles, her lids seductive and half-closed, and I take it as an invitation. A sign. A green light.

I pull her on top of me, and she sits up, straddling my hips. The hem of her dress inches up, and she pulls her dark hair free from the tight, knotted bun on the back of her head. She tucks loose tendrils behind her ears. There’s a sweet glow about her.

“Remember that time,” I say. “Back at your parents’ house. That day we got caught in the rainstorm outside.”

“And you threw mud at me.”

“And you threw it right back.”

“We were covered in mud,” she says. “It was a Saturday. The whole family was gone at one of Daphne’s art shows in Rochester.”

My hands rest on her outer thighs, my thumbs moving closer to her core.

“We stripped naked, muddy clothes trailing down the hall to the laundry room,” I say.

“You threw a load in the washer and started it up,” she says. “And lifted me up.”

“Who knew the vibration of a washing machine could make sex with you that much more incredible than it already was?” My hands skim up her thighs, finding the curve of her hips and pulling her closer.

Demi’s palms are flat on my chest, and her dark locks spill down her shoulders.

“God, your Dad would’ve killed me if he knew I defiled you on the family Kenmore.” I smirk. Demi laughs.

Her smile fades a moment later. “You should come home with me next week. For Thanksgiving. See everyone again. Daphne will be home from Paris.”

Her father’s last words to me echo in my mind, the way they have for years. Robert was the first person I called to bail me out that night, and instead of urgency or sympathy, I found myself condemned. Banned from the Rosewood family.

He didn’t believe me when I professed my innocence, and I’ll admit that the evidence against me painted a compelling picture. For an attorney who’s heard every red-blooded American criminal profess his innocence, my insistences went unheard.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Demi,” I say carefully, watching her expression fall. “Your dad . . .”

“Let me deal with him.”

I can imagine her parents’ world shattering when she breaks the news about Brooks, and imagining the expressions on their faces when she shows up with me Thanksgiving day?

“Maybe someday, okay? Not now. One thing at a time.”

“One thing at a time?”

“Yeah.” I cup her cheek. “You really want to spring me on them right now? After the last couple of weeks?”

She exhales, running her fingertips along my arm and pulling my hand from her face. “You’re probably right. I mean, they did pretend you didn’t exist for seven years. There are definitely some strong feelings there.”

A crushing sensation covers my chest when I hear that the only people I ever considered family pretended I was dead for seven years.

“This thing that happened.” Demi glances down at me, her elbows tucked at her sides. “How bad was it?”

“I spent some time locked up for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“If you didn’t commit it, why’d you stay away? Couldn’t you just explain what happened?”

“I tried. Your dad wouldn’t believe me. And I ended up taking a plea deal, which required that I plead guilty, so on paper, yeah, it looks like I did something horrible.” I search for her hands, threading my fingers through hers. “But I swear to you, Demi. I swear on my life, I didn’t do it.”

“Huh.” Her head tilts as she studies me. “All these years, I thought you found someone else. That my parents hated you because you ran off with another girl.”

“I told you before, Demi. You’re the only one for me. Always have been, always will be.” I drag in a ragged lungful of air. “Even if you walk out of here and you never want to see me again, even if I find the strength to move on with someone else down the road, I’m never going to love her half as much as I love you.”

My hands slide up her neck, my fingers tangling in her loose waves, and I bring her mouth to me. Her body covers mine, and I roll over on top of her. Propped on my elbows, I hover above Demi, tasting her mouth again and again before leaving it to press kisses into the conservatively exposed parts of her.

Kissing her shoulder, I run a hand down her side until I find the hem of her dress. Tugging it up, I work it over her head and move my lips to the soft tops of her breasts as they pillow above a strapless bra.

Her stomach caves when I move lower, and I drag my tongue down her soft belly, slipping my fingers under the waistband of her lace panties. Sliding them down her thighs and tossing them across the room, I spread her legs and lower myself to her soft folds.

I run a finger along her seam, and the sweet scent of her arousal fills the air.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” I moan, dipping down to circle my tongue along her clit.

Demi sighs, her legs spreading wider, and her fingers lace through my hair. She grabs a handful and tugs as I lick and swirl every perfect crevice. It’s been years since I’ve devoured this sweet, addicting pussy, and I’m quite certain I could stay here all night.

I glide one finger inside her wet entrance, followed by another, curling, pumping, and licking, her hips gyrating as our rhythms sync.

After a while longer, her hands grip my biceps, pulling me over top of her. Cupping my face, she kisses me, unafraid to taste her arousal, to taste what I’ve done to her.

Our tongues circle, and blood hums in my veins, filling my throbbing cock as it protrudes from my sweats. Her bare skin is beneath me, her sweet pussy mine for the taking.

Demi’s hips push forward, and her thighs squeeze my hips. She moans into my mouth with each kiss, but it’s kind of fun to keep her waiting.

My mouth leaves hers, pressing kisses against the fevered flesh of her neck, and her nails dig into my lower back.

“Royal,” she pants, nudging me with pressed palms before sliding her fingers beneath my waistband. “You’re killing me here.”

I rise above her, yanking my pants and boxers down and pulling my hardened cock out. Reaching into my nightstand, I grab a rubber from a tucked away box and rip the packet with my teeth.

Fully sheathed a moment later, I grip my cock and drag the tip along her wet, swollen seam. She’s slick. Hot. Ready. And her fists beat the bedspread with each delayed second.

With one fell thrust, I slip inside her, filling her, stretching her. Slipping my arms beneath hers, I’m huddled above her, connected at the hips. Her thighs slide up my sides and fall, relaxed, and I pump. Thrust after thrust, I go deeper and deeper. Harder. Faster. Each piston more desperate and intense than the one before.

My greedy mouth crushes hers, and we struggle to breathe. Our bodies meld, sticking with a sultry heat that fills the space, enveloping us. Everything about her is dangerously addictive and nostalgic and feels like home.

It’s a feeling I never want to go without, ever again.

Her thighs are spread for me, and her lips are open for me, but in the end, it’s her heart I’m after.

And this time, it’ll be forever.

I’ll make damn fucking sure of that.

D
emi

T
he sun burns
my eyes through a break in the cheap, sheer curtains covering Royal’s windows. I tug the covers up over my head and burrow. He’s still out, his body keeping mine warm.

My thighs rub together, a delicate ache between them. The sensation of his blankets against my skin remind me that I’m still very much naked. A quick peek under the covers tells me he is, too.

We made love—fucked—whatever, most of last night. I came three times, and each time I swore I saw stars. Some carnal beast had a hold of us, and it refused to let go until it was fat and fed.

Royal groans and rolls to his side, wrapping an arm around me. His fingers splay against my naked belly, and he pulls me against him. My ass fits perfectly against his pelvis, and I’m half tempted to reach around and wake him up using only my hand.

I decide to let him sleep. Saying we were up most of the night is not an exaggeration, and it’s Sunday morning. We have nowhere to go, no place to be.

He groans again, and the soft sensation of his nose nuzzling against the back of my neck sends a line of pinpricks down my spine.

I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here. But the reason I was compelled to seek comfort in the arms of the only man who’s ever truly broken me is a glaring question mark I’m choosing to ignore for the time being.

I’m here.

That
happened.

It is what it is.

My phone chimes, somewhat muted from the inside of my clutch on top of Royal’s kitchen counter.

“You wanna get that?” He pulls the covers over his eyes. “Been going off all morning.”

“Sorry.” I climb out of bed, full-glory naked, and yank the covers off him to wrap myself in a makeshift sarong.

“Hey . . .” He reaches for the covers, but it’s too late. I have them.

I glance back and capture the beautiful view behind me. God, he’s so fucking sexy. Seven years were very kind to him. He’s all muscles and tattoos and just enough hair in all the right places.

Royal flips his pillow over his face, blocking out the sunlight, and my stare lingers on his naked body a little bit longer. I’m half-tempted to run back over and pounce on him, demanding another round. We were doing some serious making up for lost time last night, and I don’t think we came anywhere near making up for a fraction of those years.

I turn to my clutch, unsnap it, and pull my phone out.

Five missed calls.

Ten minutes apart.

All from Brenda Abbott.

I can’t deny the sinking feeling that threatens my footing. Considering what went on last night and Brooks’s propensity for manipulative tactics, I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a nice phone call.

That, and she’s probably calling to yell at me for dodging out of the fundraiser. But I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t stand there and tell boldfaced lies with a smile on my face.

Sucking in a breath, I press her name on my screen and bring the phone to my ear.

She answers in the middle of the first ring.

I grip a nearby bar stool and climb up, resting my elbows on Royal’s counter. They feel like Jell-O already.

“Demetria.” Brenda’s never called me by my full name before. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”

She doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, and I know immediately that’s not what this is about.

“Delilah said you were sick, but I was with you just before that, and you were completely fine. Ugh. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” she whines. “You should’ve been there, speaking to the donors. I don’t think it would’ve killed you.”

In four years, Brenda’s never once lectured me or spoken down to me. I let her rant and rave, let her get it out of her system, and I sit quietly on my end of the line and take it.

“I know exactly what this is about.” Brenda’s voice turns into a snippy huff, and my heart thumps. I glance at sleeping Royal across the room, and he rolls to his side, smashing his pillow with his muscled arm. “I know all about you and your trampy ways, Demi.”

I cough, choking on my spit, and turn away from Royal. “Wh-what?”

“That’s right,” she says. “Your neighbors have told me all about the mystery beau in the black sports car who comes to your house every night.”

Fuck.

“I’ve known about it since last week, and the only reason I covered for you was for Brooks’s sake. I couldn’t have my son waking up to find that his dutiful fiancé was entertaining another man in her free time.” Brenda’s tone is hurried, impatient. She’s been harboring this, holding on to this information and waiting for just the right moment to dump it on me.

That explains a lot.

“My son, my beautiful son, was in a coma, Demi, and you were screwing around on him like some floozy.”

“Brenda, I can assure you, it was nothing like that. I know how it looks, but the truth—”

“I’m not interested in your version of the truth, Demi. I trust my source a hell of a lot more than I trust you right now. Besides, that evening I stopped over . . .” She stops, sending my stomach into a freefall. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t born yesterday. And his car was parked in the street. Don’t think I didn’t put it all together.”

“Do you have any interest in the truth? At all? Because I’d love to let you in on some factual details before you hurl any more insults my way. I know you. You’re saying things you’re going to regret.”

Royal stirs from the bed, and I glance his way. We lock gazes, and I swat him away, mouthing that everything’s fine. He rolls his eyes, not believing me, and struts his naked ass toward the bathroom.

“Brooks told us this morning that you left him.” Brenda’s voice is wavy, shaken. There’s a quiver that tells me, despite the first couple of minutes of our conversation, her heart is broken just as much as I thought it would be. “He was so distraught, we could hardly comfort him. Do you have any idea how it feels, as a mother, to see your son in so much pain? Not just physical, but
emotional
?”

My jaw hangs. “Wait . . . who’s ‘
we’
?”

“Your parents. Robert and Bliss showed up this morning. They brought Brooks homemade cinnamon rolls and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. So thoughtful of them. And when they asked where you were, Brooks couldn’t hold it in anymore. He was so upset, Demi. And I didn’t have the strength to tell him the truth.”

A reserved sob filters from her end.

“You have it all wrong.” I close my eyes, slicking my palm along my thigh. “I didn’t leave Brooks. He left me. The night of the accident, he called off the engagement and left to be with her.”

“With whom?”

“Afton. The reporter from the Herald.”

Brenda scoffs from her end. “This is preposterous. I refuse to believe any of this.”

“She’s pregnant,” I say. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”

“You’re making this up.”

“Brooks isn’t perfect, Brenda. He’s made mistakes, and he’s done terrible things, and I suspect the only reason he wants you to think
I
left
him
, is because it makes
him
look like the victim here.” I massage my temples. “When he was in the hospital, I came across some credit card statements. They were all cash advances, taken out in my name. Almost two hundred grand worth.”

“Oh, good grief. How convenient. You’re trying to extort us, aren’t you?”

Groaning, I set the phone down, take a deep breath, and resolve to end this conversation the way my father taught me.

“Brenda, please tell Brooks he’ll be hearing from my attorney.” With that, I end the call.

Two warm hands curl over my shoulders, followed by lips pressing into the curve of my neck. Spinning me around on the bar stool, Royal gifts me a toothpaste kiss and a dimpled half-smirk.

“What was that about?” he asks.

Sliding off my seat, I brush past him and locate my clothes from last night.

“I have to go home,” I say. “Got a whole lot of fires to put out now, thanks to Brooks.”

“Yeah? What kind of fires? Need help?”

I shake my head, and the sheet falls to the floor. I find my bra and fasten the hooks behind my back. My dress is crumpled over the back of his sofa. I fluff it out and step into it, shimmying it up my hips.

“Not only do I now have to explain the entire Brooks situation to my parents, but I should probably worry about finding a new place to live. Oh, and getting my job back.”

When I’m dressed, I check my reflection in a wall mirror and cringe when I see the streaks of mascara under my eyes and the pallor of my bare complexion. I look like I was screwed three times, hit by a train, buried, and then reborn.

Royal slinks his hands around my belly, standing behind me in the mirror. I’m all
Walking Dead
over here, and the man still can’t keep his hands to himself.

“You really should come home with me next week,” I meet his gaze in the mirror. “For Thanksgiving.”

“Demi . . .” He exhales slowly, spinning me to face him. “They don’t want to see me. Trust me.”

Royal kisses my mouth, more than likely an attempt to silence my pleas. A successful attempt. I’m rendered speechless for a few moments, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

“Besides,” he says. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with Mona.”

I jerk away. “Mona?”

“My biological mother.”

My expression softens. I never did know her name, and he never once spoke about her growing up.

“Just the two of you?” I ask.

Royal bites his lower lip with his perfect teeth and gives a quick nod. “I’m all she has. Not going to leave her alone on Thanksgiving. Not when I know how that feels.”

I lift my hand to his cheek, letting his five o’clock shadow tickle my palm, and get lost in his stormy eyes for an extra minute or two. He’s a good person. I feel it. I know it when I look at him.

Whatever he did . . . couldn’t have been that bad. Or maybe I’m still too blinded by love to be able to read between the lines.

“I’m going now,” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead. Lets me go. Watches me leave.

I refuse to believe that he’s done anything so wicked and vile that it could keep me from loving him the way I always wanted to.

Leaving his place, I miss him already. Or maybe it’s the comfort I find only in his arms. In two short weeks, we’ve settled into this easy place, this happy medium between not asking too many questions and not giving too many answers.

I need to know the truth about that night, and I know the truth is coming.

But if it changes everything, if it steals him away from me again, I don’t know that I want it anymore. Despite everything that’s happened in the last two weeks, I haven’t felt this kind of contentedness in years.

And I’m holding onto it with every fighting breath I have.