Free Illicit by Madeline Pryce Page B

breathe. She pressed a hand to her stomach and sucked in a gulp of air. A sob fought its way through her stubborn determination not to cry. For the rest of her life she was going to be alone. Greg was gone and he wasn’t coming back. There would be no more late-night talks in his study, no more watching him roll his whiskey back and forth. No more shared dinners on the couch. No more hope.
    For a few precious hours, she’d managed to forget she was alone. She’d managed to shove aside the reality that the only man she’d ever loved was dead. Somehow, the brief reprieve made the loss stronger, almost unbearable. Over the last week, never-ending misery had numbed her. Thanks to Peter, the fire in her belly burned hot, made her remember the life taken, snuffed out, with the pull of a trigger. Images from the previous night fought with the gruesome pictures of Greg’s death, his bluish skin and glazed eyes staring sightlessly at her.
    Death won.
    Her hands curled into fists and the paper she clutched crumpled. Sniffling back the tears and the memories, she unfolded the note. Eva hoped she wasn’t making a mistake reading it. In the split second it took for her eyes to adjust in the darkness, doubt wormed inside. Had her instincts been wrong about Peter? Could he have killed…
    No.
    The sprawling chicken scratch was thankfully unfamiliar. She read the words aloud, “You’re a helluva fuck. See ya around – P.M.”
    She let out the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes. Helluva fuck. What an asshole, even if what he’d written was true.
    Balling up the paper, she threw it across the room and missed the trashcan by a mile. Her gaze fell on the wrinkled tie in the middle of the floor, the silk binding that had left her completely in Peter’s hands. She tried to conjure the appropriate guilt for having had sex with a total stranger, for enjoying his rough touch and letting him thoroughly defile her. She found only a craving for more. Did that make her sick? Probably.
    Eva forced herself out of bed and into her day-old clothes. She wanted away from the mattress that smelled of sex and man. She wanted even farther away from the bathroom where things had spiraled out of control. His hot, whispered “Please” against her neck was bound to haunt her for the rest of her life.
    The sweet scent of perfume and death lingered on the dress she zipped up. The smell brought to mind the stricken faces of the Pard. In a few hours, she would have to face them and fulfill Greg’s last wishes. He had wanted her to read his will in front of the people he’d spent his entire life protecting and caring for.
    Fighting a new bout of tears, she stepped into her black, fur-lined leather boots and pulled on her coat. Eyes straight ahead, she refused to glance back to the floor where her ruined panties and bra lay. Every time she moved, her tender nipples rubbed against the dress and hardened. They craved another, rougher touch.
    No way.
    She’d had enough sex in the last fourteen hours to last her a decade. The walk of shame was cold and dark. In the church’s empty parking lot she unlocked Greg’s black 4x4 truck and had a moment of panic when she reached for the door. Would another body roll out at her feet?
    The wind howled around her, sending soft flakes of snow swirling in front of her face. The temperature dipped, reminded her that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. A gust blew up her skirt, contrasted with the memory of Peter blowing hot air across her clit. Damn. Where was his hot breath when she needed it? She’d get frostbite if she stood outside much longer.
    Closing her eyes, her numbed and burning fingers pulled on the handle. The only thing that greeted her was the rich, familiar scent of Greg lingering on upholstery. She’d grieve again the first day his cherished scent no longer welcomed her. Her one second of comfort shattered the moment she sat down. Sitting down hurt her ass in a pleasurable-painful kind of