Page 14 of Rockland

I can’t. I won’t.

But now my lips are on hers.

My dead brother’s wife.

I’ve wanted to taste her for so long, the guilt doesn’t even come.

I lean down further, taking in more of her. My mouth presses against hers. Warm and wonderful and softer than I’d imagined. My hands go to either side of her precious face. Holding her cheeks against my palms. Feeling her smooth skin for the first time. Her face is tiny in my hands. So delicate.

But I know how strong she is.

Her tongue finds mine. Her cheek nuzzles against my palm. She gives a little moan. And it’s my undoing.

Before I can stop myself, my hands are tangled in her hair. My lips move against hers and I’m gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. It’s bundled between my fingers. I slip my tongue into her mouth and tug at the handfuls of the soft tendrils I hold.

With that small gesture, she catches fire. And I’m engulfed in her flames. Her tongue is exploring me, desperately seeking what she needs. Her hands are on my waist, grabbing my ass.

To hell with decorum. I know what I do is as immoral as the devil himself. But he’s got his burning clutches around my soul. And I’ll take what I can get.

After all, half a decade is a long time to lust after a woman.

Her fingers are undoing my buttons. They are trembling and I grab them in mine. I press her hands to my waist, removing the shirt myself. I push the fabric from my shoulders and her gaze falls on my tattoo. I toss the shirt to the chair; it lands flat and smooth. I look to her and her hands press against my bare skin.

They’re warm. And small. She strokes the outline of my black marking with the tip of a finger. She begins to say, “I’ve always wondered what this was for. Why do you have it—” I stop her words with the passion of my kiss. I don’t want to talk.

I want to fuck.

It’s all so wrong. But feels so right.

My gaze locks on her and time freezes. In her eyes I see grief, lust, desperation.

My gut twists.

Despite my desires, my long infatuation, I’ll not go any further.

Fucking a widow? One year after her husband’s death? A day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think of him.

She would never forgive herself.

And the last thing I ever want to do is cause her more pain.

I hold her, one last time. My lips find the top of her head. Kiss her gently.

I hold her for another moment. Feel the warmth of her body pressed against my bare chest. Inhale her sweet scent. Wrap my arms tighter around her until her trembling ceases. I kiss the top of her head. Give her one last squeeze. Then I tell her, “We need to go.”

She looks up at me, trusting, vulnerable, broken. Nods. Accepting that this will never happen between us.

I release her. Put on my shirt. Button it with shaky fingers. Tuck it in. We straighten our clothing.

I take her hand and lead her to the dinner.

Tess

We’ve just arrived at Brett’s memorial dinner, and I can only think of one thing.

That kiss.

I must focus on the day. I give my head a little shake, forgetting the kiss. In the void of thinking of our lips pressed together, the memory of him spanking me drifts in. Now I can only think of one other thing⁠—