Chapter 5

Marek

My living room is mostly dark, which matches my mood. The light over the stove is on in the kitchen, and it throws enough of a glow into the living room that I’m not in total pitch black. I sink further down into the armchair, the bottoms of my forearms perched on the rests. One hand holds a highball glass with about two inches of bourbon in it. I’m holding it at the rim by my fingertips, dangling it over the end of the armrest. I’ve yet to take a sip, and that’s only because I’m pretty damn drunk already. Not sure why I even poured it, but since I wasn’t tired when I stumbled in the front door a few minutes ago, I figured more liquor couldn’t hurt.

The party at Holt’s house sucked. Normally, hanging with one of my best buds is one of my favorite pastimes. Holt is a huge extrovert and social whore. He loves people and having them around. He loves women even more, and nothing better to congregate them in one place than a huge party frequented by most of the single dudes on the Cold Fury.

And there were plenty at Holt’s house this afternoon. Even more showed up this evening as his party raged on. Holt’s getting ready to gut his entire house and remodel it over the course of the season, so this was sort of a last hurrah for him.

It was the pits because I couldn’t get into it. The liquor tasted bland, the food dry, and the women? Well, they didn’t seem so hot anymore.

Not compared to Gracen, and it’s impossible for me not to compare them to her, because she’s in my face constantly. I might be pissed at her a good chunk of the time, but I’m still attracted to her 100 percent of the time.

It’s left me in an overly surly mood tonight, and perhaps the bourbon will take the edge off. I lift the glass to my lips, take a mouthful, and swallow it down without savoring. My arm drops back to the rest and I sink further into the chair while I brood.

Lilly.

I’m so fucking far out of my comfort zone that my stomach is constantly knotted when I’m around the kid. She’s utterly perfect, and I’m not saying that because she looks just like me. But God, my naturally wavy hair that actually forms ringlets of curls is amazing. And she has my eyes.

My fucking eyes.

Both Gracen and I have blue eyes, but the fact that the color is spelled B-L-U-E is about the only similarity. Mine are a deep blue, the color of denim. They can become quite dark when I’m feeling strong emotion, but I’ve been told they look like sapphires when the sunlight hits them. At least some chick I was hanging with at the beach told me that once, but I saw it yesterday with Lilly. She picked a dandelion for her mom and held it up for me to inspect. She smiled at me as she titled her face back to the sun and her eyes sparkled like gemstones.

Gracen’s eyes, though, are completely different. They’re pale blue with a darker ring around the edge. When you look close, you’ll see flecks of gold in them as well. I always thought they were magical eyes…hypnotizing.

Used to love fucking her and looking down into those eyes.

I take another swallow of the liquor and my head swims.

The noise doesn’t penetrate at first because my senses are dulled somewhat from the hours of drinking today. I could barely work my Uber app to get a ride home, so I know damn well I’ve got no business continuing to drink.

But I hear soft footsteps padding down the staircase that extends upward to the second-floor bedrooms and downward into my basement. The staircase is just to my left on the other side of the half wall that separates the casual living room from the formal area.

Just a wall separates me from Gracen, because I know that’s her coming down those stairs. Her steps fall lightly and with caution so as not to make too much noise. If that was Lilly, she would come down with distinctive clops, as she takes one step at a time and with determination as she holds the rail. Of course she wouldn’t be up this late anyway.

Yes…I may have studied my daughter a time or two. The way I watch her would be considered creepy if she weren’t my blood and I hadn’t seen her in three years.

Gracen steps into my line of sight and my lungs seem to freeze up. Classic Gracen wearing nothing but a T-shirt to bed. Not a baggy men’s tee, but one of her own well-fitted T-shirts that hugs her petite frame and C-cup breasts that are unrestrained right now. They jiggle a little when she walks. My eyes drop to her ass, barely covered in a pair of white bikini panties that sit low on her hips and ride up just under the curve of her ass cheeks.

Despite the copious amounts of alcohol I’ve consumed, my body instantly responds to her. My cock thickens and swells, pushing against the zipper of my jeans. I silently lift my glass and polish off the rest of the bourbon, bringing the empty glass to rest on my knee.

My eyes are glued helplessly to her body as she walks into the kitchen. She moves gracefully and lightly. The lower half of her body is blocked by the kitchen island until she gets to the other side where the refrigerator stands. She’s in the shadows, looking mysterious and lonely, until she pulls the door open and the light spills across her, the cold air making her nipples tighten and poke through her shirt.

I stifle a groan and shift my hips while my free hand pushes my erection to the side of my zipper for some relief.

Christ, I hate to react to her this way. I try to pull forth my anger and will it to make her unattractive, but fuck if all I can see is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known made sexier by the fact she fucking carried my kid in her womb.

It’s totally whacked.

Gracen peruses the contents of the fridge for a moment before reaching in and pulling out a pie dish covered with tinfoil. I’m thoroughly disappointed when she closes the door and her body falls back into the muted shadows cast by the small light over the stove.

I silently watch as she places the pie dish on the island counter, rummages through a drawer for a fork, then peels back the foil.

That’s the Gracen I know. She wouldn’t bother with a plate and to cut out a slice. She’d dig right in with her fingers if a fork wasn’t available.

She forks out some of the pie and I have no clue what type it is. I imagine the tingle of cinnamon if it’s apple, or perhaps the sweet-tart burst of flavor from cherries. Regardless, I stare fascinated and dick raging hard as she opens those plump lips to take a bite.

Her eyes close and her head tilts back slightly, and I’m done when a low, sexy moan bubbles out of her that’s loud enough to carry across the living room to me.

“Is it that good?” I ask, my voice hoarse and gruff.

She’s unflappable as ever. Most people would scream and probably curse if someone spoke to them unexpectedly from the shadows.

Gracen merely jolts slightly, her eyes snapping over toward where I’m sitting. She stares at me a moment and I wonder if the darkness conceals my attraction to her that’s thumping between my legs.

Giving a slight cough, she clears her throat and asks oh so politely, “Would you like a piece?”

God, would I ever like a piece.

And not of pie.

I don’t answer her, but push up from the chair. I tilt slightly to the left but correct myself. Ambling over to the wet bar that sits at the base of the stairs and separates the two living areas, I concentrate on walking a straight line so I don’t appear as drunk as I feel.

I quietly pour another two fingers of bourbon and swish it suavely around my glass. It spills over the top and onto my hand.

“Shit,” I mutter as I turn back around to look at her. She’s digging back into the pie, thoroughly ignoring me.

I don’t like being ignored.

Walking around the island counter, I come to stop beside her and set my drink down. My gaze drops and I see she’s eating a cherry pie. Christ, that’s sexy. I’m pretty sure there’s some rock song out there about a half-naked woman eating cherry pie.

“You’re drunk,” she says quietly, pushing her fork back down into the pie. It comes up with a single cherry on it. I watch fascinated as her pink tongue darts out for a tiny taste before it disappears into her mouth.

“What makes you think I’m drunk?” I ask, my tongue feeling very thick and heavy from the alcohol.

“You’re lurching all over the place and you smell like a distillery,” she says in a bland voice, which leads me to believe she’s not offended by it.

“You shouldn’t be walking around the house dressed like that.” My eyes rake down the side of her body. I can’t tell if her nipples are still hard, because her arms are in the way, but the curve of her ass is stunning.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” she returns in a bored voice, and I realize in this moment she doesn’t care one bit if I still find her attractive. She’s not affected by me the way I am over her, and that chafes just a bit.

Gracen covers the pie, which tells me this conversation is fast winding down. But the alcohol in me doesn’t want this little encounter in a dark kitchen to end. Especially when I just spent the last several hours at a party being absolutely tempted by no one because they weren’t Gracen Moore.

My hand wraps around her wrist and I pull her arm away from her body. She’s forced to turn and face me, and her expression reveals nothing. From the glow of the light from the stove, she looks like I could be getting ready to discuss a grocery list with her.

I take her other wrist in my free hand and slowly stretch both her arms outward and away from her body. My eyes sweep down her, wanting to stay pinned on those nipples, which are indeed quite visible against the thin cotton of her T-shirt, but I let my gaze continue.

Down past the short edge of her tee, which reveals the smooth skin of her lower abdomen, right to the pristine, virginal white panties covering her pussy.

My mouth waters at the sweetness I know rests just beneath that material. God, I used to love going down on Gracen. I could seriously fuck her with my tongue for hours on end and be quite satisfied with just her moans and cries. Of course, I seem to remember she was equally as generous with her mouth, and that does nothing to dissuade my hard-on.

I sweep my eyes back up until they lock with hers. Her impassivity is gone, and in its place is wariness.

“Done looking?” she asks quietly.

Never.

“What’s a man to do?” I taunt her, and I hate that my words are slurring slightly. “You walk around dressed like that, I’m going to look.”

“I didn’t realize you’d come home,” she says by way of excusing herself.

“And here I am.” I step in a little closer to her, and I’m drunk, but still with enough wits that I notice her sudden intake of breath.

I stare down at her. Face so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at it sometimes. I’ve dreamed of that face. Just her face. Sometimes just her nose. Or her lips.

Gracen has never faded from my memory no matter how much I’d wished she had over the years. She was my first real love.

My only, for that matter.

What if…what if I just kissed her? Just once. A small taste. I can blame it on my drunkenness, which is forgivable, right?

I zero in on her lips, both full and generous, with the lower slightly plumper than the upper. I’ve bitten that lip countless times, and she always loved it.

I pull on her wrists, make her take a step closer to me. She’s pliant with no hesitation. Her tongue swipes her bottom lip, and fuck…is that an invitation?

She’s practically stepped into my arms, and she’s licking her lips and half naked. Yeah, she wants this too.

My head dips without any thought, tilting to the side for the perfect angle.

Just one fucking taste.

I’m close enough I can feel her breath on my mouth.

“I kept your daughter a secret from you,” Gracen says, her voice laced with bitterness. “You hate me. Remember?”

I jerk back from her and notice her hands are curled inward so she could dig her nails down into my skin.

Trying to get me to release her.

I drop my grip suddenly and stagger back a step as her words finally penetrate. She didn’t want that kiss. Her words were a reminder to me that I don’t like Gracen anymore. And while I don’t hate her—could never hate the mother of my child—I despise so much of what she’s done to me.

I can’t fucking reconcile that with this attraction that’s still seeded deep within me.

“I’m going to back to bed,” Gracen says softly, dropping her face. She starts to push past me, but my hand locks on her wrist again so she has no choice but to stop in place.

She refuses to look at me, though.

“I don’t hate you, Gracie,” I tell her truthfully. Because when you’re drunk and your inhibitions are lowered, you speak the truth.

“Well, that’s something then,” she murmurs back to me as she pulls her hand free.

And then she’s gone, bounding up the stairs gracefully and just as quietly as when she came down. I watch her until she’s out of sight and then pick the glass back up off the counter.

I drain the bourbon from my glass and hope to God I’m drunk enough I can go to sleep without mulling over what just happened.