“They’ll never talk.”
I squeeze his jaw, trace the broad shape of it. “How do we know for sure?”
“Think about it—they’d be completely humiliated. You think it was Rach’s choice to take my money?” He snakes a hand beneath my t-shirt to find my dressing, and strokes around its taped edge. “It was easier for them if it all just went away. Only it never did for Rachel, and they’ll never forgive themselves. They’re cowards. Cowards who are far too busy hating themselves to stage some elaborate frame job on me.”
Rachel often wept into my cleavage and called her parents exactly that—cowards.
“They also weren’t that clever,” he adds, without a shred of humor. “Could Rachel have told anyone else?”
“I doubt it. It was nearly a year before she told me about you, and I was the only person she’d been close to in a long time.” Even now, guilt turns the air bitter. Stale wine. I run a hand down to fumble with his fly and the cock straining beneath it.
“She didn’t tell her therapists?”
“Not that I knew of. She was still afraid. Why try to link you to the Blood Honey murders? That’s what I don’t get. If the FBI had even a shred of evidence, they’d already have taken you in.”
“Posner said they know who he is.” He shifts his hips effortlessly, offering himself up as if he barely has to think about it. “Could be bullshit. Still.”
I tug him out through his boxers; he’s burgeoning and smooth in my hands, leaking at the tip already. “Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way.”
“Oh?” He arches back as I squeeze him. “Oh.”
“Maybe this isn’t about insinuating you’re the killer.” My breathing slows. I’m not sure how to handle this, so I just handle him, my strokes even slower. “The hospital report is from a long time ago, right? So maybe…it’s meant to suggest you’re the inspiration.”
For a moment, Aeron is silent, the room is silent, and the silence itself pulls us further together in warm ribbons of gravity.
“The only person who’d know if that was true is the guy himself,” Aeron says eventually. His tone is contorted by lust in one direction, and disgust in another.
I grow wet and slippery just watching him. I never liked this part of myself, the side so willingly twisted by desire…but I could never bring myself to hate it, either. Truth be told, the more I indulge it with Aeron, the more I forget that any of us should try to be noble.
“The FBI wanted airport footage. What if he was on it? What if that was him, leaving for Russia? He’d already had the prostitute by then—the timeline fits, and the rest fits—”
“Except the part where you’re suggesting I’ve inspired some crackpot,” he cuts in. “I mean really, Leo, it’s one hell of a compliment, but I’m not sure my ego needs that kind of shit.”
I let his cock fall back against his belly, and then reach to peel my dress up over my head. “Only you could joke about this.”
“It’s not a fucking joke though, is it?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. He yanks me against him, breathing warmth and want over my aching nipple before sucking it into his wet mouth.
For a moment, I forget the grim subject matter of our conversation, and concentrate on restraining my moans. Every time he leans back to pull on my nipple, a jolt of sugared heat hits right between my thighs, and when I settle so the blunt head of his cock rubs right through my panties, it all feels so woefully inevitable.
Have…have to concentrate. This is important.