Marriage and Murder Page 5

  I couldn’t recall ever saying the word out loud. It felt so off-limits to me, so ripe with prohibition. It wasn’t proper, and maybe that’s why I loved the idea of doing it with Cletus. Like I was awakening to a new, primitive part of myself, essential yet forbidden, engaging in a naughty activity that—if caught—meant I would be punished, perhaps even shunned. And yet it felt crucial, necessary to use him, his glorious body. And to be used in the same way.

  Not making love. Not cherishing each other’s hearts, minds, and bodies.

  Fucking.

  “Lift up your dress.”

  I breathed out on a rush, my heart taking off, and immediately began to comply. “You’re not going to help?”

  “I don’t know how it works, and I don’t want to break it.” Cletus had released me and worked on the complicated mechanism he called a belt, his movements unhurried as he stepped back to watch me gather the material of the skirt.

  Are we doing this? Now?

  “But where—?” I whispered the question, my thighs flexing as cool air met the newly exposed skin. In fact, my entire body felt taut, tight, tense.

  “Lean back,” he ordered, already guiding me up to the countertop, catching on the front of my dress to yank it down as I finished pulling the skirt up.

  Leaning over me, Cletus roughly palmed my breasts as they were exposed, twisting and pinching my nipple, making me whimper. A dark, appreciative grunt rumbled out of him as he gazed upon my bared torso and his hands where they touched me. He lowered and his mouth closed over the center of my breast, hot and wet. His tongue swirled, sucking almost to the point of painful, making my back arch off the table. My fumbling fingers sifted through the hair at the back of his head and pressed him closer. God.

  It felt so good. Always so good, and I felt so lost. My upbringing had not prepared me, I’d not been raised in what folks now called a sex-positive household. And perhaps that was why every time we were together I always experienced nagging shame and worry, like it shouldn’t feel good and I shouldn’t enjoy it and I was a bad girl because I did.

  “Open up.” Cletus moved a hand between my knees, pushing them apart, sliding fingertips up my inner thigh and cupping me over the lace of my underwear, massaging with a firm hand.

  A clumsy moan slipped past my lips as I glanced down the topography of my body, watched him touch me. I trembled and he slipped a long finger into my panties and inside me, then drawing it out and painting a circle around the sensitized flesh at my center.

  I closed my eyes against the sight of myself like this—my breasts out, my legs open and bare, the dress hiked up and pushed down—the sensations too much. “Oh God, I’m going to—I’m going to—”

  He withdrew his finger immediately and pulled my underwear off, halting the coming crisis. I was so close, and we’d just started, but this is what he did to me. I was always so ready. All he had to do was look at me and I wanted it, him.

  I heard him release his zipper and my sex clenched, aching, needful. The rustle of fabric preceded the sound of his pants falling to the floor. Then a pause. I didn’t open my eyes, but I knew he was rolling on a condom. A second later, he pressed his erection against me and stroked, making me pant and gasp, my fingers flex for purchase, my toes curl again. I couldn’t breathe, I wanted him so badly. But he didn’t enter me.

  “You’re too close,” he mumbled as though this information were a problem to solve.

  Another pause.

  I opened my eyes and found him standing between my spread legs, his eyes on my breasts trailing to where the dress was bunched around my middle and lower to where he held himself just above where I needed him.

  His shirt was open, showing off the gorgeous hard planes of his chest and stomach and lower. My mouth watered at the sight. If he didn’t take me soon . . . I opened my legs wider, an invitation. I needed him.

  “Cletus. Please.” I was on fire.

  He licked his lips. “Turn.”

  “Turn?” I swallowed, my voice cracking, not sure I’d heard him right.

  He was already moving me, hooking a hand behind my knee and tugging me down the countertop so I was on my feet again. He then turned me such that I was facing the counter instead of him. His knee spread my legs and he guided me forward before I could catch my breath. I lowered myself to my elbows, feeling thrilled and uncertain as a new ache pooled between my legs.

  We’d never done it this way, him taking me from behind. We’d always faced each other. And, for some reason, not being able to see him or touch him—only feeling how he chose to touch me—ramped up my nerves anew and wound me tight.

  I felt him shove my skirt higher, the cold air against my completely bared bottom and lower back just as I felt the thick, hard length of him push inside, opening me. I sucked in another gulp of air at the intrusion and closed my eyes, trying to hold myself away from the counter as he withdrew and then entered me again with a second quick thrust, again and again, his thighs making a slapping sound against the back of mine each time.

  We groaned in chorus, and I could not believe what I was feeling. He was so deep and so everywhere and I was so full. The forcefulness of his movements rocked me forward and backward, making my breasts sway against the friction of the wooden countertop.

  Instinctively, I tilted my bottom up, and the harsh sound he made followed by the raspy words “Good girl” sent a shiver of goose bumps racing over my exposed back and arms, pinpricks of delicious agony. In this position, my clitoris neglected, I felt like I’d always be just a hair’s breadth from unraveling, and it was the most exquisitely painful, tortuous feeling, all anticipation and longing and wanting. I hurt and I suffered, and I could not get enough of it.

  “Are you okay?” he growled, sounding like he spoke between clenched teeth.

  I immediately and enthusiastically nodded, a breathless and sobbing “Yes” spilling out of my parched mouth. “It feels so . . .” I didn’t know the word. I couldn’t think.

  Why the hell hadn’t we done this before?

  Why would he keep such a thing from me? After we were done, I was going to demand answers! I was going to—

  “Oh my God!”

  I think that was me who’d cried out because Cletus had reached around and slid a finger between my legs, circling then pushing that glorious little button and I was sent spiraling, falling as his movements grew harsher, lacking in rhythm or finesse, avaricious and wholly without his precious control.

  He leaned forward, his other hand gripping my hip and pressing me down fully, the hard muscles of his stomach flexing against my bottom, his hips and thighs pushing and retreating inelegantly as I reflexively arched my back. My seemingly endless orgasm originated from somewhere deep within my body, this new place he’d invaded and touched with each animalistic stroke. And it just went on and on.

  He’d finished, I knew he had, but my body still shook, and I cried out. He seemed to understand what was happening because he brought me to a standing position and sucked my ear into his mouth, one hand rolling and tugging at my nipple while the other petted and stroked between my legs, prolonging each of the cresting waves.

  I was out of breath like I’d run a marathon, my chest heaving, my legs—all my muscles, in fact—unsteady. And when the last of the tremors abated, Cletus seemed to understand this too. He lifted me into his arms, holding me tight, close. My cheek pressed to the space over his thundering heart, I felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he also fought for air.

  “I . . .” I started, but would never finish the thought because I had none. I had no thoughts. My brain had been wiped completely clean. I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore.

  “Shh.” He kissed my forehead, leaned his hip against the counter and held me tighter. “Just . . . take a minute.”

  So I did, and in that minute I had my first thought, This is what people mean by “mind-blowing sex.”

  I thought we’d had mind-blowing sex before, but I’d been mistaken. This was it. Don’t ge
t me wrong, we’d had some amazing sex, lots of sweet, wonderful, lovely sex. I’d loved everything we’d ever done, obviously. If I hadn’t loved it so much, then why else would I always be ready for my next dose? My next hit of Cletus?

  But this? Chef’s kiss. This was the Michelin-four-star rating of making love.

  Then I had a second thought, That wasn’t making love.

  Then I had a third thought, If my appetite has been insatiable up to now, what’s it going to be after this? Am I doomed to be a Cletus sex addict?

  . . . I could think of worse things.

  “Jenn.” Cletus whispered my name against my hair. “As much as it pains me to say it, we need to get back to the party.”

  As though fate wished to punctuate this, the lights over the sink turned off. After closing, they were set on a timer, partially to save on electricity and partially to discourage baking after hours, like I used to do all the time. We both chuckled at the kitchen-light fairies basically kicking us out, and I nodded, still winded.

  My words sounded breathless. “You’re right, let’s clean up.”

  I wiggled, and he set me down on the countertop. Cletus, kissing my lips and cheek, inspected me for a moment as though ensuring I was steady enough to hold myself upright. Apparently convinced, he pulled up his pants and turned, walking in the direction of the bathroom at the back. He completely disappeared for a moment, and I gingerly hopped off the counter, easing my weight to my feet still encased in high heels, and I winced—but just a little bit.

  I was sore. Between my legs. That hadn’t happened since the first time we’d been together. Righting the straps of the dress first while I searched the darkness for my underwear, I couldn’t help but replay our encounter, not knowing how to feel.

  Did we really just do that? Had I just pulled up my dress, bent over, and spread my legs in the place where I work?

  “Here.” Cletus suddenly appeared, looking devilishly handsome in the dim light and seemingly all put back together—like we’d been in here holding hands instead of. . . ANYWAY.

  He held out my underwear. His eyes were bright even in shadow, and I could see they were half-lidded as they lazily trailed over me. He looked at me like he was hungry, and I was dinner. Despite all the encore orgasms I’d just had, the effect hit me right between my legs.

  I wondered what he was thinking, watching as he licked his bottom lip and drew it into his mouth. Was he just as insatiable for me? And if so, was he okay with that?

  Tearing my eyes away, I pulled on the lace and fixed my skirt, telling my body to settle down. We were getting married for hootenanny’s sake!

  Cletus cocked his head to the side while I smoothed my hands down the red fabric, working to get a hold of all this raging want always coursing through my veins whenever he was near. Maybe it was because he was my first, and I guess, my only. Was that why I felt so crazed for him all the time?

  “Miraculous,” he said.

  I surmised he meant the dress. “Right? The wrinkles are hidden, if there are any. It’s ’cause they ruched the outer fabric at the seams, see?” I turned to the side to show him the seam, and he stepped forward as though he were going to investigate.

  Instead, his hands cupped my face and tilted my chin back. He stared at me with a vibrant intensity I felt all the way to my fingertips. “No, Jenn. Not the dress. You.” Cletus gave me a soft kiss, ending it by gently nipping my bottom lip. “You are my miracle.”

  I sighed. And I smiled. And I felt like I was walking on a cloud instead of in four-inch heels, which was also probably something of a miracle. “You say the sweetest things.”

  “I think you mean, I say the truest things.”

  I laughed, and he kissed my forehead. He held me there, in the dark with his lips pressed to my forehead. “I love you so completely, with every cell in my body. I wonder sometimes if I’d cease to exist—just evaporate or disappear—if anything ever happened to you.”

  “No.” I anchored my hands to his wrists and squeezed. “Don’t think like that. We’ve got our whole lives in front of us. There’s nothing anyone can—”

  Three bangs in quick succession pierced the quiet moment, and not a second later Cletus had me on the ground beneath him, covering my back with his body.

  “Gunshots,” he whispered in my ear. “From the parking lot. Don’t move.”

  Chapter Four

  *Jenn*

  “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.”

  Isaac Asimov, Foundation

  I didn’t move.

  The spike of adrenaline fierce and sudden sent blood whooshing between my ears as they strained, listening, waiting. I could barely see a thing, and perhaps that only served to heighten my other senses, because I did hear shouts and screams coming from the direction of the barn.

  Oh no!

  God, please. Let everyone be okay.

  I felt Cletus’s muscles beneath my hands start to relax and he leaned to my ear, whispering, “We shouldn’t leave yet. I’ll text Ashley, make sure everyone is—”

  Another shot, two, three, four, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming because these came in through the back kitchen window, glass raining down around the kitchen island. More screams from the barn, still far away from where we were, trapped.

  “Shit.” Cletus squeezed me tighter. As soon as the gunfire stopped, he grabbed my hand and let the rest of me go. “Stay low,” he ordered, pulling me after him to the big pantry.

  We’d had a break-in over the summer, and they’d cleaned out our truffle oils, saffron, salts, freeze-dried strawberries, and anything else gourmet or hard to find. Therefore, the pantry now had a steel door which we kept locked during non-baking hours where all the nonperishable expensive food items were kept, along with the flours and sugars and such.

  With steady hands, Cletus unlocked the door and pulled it open, pushing me inside. A second later, he followed. Instead of shutting the door like I assumed he would, he left it ajar just a few inches. I moved to stand, and he grabbed my wrist, pulling me back down.

  “No, don’t stand. But take off your shoes, in case we have to run.”

  Dumbly, I nodded and crouched again, then tried to do as he instructed but my hands were shaking too much. The only light coming in was from the crack in the door, and Cletus’s body blotted most of it out. I couldn’t see in the dark to untie the fastener. I was about to admit as much when the audible and recognizable sound of the bakery shop bell, jingling as someone entered, strangled the words in my throat.

  Cletus held perfectly still and was so quiet, I couldn’t hear him breathe. But I did hear footsteps—multiple people’s footsteps—the squeak of soles against the floor. Forcing my breath to slow, I closed my eyes, listened, and prayed.

  God, save us. God, protect us. And God, if one of those people out there is my father intending to do us harm, please strike him dead.

  I wished Billy hadn’t held Cletus back from my father at the party. Assuming this person creeping out there now was my father and he’d been the one who’d shot into the bakery, if Cletus had been allowed to punch him in the face and send him to the hospital, we wouldn’t be hiding in the pantry right now.

  I’ve learned my lesson, Lord. Even the Bible has smiting in the Old Testament. Violence might not be “the” answer. But clearly, it’s “an” answer from time to time.

  The sound of cabinets opening and closing made me jump. Someone cursed, a distinctly male voice. One of the intruders turned on a faucet, at the main sink from the sound of how far away it was. The water ran and my heart—which had already been put through its paces for the night—sped as another set of footsteps came closer to the pantry.

  Forcing my eyes open, I peered at the outline of Cletus crouched in front of the cracked door, sparse light coming in through the opening. I couldn’t really see anything else, but I wondered what or who Cletus could see. I swallowed the urge to ask, or to reach for him, or to do anything other than hold perfectly still and be frustrat
ed.

  Then someone banged on the back kitchen door, and I just about jumped out of my skin. Cletus reached for me and held one of my hands while I covered my mouth with the other.

  “Who’s in there? Open up! It’s the police!” Jackson’s voice boomed from the outside and that sent the kitchen invaders running, heavy footfalls and then the jingle of the bell over the front door marking their exit.

  “Who’s at the front?” we heard Jackson ask and another voice yelled something I didn’t understand. Then Jackson ordered, “Well go around then, go get him. I’ll go this way.”

  In the next moment, Cletus turned and wrapped me in a hug, pulling my body flush against his and stroking my hair as he kissed my shoulder, neck, and face. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded because I couldn’t speak.

  “You did great. You did so great.”

  He kept kissing me while I held him and gulped for air, not caring if my nails dug into or even tore his shirt. One of his arms held on as he shifted and pulled something from his back pocket. The phone screen woke, and I could see right away he had a ton of missed calls and unread messages, a fact confirmed when he navigated to his texts. Most were from within the last five minutes.

  Billy: We heard gunshots. Is Jenn with you? Where are you?

  Ashley: Please tell me y’all are okay. We just heard gunshots and the sheriff, Jackson, Boone, and Dale left to go check it out. Chris is still here keeping everyone calm.

  Beau: If Shelly calls will you actually answer your phone?

  Shelly: Pick up your phone if you’re not dead or having sex.

  But there were also two older texts, one from Jethro and another from my mother, both sent about twenty minutes ago,

  Jethro: Roscoe and I are about to leave with two of your suits. He likes the gray, but I think you want to wear the black, so we’re bringing both. Do you need anything else from the house?