Page 209 of King of Pain
He licks his lips, eyes flicking up to meet mine.
“Fucking now.”
Then he dives onto my dick, swiftly taking it to the back of his throat.
I thread my fingers into that sexy fucking head of hair and throw my head back in ecstasy.
“Three times?” Chance groans, voice still wrecked as he towels off, water dripping from his hair and that sculpted chest. He shoots me a glare that has no heat. “You know I have to walk tomorrow, right?”
I shrug, towel slung low on my hips. “You’ll live.”
He snickers, rolls his eyes, and steps into the bedroom. I follow behind, just in time to land a sharp smack on his ass. He yelps, then grins as he heads to the dresser and yanks open the drawer.
“I'm taking Little G out,” he says, tugging on a pair of sweats and a threadbareGooniesT-shirt that struggles against his chest and biceps.
I smile as I tug on a pair of shorts. “Sounds good. I’ll start dinner.”
Chance nods, ruffles his damp hair, and heads out to leash up Guinness. I hear the soft murmur of his voice in the living room as he talks to our little guy like he’s a person, then the gentle click of the door shutting behind them.
I walk to the nightstand to grab my phone off the charger.
I start scrolling my notifications and my thumb halts when I see aCNNnotification on the screen.
“Three Dead in Detroit Area Catholic…”
I freeze. My stomach twists as I unlock the phone, press into the notification, and open the article. My heart races as I read the sub-headline:
“Three Catholic priests, currently under investigation for sexual misconduct with minors, all perished overnight in a fire that consumed Foster Hall.”
My knees buckle and I sit down at the edge of the bed. My heart thuds violently behind my ribs as I keep reading.
“Fathers Tommy Klass, Francis Bergin, and Dean Colvecchio, of the St. Clair Parish, were all inside Foster Hall at the time and perished in the fire.”
My head swims.
“Unconfirmed reports from an anonymous source within St. Clair Police Department cite an email from Father Tommy Klass' account to the Detroit Diocese, alluding to suicidal intent.”
My hands shake. My skin buzzes with something—fear, disbelief… but under it all, something darker.
Relief.
I keep scanning, my eyes catching on a line that sends a chill up my spine:
“…all three of the deceased had a rosary affixed around their neck, melted in place from the fire. Strangulation has not been ruled out.”
I lower the phone into my lap. My palms are clammy. My throat is dry. I stare straight ahead, but I’m not seeing the room.
I’m seeing him. Father Tommy. Black hat, whiskey breath, threats whispered with a smile.
Gone.
I blow out a breath, hands trembling, and then a thought slips into my mind. I open my browser, type in a quick search, and find the confirmation I need from a reputable legal source. The moment I see it spelled out clearly, I shoot up to my feet just as the door opens.
Chance steps in, Little G trotting beside him, tail wagging. Chance is crouched down unclipping his leash when I blurt out—
“Marry me!”
Chance’s head shoots up and he stares at me, wide-eyed.
