Page 13 of Phobia
“Baby,” Adam began, trying to suppress the laugh and failing. “C’mere.” He crooked a finger at me, and I narrowed my eyes at him with mistrust. “I promise I won’t let anything get you…” he trailed off, licking his lips and dragging his teeth against his bottom lip, my stomach flipping at the suggestive gesture. “Nothing but me.”
My body warmed, and my lips parted from the promise in those three words. That was one way to take the edge off. Adam extended an open palm out to me, and with a steadying intake, I found my nerve, and accepted his hand. His fingers clasped mine, and he lured me in gently, the hand that held mine letting me go, to twine his arm around my waist. He dropped his forehead against my temple, his free hand brushing my hair over my shoulder.
“You’re prettiest when you’re afraid.”
I lifted my heavy eyes to his. “Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” he hummed, grinding against me. “I don’t love that someone else is scaring you, but…” his lips found the shell of my ear, “I’m willing to bet you’re wet right now, huh?”
The blush stretched from the curve of my breasts, right up the length of my neck, and settled on my cheeks. My pussy pulsated in response to his confident observation, and small frissons of heat gathered under my belly button.
How well my husband knew me.
“Should I check?” he pondered, his voice low and raspy. He splayed his commanding fingers on my stomach, pressing down on me, driving me harder against him as he rolled his brazen hips. “Or should we keep going and see just how wet you can get?”
I swallowed, meeting the next gentle roll of his cock against my ass. “Keep going,” I replied, panting.
He’d taught me that lust, adrenaline, and fear, all came from the same place. The momentum was only just beginning. He always kept me on the edge of the unknown, because it made the explosion of all my nerve endings giving into the euphoria so much better.
“Let’s go, then.” The groan resounded in the back of his throat as he extricated himself from me, like it physically pained him to create any kind of distance between us. I followed him through the throngs of people into an arched opening leading into the next section of the museum fixed in the middle.
My pulse punched in my throat as soon as we crossed the threshold, the ominous energy sucker punching me, earning the flaring of my eyes. The rest of the museum felt like Disneyland compared to this room and I would have gladly walked back out if my rabid curiosity didn’t demand otherwise of me.
It was poorly lit in here, only it didn’t seem intentional—no, it was like a deterrent. People fluttered in and out with disinterest… but not us. The further we walked, the worse the sick feeling twisting inside me grew, sweat beading along the back of my neck.
My mind screamed to leave, my strides slowing as though anvils had affixed to my feet, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Small wall sconces flickered with dim orange bulbs, the temperature in here a few degrees colder than the rest of the building. We came to a standstill, taking in the room.
The discomfort forced every hair on my body upright, making it impossible to appreciate the room. Unlike the rest of the transformed chambers, this one seemed like it always looked this way. Tilting my head back, I followed the contour of the gilded ceiling, a grotesque Baroque-style painting above us. Where angels and heaven would have looked down on me had this been a church, there was nothing but a flamed landscape and gruesome winged beasts hugging the curve of the ceiling.
Hell.
I followed the sinister strokes of paint to the center, where the flames dispersed, and a Puritan woman shrouded by ivy existed, a juxtaposition to the destruction of the fire. Her pale skin contrasted the smoke and flames, her dress a brilliant red color and her copper hair set in tight curls with her hands clasped tight around something I couldn’t make out. From what I could remember from school about the Puritans, they had a very strict code of colors they wore, and red was definitely not one of them.
There was also something strangely familiar about her, and I couldn’t place it.
Who was that?
“The Rose of Rockchapel,” Adam offered. I looked away from the ceiling, and found his head tipped toward the ceiling, his profile tense. “She was the daughter of one of those assholes.” He jutted a finger to the center of the room, and I stared at the two fixed figures.
Wide-brimmed felt hats sat on top of shoulder-length hair—crisp, white ruffs stark against black doublets and breeches. Dark stockings held in place by garters, their frozen, sullen expressions staring beyond.
Before I could question who they were, Adam answered, “The Founding Fathers.”
“The Founding Fathers,” I echoed. I’d never heard of them before.
“They founded this town in the 1600s. Most of them fled Salem to escape the persecution of the Witch Trials.”
My nose wrinkled.Why?
“Their viewpoints were unconventional. They didn’t want to take the risk of the accusations flying around back then, so they bailed and set up shop here.”
How had I never heard of this?
At my silence, he continued. “They’re real people, but most of their history is built on urban legends,” he said, scratching his jaw, the coarse stubble rasping under his calluses. “So much of what people said they did was fucked up…” he paused. “Even for me.”
My eyebrows rocketed to my hairline. My husband wasn’t a saint. That wasn’t news to anyone in this town. He had a reputation that preceded him and secrets I would help him keep buried for as long as we both lived. So, for him to express discomfort by someone else’s actions, I knew whatever had purportedly occurred must not have been good.
