Page 40 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“My uncle doesn’t know,” I say sharply. “He never would have accepted me if he hadn’t thought I was Dad’s—Richard’s, I mean.”
As soon as I say it, it feels a little unfair. Truthfully, Augie’s never really set me at a distance. When I came back from Texas, he was eager to have me work for him and has been begging me to consider taking over the day-to-day of the company. He’s always had faith in me and my work . . . But how much of that faith is because he thinks I’m Richard’s son?
Poe rubs a hand along my back, soothing me. “And the Historical Society?”
I think of the superannuated crones and gaffers at the few society meetings Mamá managed to drag me to. “Too old to be confidantes, I think, and she wouldn’t have confided family business in them anyway.” And as soon as I say it, as soon as I say family business, I know.
“Ana María,” I say with a sigh.
“Who’s Ana María?”
“A cousin. My mother’s cousin, actually. They were best friends growing up, studied abroad together in college. Mamá talked to her almost every day. She might know.”
I’m too far past hope to think I’ll find real answers, but there is relief in realizing there’s something I can do, any kind of door to knock on. I let out a long breath and pull Poe in tight. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me by going to the gala in a couple of weeks,” she says promptly, and I stiffen in her arms, pulling away.
“No,” I say.
“Please?”
“Poe.”
“I know Auden’s going to be there, but come for me,” she says. She reaches for my hand and tugs me over to one of the long tables in the middle of the room, where she turns and hops up on the edge. She pulls me by the belt loops between her spread legs.
I nearly shudder with how good it feels to be pulled and led and made, and the brush of her thighs around my hips makes my erection hard enough to hurt. Sitting with her legs apart like this has her skirt rucked all the way up, and I can see the black cotton of her panties. Another sign Auden isn’t home—otherwise she’d be bare under her skirt, available for his use any time he needed it.
“He’s still going to be there too,” I finally say, distractedly. Her exposed thighs are so fucking sexy, those cotton panties so tempting. Her cunt is at the perfect height; I could yank her knickers to the side, unzip my jeans, and be inside her in seconds.
With a coy little hum, she trails her own fingers up her leg, ghosting them across her pussy. “He’ll be busy mingling.”
“He said he wanted to show us off,” I say. “He’ll want you on his arm.”
“He wants you on his arm too.” She’s teasing herself now, tracing the seam of her cunt, showing me where I could fuck.
“I’m not going, Poe,” I say, my eyes on her fingers.
“Everyone’s coming. Even Becket. I don’t want you to be the only one not there.” Her finger slides under the elastic edge of her panties and then slowly draws them back. Shadows hang like a second dress around her, but I can still see the unmistakeable glisten of her sex. I can see the small, wet place where I need so badly to be.
“I won’t feel left out,” I promise on a rasp, running my own hands up her thighs now. I have to touch her, I have to feel her wetness for myself. And she lets me, moving her hand so that I can push a thumb inside her.
We both inhale at the same time—her from the invasion, and me from the pure, tight feel of her. There’s nothing softer than her pussy. I remember thinking that the night I lost my virginity to her, I remember thinking that if I’d known how good it felt to fuck, I never would have been able to wait so long.
“Let me,” I say. Beg. “Let me inside you.”
“Come to the gala.”
“Poe,” I groan.
“I’m not going back to how things were before,” she says, rocking into my hand. I slide my thumb free, meaning to stop touching her altogether, but then she lets out the saddest, sexiest whimper, and I can’t bear it. I push two fingers back inside, my entire body humming as she arches to me, my skin aching, my balls drawing tight.
“I’m not going back to all of us leading separate lives,” Poe says. “I won’t do it.”
“You and Auden won’t have to change anything. And if you want to—I mean, I still want to be with you.”
“I know,” she says. “I know you do. I want to be with you too—I love you. And I love him. But we didn’t want two or three separate relationships, Saint. We wanted one.”
“Yeah,” I say. Bitterly. “We did.”
