The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

27. August

August

more of a tit man

M y eyes are glued to the ceiling, tracking the path of the small black spider as it weaves its way along the slanted wooden beams until it finally disappears into the shadows. The little hurried movements stand out against the white slats of the wooden panels above me. It’s not what I want to be doing, how I want to spend my morning. But spread out on my back, listening to Nora and Yves argue downstairs is a roadblock in the path to any sleep I hoped to get.

He showed up at three AM and relieved me of watch duty. After sneaking into Nora’s room to check on her, my feet carried me upstairs, desperate for a few hours of sleep. Picking up my phone and staring at the time; a bone-deep sigh slips out of me. Five hours of broken sleep is better than nothing. My last hour up here has been spent trying to ignore them. More than a little pissed, I finally kick the covers off.

Unsure of who exactly deserves my anger, I stomp over to the bedroom door, rip it open, and storm out.

Stan ding at the bottom of the staircase, my eyes dart between them as Nora turns to face me. The white string bikini top she’s wearing barely contains the heavy weight of her breasts. In my rush to get the two of them to shut up, I’ve fucked myself over. Not bothering to pull on pants was a mistake. And the longer I stand here staring at Nora’s tits, the bigger my mistake grows.

“What the fuck is going on?” I demand, looking between them.

“Whoa, man! Nice woody.” Yves grins at me as he glances pointedly at my swiftly hardening cock and the tent currently growing in my boxers. I’m too tired to feel an ounce of shame.

“I want to go for a walk and this bastard won’t let me leave the house. The sun is shining, August. I need vitamin D,” she pleads. I scowl as Yves’ face splits into a massive smirk.

“Well, princess, if it’s vitamin D you’re after, it seems like Auggie—”

“Enough,” I practically roar as Nora’s eyes follow Yves’ toward my now insanely obvious erection.

But before anyone says anything else, a knock raps against the front door. Collectively, we turn abruptly to gape at the entrance hall.

“Nora, go to your room,” Yves orders, instantly back to business, as he slowly pulls his Glock from his shoulder holster.

“It’s Helen and Sebastian.” A soft feminine voice yells.

Why the fuck is Bassey here? There’s no time to think about it as I march to the door and drag it open.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” Helen winks at me as Bassey moves like a limp dick from the car toward the front door. “Ricky sent us to check on things,” she offers, as if it explains anything.

Why didn’t Gracie say something… Fuck, does he even know they’re here? It was a tactical choice to assign Helen to shadow Bassey after stabbing him—I don’t fucking trust her, and I trust him even less. Their arrival unsettles me, but waiting for a real explanation for their arrival is pointless right now. So, without another word to our guests, I glare at Yves. A silent command to handle whatever the fuck this is flashes in my eyes before hurrying to Nora’s room.

I don’t waste time knocking. “Nora?” I call softly.

She slinks out of the bathroom, her eyes bouncing between me and the closed bedroom door.

“Who is it?” she asks in a barely audible whisper.

“Bassey and Helen.”

“Instant boner killers,” she groans and smiles up at me.

“You have no idea.” I exhale. “If you still want to go for a walk, give me a second. I’ll go get dressed and we can get outta here.”

“What about Helen and Bassey?” she asks.

“Let Yves deal with them. He has a way with wild animals.”

A fter brushing my teeth, washing my face, and changing into fresh jogging shorts and a t-shirt, I head back downstairs and usher Nora outside.

“Where’re we walking to?” I ask.

“I don’t actually want to walk anywhere. It’s so sunny, I thought maybe we could go down to the lake. There’s a small stretch of beach next to the boathouse.” She points toward the boathouse at the bottom of the sloped garden.

“Yeah okay.” I agree before following her down the long path of wooden stairs that lead off the s creened deck and down to the water.

There’s a large lookout deck built on top of the boathouse. It’s above the water, level with the garden. Once we walk onto it, my eyes land on the second set of stairs leading down to the water. Stopping briefly to peer over the side of the railing, the front of the boathouse comes into view, two wide arches, completely open to the water. It’s not unlike a garage. On the opposite side of the archways is a small wooden jetty attached to a platform with a steel staircase that drops into the lake for swimming. Along the side Nora’s just disappeared down is yet another staircase leading to a small beach.

Not for the first time, I struggle to imagine a childhood in a place like this. I hate that the guards call Nora a princess. We don’t know each other, not truly, but there’s more to her than her privileged status as Ricky’s guardian. But seeing wealth like this, shit, it’s difficult to fault their assumption.

Kicking off my sneakers, I cross the spongy wet sand to where she’s set down two towels. Nora’s shimmying out of her shorts. And like this, with her back to me, my eyes are gifted with a perfect view of her ass. Stopping briefly, to allow my eyes a chance to soak up this moment, my throat dries. Those shorts move over the swell of her ass, the thin string of her thong disappears between the seam of those mounds. Like the last tether holding my sanity together, that string seems just as fragile, just as ill-equipped, doomed to snap at any moment.

Forcing my feet to move, I clear my throat loudly before coming to a stop next to her. She’s on her stomach now, glossy locks of black hair spilling around her, and that ass. Fuck. The sight of the soft, round, dimpled flesh, paler than the rest of her; flood my veins with heat. My hands b urn with hunger for her, to feel her, to map every inch of her skin with my fingertips. And then my tongue.

“August!” she snaps at me.

“What?” Smiling as she pulls her sunglasses off her face, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I said, stop staring at my ass,” she grins.

“So conceited, little raven. I was looking at the trees.”

“Are there trees growing out of my ass?”

“It’s just weird.” I sigh before grinning at her.

“What is?”

“I’ve always been more of a tit man, but your ass, Nora… It makes me question my loyalty to the things I’ve always cherished.”

“Like tits?”

“Amongst other things.”

The sound of a boat approaching forces my attention away from Nora, toward the lake. A wooden runabout drifts to the front of the boathouse, glossy rich wood of the bow gleaming in the late morning sunshine. The two people behind the wheel look older. A man and woman. They wave, and I glance at Nora, hoping for a confirmation that she knows them. She shakes her head; the woman in the boat croons a very whiny hello as she calls me over.

“Gimme a second to see what this is about,” I mutter to Nora.

Walking to the jetty next to the boathouse, I try to shield my eyes from the sun and get a better look at the couple.

“Hi dear,” the older woman says.

“Hey,” I look between them as they stare at me.

What do they see? A guy covered in tattoos with a gun strapped to his thigh and a girl in a thong on the beach. I look like what I am, it’s important to me. W hen they see me, they see someone dangerous, a criminal. A killer. It’s everything I am. But who are they?

“Can I help you?” I ask finally, as the awkward silence grows.

“Oh yes, sorry. I just,” she waves her hands in front of her face. “There’s a regatta the day after tomorrow. And well, this house hasn’t been occupied for a few years. When I saw you and your lady friend on the shore, I thought I’d come over and tell you about it. I said to my Pat—” She reaches over and places her hand on what I assume is Pat’s shoulder. “I said we should go tell them about the regatta.”

“Okay,” I say, still watching them. “Thanks.” I turn to leave.

“Hold up there, son.” My jaw ticks at Pat’s condescending tone. “Are y’all renting the house?” Nosy cunt. But before I have a chance to answer, Nora’s hand snakes around my waist.

“No, it’s mine. Well, it was my parents before they died. So now it’s mine.” She beams at them. “Come on, honey.” She slips her hand into mine, offering one last disinterested smile at our neighbors. “Sorry to interrupt, but my husband was just about to add some sunscreen to my ass cheeks and I can’t risk the UV rays for another second. We want golden globes, not melanoma, right?” She winks before turning that incredible ass on them, dragging me back to the beach.

“You can’t talk to them. They only want to know what’s what for gossip. If you give them anything, they’ll run with it,” she says, settling back on the towel.

“So, you gave them me as your husband, molesting you on the beach?”

“I mean, I said nothing about molesting me, but I’m open to it.” She laughs as my eyes return to the water, watching as Pat and his wife race off toward the other houses on the lake.

“A regatta is probably at the top of my list of the most pretentious things I’ve ever fucking heard,” I mutter.

“Tell me about it. My dad used to race in them. I think his boats are still in there.” She nods toward the boathouse.

“No shit?” I think about what that must’ve looked like. From what I know, her dad carried the same air of death and destruction that I do, that both Ricky and Gracious do.

“Yeah, wanna see?” She smirks at me. A second later, she shoots up and grasps my hand. Hauling me to stand, she drags me behind her as we amble toward the side door of the boathouse. It’s hefty with wrought iron panels that make it look like an expensive stable door.

“Oh shit, this is heavy,” she pants, pushing her shoulder against the door.

“Here, let me try.” Shifting her to the side before ramming my weight against the door. It slams open. Reaching for the door frame to stop us from falling into the room, my hand snags on one of the metal panels. With one arm around her waist, steadying her, I glance at my bleeding finger. Nora lifts her hand, wrapping it gently around mine as she joins me in inspecting the minor injury.

“You cut yourself,” she murmurs, staring at the blood slowly trickling down my forefinger.

“Yeah,” I answer.

My voice sounds all wrong, husky and rough, and I know why. Her heady brown eyes drift up, watching me, the concern and heat dancing in them undoes something inside me.

The world slows, moving in almost slow motion as she lowers her head, covering my finger with her mouth. A sharp breath fills my lungs as her lips circle the tip before gently drawing it into her mouth. She licks the blood away and God, the warm press of her tongue is like a strike of lightning burning its way through my body. It’s gross and so fucking hot and in an instant I’m rock hard.

I step into her space, pushing her against a wooden tool bench resting against the wall of the boathouse. The sound of the waves lapping against the two tarp-covered boats behind me is loud as thunder and still, somehow, the racing beat of my heart is louder.

My hands move down her hips, drifting around them and over the base of her spine until finally, they find the delicate skin of the fat, flawless ass that’s teased me all morning. My fingers sink into the fleshy cheeks, pulling her against my body. Her breathing’s as shallow and as labored as mine.

Sliding my hands over her ass, before trailing them back up the sides of her body, along the soft curve of her stomach and then her ribcage. Stopping only when I feel the mouthwatering weight of her breasts in my palms.

“Tell me to stop,” I demand, brushing my thumbs over the tight peaks of her nipples. Hooded eyes, glazed with lust, watch me. She tugs her lip between her teeth as I stare down at her. “Tell me to stop, Nora.”

“Don’t stop,” she answers.

And that’s all it takes.

Fisting the small white triangles of fabric barely covering her breasts, I tear them down roughly, practically fucking growling with need as her breasts spill into my hands. Gathering them in my palms, my hands knead and massage and stroke both of her breasts. Then, with my eyes firmly glued to hers, I guide one stiff brown nipple into the warmth of my mouth. Slowly tracing my tongue around the pebbled skin of the firm peak for a second before I pull the bud into my mouth —while my eyes never leave hers.

“Oh fuck, August,” My hands drop away from her body as the sound of my name, breathless and desperate, on her lips sends me over the edge.

My arms circle her waist as I lift her, urging her to wrap her legs around my hips. Then, rocking my aching cock into the heat of her core, my lips claim hers. With one arm holding her against my body, the other moves back to her chest. Hungry fingers search for her nipple once again as my tongue begins its possessive assault on her mouth.

I kiss her like I want to fuck her; violently, relentlessly, thoroughly. I kiss her like I’m trying to brand her. To possess her. As my fingers pinch the taut skin of her nipple, my teeth pull at her lip. My mouth moves then, kissing a path down her neck and back up again.

I’m going to fuck her.

I’ll fuck her right here.

Now.

Immediately.

Even if it fucks us both.

Pushing closer, rubbing my cock against her nylon covered pussy, knocking her against the wooden bench, our kiss slowly consumes us both.

Something rattles to the floor with a loud bang. We pull away from each other instantly.

“What was that?” Nora asks, looking over my shoulder. “Something fell.”

“There,” I point to the metal box that must’ve been on the wooden bench.

Nora pulls her bikini top back in place and scoots off the bench. She starts picking up some of the things that fell to the floor. I turn to help her, but stop when I see an envelope in the water. It’s floating on the surface, drifting in the slip of space between the boat and jetty. I lean over and scoop it up.

Shaking the water off the sodden parcel, the flowery patterns on the paper are soaked as I turn it over. Nora’s name is scrawled on the front in thick, loopy cursive letters. The handwriting is soft and feminine, and I curse as it slowly melts into the wet paper.

“It’s addressed to you,” I say, handing it to her.

“Me?” she asks, looking at the slowly smudging letters of her name.