A Sorrow of Truths Page 4

  “You’re more than intrigued, my friend. You’re chaotic. Not something I’ve ever seen before.” Faith’s in front of me before I’ve found appropriate answers to that, too much cleavage on show for Manhattan and her eyes blown with too many pills.

  “You shouldn’t be taking them here,” I mutter, looking around her for black that I still can’t damn well see.

  “No, but I felt frivolous. Will you forgive me?”

  “Tell me where she is and I might.”

  “Patience, Gray. She’s with other entertainment. Considering you left her, I think she’s entitled to that. She’s rather eligible. Quite sought after in fact by the look of the men flocking. Especially with my introductions. Pretty thing.”

  Every hackle I’ve got, every fucking inch of jealousy that I wasn’t aware I owned, rears up at the thought. I stand and search the crowds again, some raged harassment fuelling me to get my body in between her and whatever else she’s next to.

  They both chuckle at me, making me wonder what the hell I’m turning into. My head shakes, enough annoyance with them countering the thought of whatever my dick is thinking about.

  “Are you going to fight for her, Gray? How chivalrous.”

  Another laugh falls from Malachi’s mouth, quickly chased with a giggling Faith just to emphasize the point of my senseless response.

  “I’d enjoy seeing it if you are,” Faith says, continuing her giggles.

  A swathe of suits starts cutting a path down the stairs on the far side, dark faces under paint scowling at each other. I smirk and peer closer, part amused at their clear intent, as they hustle the steps to get closer to the thing they’re all trying to.

  It’s a few seconds more before I actually see the fine line of her arm interweaved with someone else’s. So pale compared to the other women here, insipid and yet holding a vibrancy none of them possess. I can almost feel it on my skin, regardless of the distance between us.

  “You might actually need to fight,” Malachi drawls, chuckling still.

  “No I won’t.”

  I put my champagne down and leave them, my eyes focused on the slow, elegant legs and ankles that descend in the middle of the suiters. One hand holds the front of her dress up a little, the other trying to slip from the arm of a man. I still can’t see her face, as I weave through the dance floor full of people in my way. Only her legs, waist, and the occasional flare of shoulder.

  I’m at the bottom of the stairs before she reaches it, my body firmly blocking the way through. It’s then that I see her face for the first time, as she laughs with a fucking idiot who I already hate. A painted skull. How appropriate for the deaths we’re all supposed to be honouring. I trace the lines of whites and greys, as fascinated with the way the black lips elongate her sense of sinister as all the other men swarming around her are.

  She swings to look forward and instantly halts her movements, her hand hovering in mid-air. We could be in that gaze for minutes or hours. I don’t know. Don’t damn well care either. It’s just me and her, all the other noise and people dispersed into nothing and no one. I eventually tip my mouth into a small smile, unable to deny the sense of pleasure she causes in me, and remember the last time I was inside her.

  Soft. Warm. Close.

  And the time before that.

  Harsh. Pained. Aggressive.

  I chuckle lowly and look over the skin on show, still able to see the outline of my prints all over it, my teeth marks on her neck.

  And then the men start hassling her again.

  My hand reaches forward into the crowd, starkly grabbing onto hers which is still in mid-air, and I pull sharply to cut her away from them. Her body collides with mine, a groan sounding out the second she hits my chest. She blinks and looks upwards, mouth slightly parted under her black lips.

  “You’re dressed, Mrs Tanner. Annoying.”

  Nothing but her eyes staring up at me, narrowing slightly.

  “I told you, I’m not an easy lay anymore.”

  My lips drop down to her ear, brushing over her cheek. “And yet you look like sin again. Tease.”

  Every predatory instinct I’ve got clamps her to me, my loose hand going straight to her ass to prove a point to these other hunters. She gasps a little, sending the sound of her straight through to my bones to confirm something I don’t want to acknowledge. “We should dance,” I mutter, looking at the men behind her. “Dismiss the wolves.”

  Something in her stalls for a beat. I feel her stiffen, feel her body try to move away. That irritates me more than I want to acknowledge as well, and I turn away and pull her before she gets a chance to disagree with the offer. I damn well grumble at myself on the way, glaring at anything that gets in the way of me and her and the dance floor. Fucking dancing. What am I doing? Playing? Or just damn well winding myself up?

  I swing and yank her to me the second I find clear space, almost able to hear the swish of her dress over the clatter of more feet on the floor. Another ricochet into my body and her hand finds mine perfectly, her small body moulding to mine just as it has done before. We move seamlessly, both our faces looking anywhere but at each other, as the music carries us. That’s fucking annoying too, regardless of the sense of harmony it causes in me. We both know. Can both feel it.

  And are probably both trying to deny it.

  “You left me without a word,” she snarls, after a while.

  “It was for the best.”

  “And what’s this now?”

  “Nothing. We’re just dancing.”

  Her head rears back, silence descending as she stares at me. I can feel that gaze piercing me, irrespective of not looking at her. I smirk and keep us turning, wondering what sneaky little words she’s about to come up with to tempt me.

  “This isn’t dancing. This is you attempting to claim me.”

  My hand grips tighter, pulling her closer so I can feel some pressure on my aching dick and murmur. “I don’t need to do that. You don’t belong to anyone else while I’m here, anyway.”

  “You’re such an arrogant bastard.”

  I chuckle, smile broadening as I finally look at her and trace those sinister lines again. “Are you suggesting you’re someone else’s? I can let go if you’d prefer one of the others.” The long stretch of black lips sneers back at me, hollowed cheeks hollowing all the more because of the face paint. “I like this look on you, by the way. Suits your cadence.”

  “I want my truths,” she snaps, trying to tug her hand out of mine.

  “What truths?”

  “Why did you go?”

  I look away and twirl us towards a dark corner, pulling to an abrupt halt the moment there’s darkness for my thoughts. Truths. There is only one truth in this minute. It’s instinctual. Primitive. My body pushes hers against a table, hands lifting her until she’s sitting on it and I’m sliding in between her legs. She gasps at my ferocity, her fingers clutching into my arms to try getting away from me, but my mouth’s on hers before she manages anything.

  Warmth floods me immediately. Warmth, heat, and an ache so profound I’d fuck her here and now if it was appropriate to do so. I yank her closer, desperate to feel that feeling I’ve been missing and feed it with the lust it requires. Ferocious. Hungry.

  Angry at everything and anything.

  I tug and pull, my mouth devouring something it’s been denied of and my dick rubbing at the scrapes of thin material separating us. We’re both groaning and desperate, both full of hands and lips, teeth and need. I can feel her hands in my hair, her tongue licking across my lips, frantic and need filled. Such a fucking ache. Such an inbuilt desire that builds every goddamn time I’m near her. It’s insanity, or a reality I can’t afford or comprehend.

  Heaving in a breath and pulling her lip into my teeth for the last time, I push her away before it gets too much for me to contend with and glare at her continuing ability to do this to me. She pants and quivers, brazen fingers reaching for that enticing smile curving her mouth, as she widens h
er legs and creeps up her dress. Inch by inch, delicate skin on show in dark recesses for me to enjoy. Bruises still visible. Heels dangling on pale white flesh.

  More.

  Yes, I know all about more with her. I know hours of it and the aches that come after it’s finished and I have to leave again.

  Stupid, Gray.

  Illogical. Irrational. And damn near intolerable.

  I turn and walk away before my need consumes me irrationally, choosing any of these goddamn bars rather than her so I can find sense again. I came here to see her and get a taste again. Feed the hunger so I could dismiss it once more. I got it.

  And now I’m done.

  Chapter 6

  Hannah

  I could have stayed at the party and hunted him down. Perhaps I should have after that aggressive fumble in the dark corner. Too many people, though. Too many voices attempting to drown out the only one I want to hear. Not that they did. He only needed to whisper his claim and it was all there again. The feelings, the attachment, the hours and minutes and seconds that drifted by without care when I was him last. He was blinding like that.

  Superior.

  Overpowering on my senses.

  Hmm.

  This place seems smaller than the last time I was in it.

  I tap the card on my hand and wander around, listening to the click of my heels over the marble beneath my feet. They echo in the dimly lit apartment, creating a trail around the rooms I’m passing through. Sculpture. Art. All dark and moody, broody. Like him. I stop at a piece, looking over the lines of a man’s face on the floor, harrowed in thought. It’s been knocked off its pedestal, part smashed. Brow furrowed, mouth open as if shouting in anger, or frustration. Provoking in some ways.

  Alcohol?

  Where would that be?

  I walk back to the main lounge and trail my fingers over every object I see on the way, tapping it to keep my rhythm in full swing. Funny how time changes perception. Last time I was here I felt like I shouldn’t touch anything, as if these things and this wealth and this atmosphere was not for me to intrude on. I didn’t even leave him a message after he gallantly left me to sleep after our drunken night, but now all this around me feels like an affirmation of him inside me, of his fingers on me.

  Eventually, having found a decanter of what could be scotch, or brandy, but definitely not vodka, I pour half a glass and find a comfy spot on the non-comfy sectional seating to wait. Clearly he doesn’t ever sit and relax, contemplate, or kick his feet up and lounge. Not in here, anyway. It’s all hard lines and hard surfaces, as if positioned but never used.

  The key-card taps gently against my thigh, as I sip, continue waiting, and stare out into the dark skies that surround me. Maybe I should go to Rick’s grave now I’m back, get words out of my mouth and spit on the granite to solidify our separation in death and life. It was messy before. Difficult to contend with, but now I’m new. Tougher for it. And this skull on my face seems befitting of death. I could loom over his grave, show my disrespect and hope he sees the image looking down on him.

  The sudden noise of the elevator makes me look up from my musing, eyes trained on the long corridor that divides the lobby from this lounge. My legs cross, arms folding at the same time to cover some of my assets. Although, I don’t know why I’m bothering. Near naked is always best. I’ve become at my strongest then. Without too much care.

  I drink again, still looking over the top of my glass, and listen to his footfalls as they stalk his space. Sharp, distinct. They’re more an inbuilt memory to me now than Rick’s ever were, as if I’d be able to hear them in a crowd of thousands. I squirm slightly at the thought, remembering the way those same strides moved around me on the floor, as I lay exhausted and bruised, and then how they left me without a word the next morning.

  After a while the sound of him moving stops abruptly. I smile at that and sip, wondering if he can smell the perfume I’m wearing, perhaps hear my heartbeat in his space. Or maybe he’s finally noticed my long coat that I discarded somewhere when I came in.

  Who knows?

  The shadows move, change, and then the footfalls start again. They’re slow, torturously slow, and getting louder the closer he gets. I can smell wood-smoke, cigarettes. Aftershave. And then there he is in the entrance to the room, part blanketed by his own dark and obscuring shadow. He stands still, his hands in his pockets of his suit trousers, white shirt open at his neck, sleeves rolled up, and he looks me over from his position. No words. No sense of surprise in the arch of his brow either. Just a hard stare, flat lips, and those eyes baring down on me.

  I swallow inadvertently, a light panic easing across me now we’re alone, regardless of this being my plan of action. The very thought amuses me beyond whatever fear I’m harbouring, and I giggle quietly at myself and take another drink to finish the glass. He can’t hurt me. He already has done and I enjoyed it, flourished within it.

  His gaze drops to the card I’m still tapping on my thigh, his body stepping one pace forward so he’s engulfed in the light from the moon. “Malachi?” he asks.

  He means the card.

  I swallow again, part disturbed by the soundless glory of him in front of me, and throw it onto the table. I won’t be needing it again. And, of course it was Malachi. Malachi seems to be able to procure anything he needs, or drag up information on anyone he needs. Including this man. Sadly, he still refused to give me any information about what was being hidden from me when Gray abruptly left me at The Beekman, but he did give me a key-card so I could find out for myself.

  Even if he did warn me off the intrusion.

  “Hello, Mr Rothburg,” I murmur.

  He smiles slightly in the low light, eyes creasing from their hardened stare. “Rather formal, considering your lack of clothes.” He moves closer, stalks slowly, and then swerves behind the sectional towards the drinks tray instead of coming to me. “But if we must. How are you, Mrs Tanner?”

  The decanter clinks softly against the glass he’s pouring into and then his hand comes over my shoulder, taking my own glass from me. Another clink. Another glug of whatever it is we’re drinking being poured, and his body moves around in front of me again.

  “You left me at Malachi’s, I’m annoyed by that.” I state. He nods and puts my glass on the coffee table in front of me. “I thought I was leaving with you.”

  He frowns at that and drinks his liquor down in one, backing himself away from me as he does. More minutes of silence. It’s nice in some ways. Just us two. In this room. Surrounded by his penthouse and building. Dark corners again. Shadows and light playing tricks on my thoughts and imagination. We could almost be back at the castle if it wasn’t for the low ebb of traffic rumbling storeys below us.

  “I realised something that night,” he eventually says, breaking the silence. “You had nothing to come back for. No need. You were free. Still are.” I watch as he sits in the chair opposite me and crosses his legs to mirror my own. “My covetous opinion was my problem, not yours, Mrs Tanner.”

  “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “Would that have made it easier for you?”

  “It would have been less callous.”

  He chuckles at that, as if the mention of anything other than callous intentions is ridiculous.

  “We fucked, and then I left.” He reaches for his empty glass, frowning at the fact that it is, in fact, empty. “It was a simple calculation, Mrs Tanner. Any other type of leaving would have presented the possibility that the time spent was more than it was. It wasn’t.”

  His throat bobs, fingers gripping the glass.

  “You’re lying to me. Why?”

  Another chuckle, one that builds this time rather than shutting off so succinctly. “Reality, Mrs Tanner. I’m not lying. I’m giving you the facts. We are nothing more than what we were under the pressure of that place. Seeing you earlier caused a reaction to that memory.”

  “And you don’t want that anymore?”

  The glass tur
ns in his fingers, round and round, the cut crystal spinning slowly, as if he’s using it as a tool to keep his composure in check. I look back at his eyes, watching them for signs of detonation, as they watch me. I remember that about him, can still feel it on my skin. The soft and then the hard. The holding back and then the eruption into me. I miss it.

  I miss him on me and in me.

  My own drink goes to my lips, one more swallow for Dutch courage. “No more, Gray?” My legs uncross, body leaning forward to stand. “Hmm? You don’t want the things you did to me?” Slow movements towards him, the full extent of the bruising he caused still evident on my flesh for him to see. “Because I miss you on me.”

  I sweep my gaze around, looking at all the things that make him him, and return my gaze to the only thing that makes him him. “You really don’t want me?”

  My fingers graze trails over my skin, nails indenting on places he touched, marks he made, until I’m a foot away from something I remember so vividly. His tongue licks over his lips at my proximity, eyes hardening just as they normally do when he’s becoming provoked.

  “I didn’t say that. I said that it wasn’t reality.”

  “It could be, though. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I’m not, though.”

  A sharp tug on my wrist has me landing in his lap before I’ve caught breath or realised what’s happened. And then another yank to my hair, twisting my face towards his, makes me gasp at the ferocity in his hands.

  “Do you know why I’m not here, Mrs Tanner?” My lips tremble slightly, body trying to get somewhere near comfortable on the hard plains of his ridges. He doesn’t let me. I’m held fast, gripped tightly until it’s barely bearable on my muscles and bones. “No? Let me explain clearly enough that even you understand.”

  I’m pushed, shoved off his lap onto the floor without a chance to respond, and his body is large and looming above me before I’ve righted myself. “We are nothing, Mrs Tanner. You were a diversion for me. An amusement to be experimented on. Could I fuck you again? Yes. Should I? No. No matter how appealing you are.”