Chapter 4 Six Inches Deep...Pt.1

The rain hit the casket like it had something to prove, each drop a cruel reminder that she was really gone, that my mother would never walk back through the front door or call me from the hallway asking if I'd eaten.

I stood there, dressed in black, soaked and hollow, surrounded by people in plastic smiles and pitying eyes who pretended they knew what it meant to lose someone, but all I could think about was the man standing a few feet away from me, not crying, not even blinking, just staring at the polished wood like he was waiting for something else to die.

Richard.

My stepfather.

The man who married my mother when I was just sixteen, who moved into our lives like a storm and settled into the center of everything, with his cologne that smelled like sex and power, with those cold eyes that burned right through you, making it hard to breathe when he looked too long, which he always did with me.

Even now, while people took turns dropping flowers on the coffin and whispering their goodbyes, his gaze found me through the mist and the umbrellas, heavy and unreadable, and my body responded before my brain could form a single thought.

The way his eyes dropped to my lips then dragged lower down the cling of my dress made heat pool low in my stomach, and I hated how aware I was of every inch of my skin. I should be mourning, not aching, not flushed, not wondering what his hands would feel like tangled in my hair or gripping my thighs, not imagining him pulling me into the car and making me forget the world for one hour or maybe two.

I shifted, my thighs pressing together as guilt surged up my throat, but it couldn't drown out the shameful throb between my legs, and that was the worst part, because deep down I knew this started long before today, long before the funeral.

It started with the way he said my name when Mom wasn't around, slow and intentional, or the way his hand would linger just a second longer on my lower back when he walked past, innocent to everyone else but not to me, and maybe I should've said something, maybe I should've looked away, left the room, stopped dressing in those tight shorts around the house, but I didn't.

I wanted him to look, I wanted him to want me, and now she was gone.

There was nothing stopping us anymore.

We rode home in silence, the black car crawling down the driveway like a hearse even though Mom's body was already buried. I sat beside Richard in the backseat, the driver oblivious, but the air between us was thick enough to choke on. His hand rested between us on the leather seat, his fingers were twitching like he was resisting the urge to touch me, and I was doing the same, my palms folded, and my eyes fixed on the window, but every cell in my body buzzed like a live wire.

When we finally reached the house, everything felt too quiet, too empty, and too cold. The funeral food was untouched in the kitchen, guests slowly trickling out the front door with tight hugs and false promises to check in, I barely said goodbye to anyone, I needed space....I needed air.

I climbed the stairs and went straight to my room, locking the door behind me, chest heaving like I'd run a marathon. My dress clung to my skin, the lace sticking to my back, so I peeled it off and stood in front of the mirror in just my panties, my hair a mess, my eyes red, but even then I didn't look broken, I looked... hungry.

A soft knock made me freeze.

Then came his voice.

"Can I come in?"

My heart thundered, my mouth opened but no words came out, and before I could answer, the lock clicked softly, because of course he had a spare key and there he was, standing in the doorway like a damn shadow, his eyes dropping to my almost-naked body without hesitation. His face was unreadable but he fisted his hand, like he was losing some silent battle.

"You should be resting," he said finally, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"So should you," I replied, my voice lower than I intended, and my throat ran dry.

He didn't look away, "I couldn't stop thinking about you."

My breath hitched.

"Richard..."

"You think I don't see it? You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me, the way you move around the house like you want to be caught?"

His steps were slow, and careful, but his voice was sharp, dangerous, like he was walking a knife's edge and dragging me with him.

I backed up until my legs hit the edge of the bed, and he stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath and that familiar scent of his cologne, the one that always made my knees weak.

"I thought it would stop," he whispered, "I thought losing her would put an end to this, whatever this is, but it's worse now and I can't stop wanting you."

My lips parted, and I was at a loss for words.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the side of my face, gentle at first, then tilting my chin up so I had to meet his gaze.

"She's barely cold in the ground," I breathed, ashamed.

"And yet here we are," he replied, leaning in, his lips ghosting over mine but not quite touching, "Tell me to leave."

I couldn't.

I didn't.

Instead, I leaned forward that final inch and closed the distance, mouth claiming his in a kiss that was pure chaos....teeth, tongue, and gasps swallowed, my grief bleeding into desire. His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I felt it.....hard, thick, pressing against my stomach like a loaded weapon.

He backed me onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath our weight as he hovered over me, one hand sliding down to grip my thigh and spread it open, the other pushing my hair out of my face as he kissed me like he was starving.

There was nothing tender about the way he touched me. It was desperation, lust, and anger, all rolled into one, and I gave it right back to him, raking my nails down his back, and biting at his neck.

When he pulled back to yank his shirt over his head, my breath caught at the sight of his body, it was toned, strong, and covered in tattoos I'd never seen before, my fingers itched to trace every one.

But he didn't give me time to think.

"Tell me to stop," he said again, voice hoarse.

"I won't," I whispered, chest heaving. "Not tonight."