Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(36)

I blame her for dying.

If she hadn’t died I wouldn’t have gone to prison and lost six years of my life. I wouldn’t be in the shit storm I’m in, trying to rebuild my life. That’s some f*cked-up shit right there. I hate myself for feeling this way. It’s so wrong, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. I know her death wasn’t her fault. I know it, but that doesn’t stop me from blaming her and only adds to the rage.

So many of my memories of her are contaminated by anger and grief. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones. I can’t seem to separate them. They’re all tainted by what came after. I’m sorry about that most of all. I’m failing her in that way. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone like Dylan, who probably put those f*cking flowers on her grave and visits her on a regular basis. She doesn’t deserve me, who had to be tricked into coming.

All of these thoughts and more pour out of me and into the earth beneath me. I’m leaving everything here because I won’t ever come back. I won’t jab a bunch of flowers into the vase next to Dylan’s. I won’t show up on her birthday or on the anniversary of her death. I won’t stand at the end of her grave, trying to remember what she sounded like or how she smelled.

I rise slowly and look for Vera. She still sits on a bench a few feet away with her back to me, to give me privacy. I head back to the car alone. After a few moments I hear her behind me. We climb into the car and drive away. We don’t speak on the way back to her motel. There’s nothing to say. I wonder at her thoughts the way I wonder a lot of things about her—futilely.

She opens the door of her new room and closes and locks it behind us. Her hands shake as she unbuttons my shirt, her focus on the task. I stand still and let her strip me. I can’t seem to find the strength to do it myself. She drops to her knees, unlaces my shoes, and slips them off. The socks come next, then the pants. She takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom, where she turns on the shower. When it’s hot, she pushes me in and closes the curtain. I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the chill from the damp ground. It washes away other things too.

The curtain reopens and Vera steps in wearing a bra and panties. She pours shampoo into her hand and motions for me to lean down. Her hands are firm and unhurried as she washes my hair, then the rest of me. The numbness eases with each stroke of the washcloth. By the time she nudges me under the spray to rinse I’m feeling almost like myself again.

She reaches for the knob to turn the water off, but I stop her. Wrapping my arms around her from behind, I hold on, my face buried in her shoulder. There’s so much I can’t say. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I simply don’t have the words. If I were a poet or an artist I might be able to express myself in some tangible way. My hands begin to rove in the only way I know to show what I can’t say. I cup her breasts in both hands, drawing a gasp from her. Her head drops back against my shoulder. I work the bra clasp and in seconds my hands are full of her bare flesh. My dick pulses. I need it now. Hard and fast.

I slide a hand down between her legs. Slipping one, then two fingers inside her wet heat, I can feel how she wants me too. Her hips move against my hand. She reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck. The view down her body is magnificent. Kissing and biting her neck, I bring her to the brink of orgasm. I need to be inside her so bad I rip the fabric separating us. She turns in my arms and I lift her so her back presses against the tile. Her legs grip my waist. She pulls me down for a kiss so desperate it steals my breath. I didn’t imagine she could need me as badly as I need her right now.

She tears her mouth from mine. “Inside me. Now.”

“Condom.”

“Told you. Don’t need it.”

“Sure?”

She nods. That’s all the encouragement I need.

Gripping my dick, I find her entrance and flex my hips up and into her. The sensation is almost overwhelming. Something urgent and primal takes over. My thrusts are deep and punishing. She urges me on with her cries. The sound of the water is drowned out by the harsh slap of flesh on flesh. Her fingernails dig into my shoulders, setting something off inside me. I come at her with renewed focus. Coming is my only thought. I’m rough. Maybe too rough. She digs her heels into my back and bites my chest. I go off, slamming into her one last time. I come hard. My knees nearly buckle at the intensity of it.

She shoves her hand between her legs and rubs. She’s almost there with me. I replace her hand with mine, bending down to take her nipple in my mouth. She grips the back of my head. Her fist pulls my hair. She jerks and comes on a loud moan. I push into her, using my pelvis to press against her clit. The sound she makes is somewhere between a cry and a groan.

Her head drops back against the tile and the look she gives me causes my stomach to dip like I’m on a rollercoaster. A strand of her hair drips water into her eyelashes. I smooth it away, tracing the edge of her face with my finger. It’s such a delicate face, in contrast to her personality. I don’t know what to do with her in moments like this. There’s so much to say, but the words don’t form. She’s more expressive when she’s quiet than I am talking all day long. We haven’t spoken since I pulled in to the cemetery parking lot, and yet it feels like we’ve talked nonstop.

I reluctantly pull out of her and help her find her feet. We’re both a little shaky. I turn off the water and grab a towel. I dry her with the same care that she used to wash me, wrapping the towel around her when I’m done. I give myself a quick dry and help her climb out of the tub. The bathroom is so steamy I can hardly see where the door is. We make our way into the bedroom and that’s when I see it. A tattoo on her shoulder. It’s the same tattoo Marie posted a drawing of on her Tumblr. I was too drunk to have seen it before, or else she positioned her body so I wouldn’t see it, not even in the shower just now.