Dark Castle by Shanna Handel

15

Willow

We find sleepingbags stowed in a corner of the kitchen. We work together to make a comfortable spot on the rug in front of the fire. He nods to the pallet as he heads toward the door, his hand on the gun at his hip. “I’ll take guard. You sleep.”

“You have to sleep too.”

“I’ll catch a nap when the sun comes up.” He shoots me that grin that makes my knees go weak. The one that makes all his girls’ knees go weak, I suppose. “Maybe you can cook us some breakfast tomorrow.”

I slide into the sleeping bag. Despite the danger surrounding us, the heat and chill of my emotions, the confusion I feel over whatever it is that is happening between Santo and me, I fall into a heavy sleep.

He wakes me when the sun rises, shaking my shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

I stand, stretching my muscles. They’re tight from sleeping on a hard surface. “Get some sleep. I’ll make us something to eat.”

He looks around, unsure he wants to let his guard down. But his eyes are bloodshot from staying up all night. His fatigue wins. “Alright. But wake me if you hear anything at all.”

He falls down on the sleeping bag, not even bothering to crawl inside. I can hear his gentle snores before I even reach the kitchen. My unbalanced mood seems to settle once I get to work.

The kitchen has always been my happy place. I hum to myself as I spend an hour organizing the shelves of the pantry where they’ve stored the dry goods. When I’m done, the cans are lined up on the top shelf, like foods grouped together, their labels neatly facing forward like dutiful soldiers.

Dry goods are on the next shelf down, the spines of their boxes turned so you can read their contents. I arrange the pots and pans and dishes on the bottom shelf of the big pantry.

Satisfied with my work. I throw together a makeshift pancake batter, using canned milk to thin it. There’s no syrup, but there’s canned fruit. About a half hour later, I have two steaming plates of fluffy, golden pancakes topped with sliced peaches.

Santo is in a deep sleep, his face half buried in the sleeping bag. What I can see of his face is striking. He’s even more handsome under the spell of sleep. I have to look away.

I let him sleep.

I eat my plate first. Still hungry, I eye his. What the heck, why not? I can make him a fresh batch when he wakes up. I devour his stack as well, washing it down with a bottle of water.

I clear the plates, washing them in the cold water. I wipe out the cast iron skillet with a damp rag, then make another bowl of batter. Slouching down in a chair by the window, I wish I had one of my books. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.

He loves me….he loves me not.

A few minutes later, he comes sauntering into the kitchen, yawning and stretching like a panther. He rubs his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

I shrug. “Figured we didn’t have anywhere to go, so I might as well let you sleep.”

“Fair enough. Aldo messaged awhile back and said they’re gone.”

My hand flutters over my heart. “Thank God. Should we go?” I stand, the urge to see my sisters safe and sound strong in my chest.

He shakes his head. “We should hang out a few more hours before we head back.” He peers around the kitchen. “What smells so good?”

“Pancakes. You go get washed up and I’ll make you some.”

He leaves me with a kiss on the top of my head and a long, questioning look.

I look away, busying myself with the pan.

When he returns, his hair is damp from his sink bath, his shirt tucked in neatly. He arrives to a stack of hot pancakes, his topped with blueberry pie filling, the only sweetener I could find.

“Damn, this looks good.” He grabs the plate, leaning against the counter like he does with Sophia when he’s in her kitchen, eating her food and chatting with her. Santo is a man of few words, but something about feeding him makes him open up. He takes a bite, his eyes going wide like a kid seeing their presents under the tree on Christmas morning. “Hey. This is good.”

I flush with pleasure as he devours the plate. “You want more?”

He shakes his head, his hand going to his flat stomach. “I’m full.”

I think in shame of the two whole plates I ate. No one needs to know about that. “I’ll just clean up.”

He grabs my arm, stopping me from going to the sink. His eyes lock on mine. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” I sniff.

“About us. I think we both know how close we came to crossing that line last night before the phone rang. To going against our families’ wishes.”

I’m sick and tired of my family’s wishes. For once, I want to do what I want to do. Which is him. But as we both know, I’m not the bad girl.

“And?” I ask, a hint of rebellion in my tone.

He scoops his hand under my chin. “We both want it. But we need to focus on the task at hand. Keeping you safe.”

“I understand.” I pull away from his touch, going to the sink. I turn on the tap, letting the water flow over the sticky plate. “Keeping the both of us safe.”

I’m the good girl.

The dutiful girl.

I do the chores and I don’t make waves.

He stands beside me, a clean towel in hand, ready to dry the plate. But he’s staring at my face.

“What?” I wipe the dish, feeling the heat from his gaze.

Running a hand over his beard, he gives me a long, contemplative look. Eventually, he comes to his decision. He gives a nod. “Fuck it.”

He grabs me in his arms so roughly, I drop the plate.

The dish hits the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

This is it.

He kisses me, and in his kiss, I know. This is the moment I’ve waited so long for, the line we’ve almost crossed so many times. We’re finally going to cross it. And we’re never coming back.

I take everyone else’s expectations for me and I ball them up, releasing them into the wind. I fully let them go. And I follow my heart.

His hands are all over me, hot and heavy, stroking my back, grabbing my ass. Tugging at my hips, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. His thighs push between my knees as his tongue buries itself in my mouth. I lock my knees against his legs, slipping a hand into his hair.

He’s mine.

He’s finally mine.

Wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, he pulls me closer, consuming me with his kiss, burning me up until I’m nothing but ashes, ready to float away at the slightest exhale of breath.

My breasts rise and fall, every breath begging for his touch. His hand grazes over my chest, making my nipples tighten and strain against my clothing. His fingers dip below the neckline of my dress, searching my bra. He finds my nipple and pinches it between his fingers.

I gasp and he captures the sound in his kiss. His lips leave mine, finding that delicate skin just below my ear. His lips make their way down my neck, his kisses bruising my flesh.

The tip of his tongue trails over my collarbone as he palms and squeezes my breast. Pulling the cup of my bra away from my skin, he takes my peaked nipple in his mouth, kissing and sucking freely.

As he’s kissing my breast his other hand sneaks up the back of my dress. He cups one cheek of my ass in his palm and his fingers explore the crack in my ass. He sucks my breast harder, his mouth hot and wet around my taut bud. He presses a finger against the rim of my asshole at the same time.

“Damn.” I give another gasp, this one finding his ear as I press my mouth against him.

He gives a low chuckle, his mouth full of my breast. He rubs against my ass, giving it one final push over my panties before moving on. Leaving my breast, he kisses along my clavicle, both hands now under my skirt.

He grabs the waistband of my panties. “Up.”

I press my palms against the counter, pushing my weight up and lifting my hips. His gaze burns into mine as he tugs my panties down, slipping them down my legs and letting them drop off my feet to the floor.

“Sit.” He watches with pleasure as I sit my bare ass on the countertop. It’s cold and I flinch. He holds my eyes, pushing my dress slowly up my thighs until it’s hitched up around my waist.

Glancing down, I see my bare, splayed thighs resting against the counter, my naked sex exposed, right here in the kitchen. It’s naughty and dirty, but I feel no shame. I grab his face, burying him in my hot, wet kiss.

But it’s him who buries me with his kisses.

He drops to his knees, the heat of his tongue diving between my thighs. Oh my God, that feels so damn good. Sliding my palms behind me on the counter, I lean back, my head resting on the cabinets.

He parts my sex with his fingers, lapping at my clit with the full length of his tongue. The tip circles my bud, sending pulses of electricity shooting through my body.

I hold back a moan, my back arching. He slides two fingers inside of me, stretching me and filling me. His fingers crook, stroking the inside of my sex in a way that makes that moan break free, primal and deep and sensual.

Not a sound a meek little bread-baking virgin would make. He’s drawing this from me. He’s making me into the sex goddess I’ve so longed to be.

Or maybe she had always been there and just needed him to unleash her.

I grip his hair between my fingers, pulling him into my hips. “Santo, damn, Santo.” I slide my legs over his shoulders and around his neck. Mine. I want to lock his mouth to my sex, to hold him prisoner, to keep his mouth on me, his fingers pleasuring me and never let this feeling end.

The orgasm comes hard and fast, my knees bending, my legs lifting as my body curls around him. A sound I don’t recognize fills the room, a deep moan, punctuated with a high, sexy sigh.

Did that come from this little virgin?

But I won’t be a virgin for long…now he’s coming up for air, kissing my lips, lashing his tongue against mine, leaving a trace of my taste behind. His fingers are still inside me and he moves them, stroking me, coaxing another orgasm from me. My damp, sweat-slick palms cling to the counter, holding onto the edge like an anchor, but nothing can keep me below the clouds when the second climax hits.

It shatters my world, so powerful, I hear the sound of gunshots ringing through my ears—GUNSHOTS! My eyes snap open just as Santo grabs me in his arms. “Come with me.”

“What was that?” I wrap my legs around his waist, grabbing his shoulders as he carries me into the safety of the pantry.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Stay here and don’t move.” He sets me on my feet, pushing me behind him. His hand goes to the gun at his hip. He holds his other arm out behind him to keep me from following him. “Stay put.”

I grab for his hand. “No. Let me come.”

He cups my face in his free hand. “Stay.” His eyes harden as he commands me, the look he gives me gluing my feet to the floor.

“Okay. I’ll stay. Be back quick?”

“I promise. I’ll be back.” He leaves me with a kiss.

I watch him leave the kitchen stepping past my discarded panties then turning in the direction of the foyer. My hands tremble as I pull the pantry door shut. I crouch down on the floor, my back against the wall.

What am I doing? I should be looking for weapons. I creep along the floor, noiselessly combing the shelves for anything heavy or metal or sharp. I find a cast iron skillet and heft it, feeling the weight in my hands. It’s better used to make crispy edges on cornbread and cobblers, but it’ll have to do.

My heart thrums against my chest. Where is he? What’s happening?

It takes every ounce of obedience I can find in my body to stay put, to not run out there to see if he needs help, but let’s be honest…I’d probably end up putting him in more danger, if he is in danger, making him have to save me.

So I stay. And that look he gave me before the kiss. That keeps me in the pantry too.

It feels like forever, but I know by movements of the thin silver hand gliding across the face of my watch that it’s only been three minutes. Three long minutes.

I rest on my haunches, pan in hand, waiting for him to come back.

Finally, I hear a hand on the doorknob. “Santo!”

The door opens.

And my breath is robbed from my body.

It can’t be.

A familiar voice rings in my ears like tinkling bells. I’d know that face, that voice, anywhere. Cornflower blue eyes burrow into me. “Well hello, dear. Did you miss me?”

It. Can’t. Be.