Page 54 of Downfall

I have to hold onto the door frame to keep myself steady, and even though I don’t answer him, I think the gesture alone tells him everything he needs to know.

23

SKYLAR

Can you become addicted to someone’s tongue? I mean, I guess it’s possible. My roommate in college was addicted to running. It was the first thing she did every morning and the last thing she did at night. She confided in me once that it was all she thought about. She would dream about running only to wake up in the middle of night and go for a jog. The weird part was she wasn’t even on the track team or anything. It wasn’t about competing or winning. It was the pleasure it brought her. I suppose there are worse addictions—drugs, gambling…getting eaten out by your pseudo-husband who you kind of hate.

Is it healthy that he makes me come every night after dinner? Probably not, but I can’t find it in myself to care. It’s become a ritual. We eat dinner, and then he hoists me up onto the kitchen counter and eats me like he’s still starving. God, the things that man can do with his tongue…I get it now. All those girls in high school who lined up around the block for a shot with Declan Astor? It didn’t matter if they had boyfriends or knew they would get their hearts broken. They threw themselves at him even just for a moment of pleasure only he could give, and if they could do it, why can’t I?

That’s what I tell myself every night. This is just physical. Except that he kisses me too—before, when all I taste is his desire, and after, when I taste us together. He never asks for anything in return, even though I can see his erection straining against his zipper every time. Once, I reached for him, and he shook his head. It’s like he doesn’t think he even deserves my touch. That same night, I heard him in his bedroom, soft masculine moans emanating from behind the door like the night we watched each other come apart. Only this time, he didn’t seem to hear me, or if he did, he didn’t let on. Instead, he let out a string of curses that ended with my name, whispered, broken, floating out into the hallway until it landed smack-dab on the crack in my chest.

“Are you good to lock up?” Ash’s voice pulls me from the memory.

“Yeah, just finishing up some research.” He nods, rapping his knuckles on my desk a couple of times before he leaves me alone in the office.

I look at my screen and the name staring back at me. I’m not sure what made me decide to look up Marshall Astor. Maybe it was Emory’s warning or the look on Declan’s face after his father came to the house the other day, like he had seen a ghost. Or maybe it’s my innate need to investigate when something seems off. When I was little, I wanted to be a detective. I had my own little agency that my mom would pretend to call. I’d run into the living room with my magnifying glass, and she’d tell me about the case of the missing sock or the mysterious footprints on the walkway. I wouldn’t stop until I had solved the case. I guess that’s why I love old movies. There’s usually an element of mystery. My dream of becoming an investigative journalist didn’t totally pan out, but at least I’m working at a newspaper. And being that I work at a newspaper, I know that arrests in the state of Connecticut are public record and can be retrieved through a database I happen to have access to.

Except when they’re sealed, which typically only happens when the defendant is a juvenile or some other shady shit has occurred. Either way, Marshall Astor has an arrest record. One that is not accessible to the public, and to say my Spidey-senses are going off is an understatement. Even if it weren’t for my incessant need to uncover the truth and expose corruption, I wouldn’t be able to let this go because not only is he Declan’s father, he’s now my father-in-law. If he’s involved in something shady, I need to know.

My phone buzzes, pulling my attention from the screen. It’s Declan letting me know he’s out front. His sketchy-ass father will have to wait until tomorrow.

I lock the front door, jiggling the handle to make sure it’s secure, but when I turn around, I don’t see Declan’s car. Instead, I see the man himself propped up on his motorcycle, legs crossed at the ankle, tattoos peeking out of his leather jacket, a helmet on his head and one in his hand.

“What the hell?”

“Thought we could up the ante on your exposure therapy.” His voice is muffled behind the helmet, and I can’t explain why that turns me on. He flips up the visor as he walks over to me with all the bravado of a man with nothing to lose, and places the extra helmet on my head.

“Declan.” I hate how whiny my voice sounds. It’s the same sound I make when he sits back on his heels and stares before he latches onto my clit.

“If you can ride on the back of a motorcycle, you can drive a car.”

I’m not sure I follow his logic, but seeing him in that helmet is doing things to me. Declan lifts my chin so he can adjust the straps underneath and now my heart is doing this little fluttery dance.

“All set,” he chirps—literally chirps—like he’s a cheerleader hyping up the rest of the squad.

He flips his visor back down and takes my hand, but stops moving when he realizes I’m frozen in place. “Skylar.”

“I’m not getting on that thing.”

He shakes his head. “Stop being a brat.”

“I’m not a brat!” My hand flies to my chest in offense.

“That's exactly what a brat would say.”

“You know what my mom calls bikers? Organ donors on wheels.”

He chuckles, but once again, it’s muffled so it comes out darker than it was meant to be. “Get on the bike, Skylar.”

Okay, maybe it was supposed to be that dark.

I shake my head, and he leans forward and grabs his shins, probably attempting to gain some of his sanity back, but he stole mine first.

“If you get on the bike, I’ll take you to get your car.”

“How is that an incentive? And how do you know where my car is?”

“I don’t, but I know it’s not at the shop, and I know you’ve been avoiding it. So you can either tell me where it is or we can ride around aimlessly while I look for it. Your choice.”