Page 16 of The Next Lie

Shiloh has one arm around my chest, one hand wrapped around mine beneath the water, and every inch of him is trying very hard to behave. It is adorable, honestly, in a tragic, doomed, this-man-has-no-idea-who-he’s-in-a-bathtub-with kind of way. He keeps his thumb light against my injured palm, his breathing slow against my back. His mouth does not drift to my neck, even though I can feel the heat of it every time he exhales. He does not squeeze. Does not tease. Does not do any of the things Shiloh Lafitte was clearly put on this earth to do, mostly because God is a woman with a wicked sense of humor and a fondness for cheekbones.

I've decided this to be true, especially here in New Orleans.

Shiloh is trying to be a comfort. Unfortunately for both of us, his body is being a lot more honest than it is soothing. He is hard behind me, thick and hot against my ass under the water, no matter how carefully he keeps the rest of himself arranged. Every time I shift, he goes still. Every time I breathe too deep, his fingers flex. Every time the water moves between us, I feel the effort it costs him not to turn this into something else.

I shouldn't notice. Really, I should file a complaint with whatever department handles human bodies, because mine has picked a horrible time to be paying attention to it, because this is a shit evening.

My sister is alive.

My dead sister stood in front of me in a black dress and looked at me like I’d shown up with the express purpose of ruining her evening.

The men I have let touch me, protect me, and lie by omission with their stupid-pretty mouths, just admitted they knew about the 'assignment' that destroyed my family.

One daughter taken. One daughter killed. Adults dead. A child selected for punishment like this was a fucked-up game of eeny, meeny, miny, murder.

So, no, I should not be noticing Shiloh's dick. I should be a grief nun right now. No touching. No wanting. No noticing the criminally gifted naked man behind me. And yet, my body has apparently decided that if the world is going to keep throwing me off a cliff, the least it can do is provide an orgasm on the way down.

Fantastic. Very demure, very mindful. Excellent work, nervous system.

Delia’s face flashes behind my eyes. You don’t know what you’ve done. My chest tightens so hard I almost fold forward. Nope. Absolutely not. I am not doing that sentence right now. I am not sitting in it, unpacking it, labeling it, lighting a candle for it, and asking my inner child how she feels. My inner child is busy hiding in a closet and would like everyone to shut the hell up.

Shiloh’s arm tightens a fraction. “You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs.

Shiloh hears silence better than most men hear screams. It is one of his more annoying skills, right up there with smiling like sin and making “Yank” sound like a hand under my skirt.

“I don’t want to think.” The words come out before I can pretty them up.

Behind me, his chest stills. Water laps softly against the porcelain. Somewhere beyond the bathroom door, the house creaks around us. Old wood. Old secrets. Men somewhere deciding which truths they'll let me choke on next. Shiloh’s thumb strokes once along my hand. “Then don’t.”

I laugh, but it comes out rough. “Wow. Revolutionary. Should I put that in my planner?”

His mouth brushes my wet hair. “You own a planner?”

“No. But if I did, tonight's entry would say murder, emotional collapse, bath with naked Cajun menace.”

“Cajun-adjacent,” he says.

“Now is not the time for genealogy.” That gets a breath out of him. Almost a laugh. Almost. The sound slips through me, warm and dangerous, because I like it. I like that I can still make him do that even with my life currently spread across the bathroom floor in bloody little puzzle pieces. I like that he is hard and holding back and talking nonsense with me because if we stop, I might remember I don’t know which parts of my childhood are real.

I am sick of remembering. Sick of old gunshots and sheet-covered bodies and people deciding silence is protection because they are not the ones who have to live inside it. Sick of being handled. Managed. Saved. Patted gently on the head by men who then go downstairs to talk about me like I am a haunted object they found in a closet. Even Shiloh’s gentleness scrapes at me. Maybe because I want it. Maybe because I want the other thing more.

I pull my hand from his.

“Yank?”

I move before he can say anything else. Water sloshes high against the sides of the tub as I twist around. Shiloh’s arm drops away fast enough to give me room, but his hands lift as if he expects me to slip. I don’t. The tub is huge, because it's only natural that Shiloh has a bathtub built for bad decisions. There is room enough for me to turn and straddle him, one knee settling on either side of his hips.

His eyes go dark. For one second, we both freeze.

My breasts are level with his face. His cock presses against me beneath the water, hot and hard and not even a little bit comforting. Which is perfect, actually. I'm done being comforted. Shiloh’s hands close around my waist automatically. Then he stops himself. His fingers flex once, and his gaze snaps up to mine.

“Reva.” There is warning in the way he says my name. A strained, careful thread of don’t make me guess.

I settle my hands on his shoulders. His skin is wet and warm under my palms, muscle shifting beneath my fingers. There is a faint scar near his collarbone I have never noticed before. I almost ask about it, because apparently I do enjoy collecting terrible information at the worst possible moments. Instead, I shift my hips. The head of his cock drags against me beneath the water.

Pleasure flashes through me so fast I suck in a breath. Shiloh’s eyes close. “Fuck,” he says softly.

Agreed. A full, formal agreement. With paperwork. I touch his jaw. “I don’t want to be soothed.”