The Isle Of Sin And Shadows - Keri Lake Page 0,127

me in a wet glide, he moans into me, face buried in my soaked folds. A tremble vibrates in my thighs as I struggle to hold them open, at the same time desperate to clench them. Tight knots wind deep in my womb, the threat of climax building, cramping my muscles in a bubbly cauldron of ecstasy. Short panting breaths, punctuated by the agonized mewling sounds that escape me, fail to deliver enough oxygen, and I’m dizzy, flush and high on the pleasure.

My muscles tighten.

Tighter.

Oh, God, so tight, my thighs are shaking now. The branch wobbles and shudders beneath me, goading my climax.

“Thierry! Oh, God, Thierry!”

I bring them together, clamping my knees around his head, and an explosion bursts behind my eyes on a rush of hot tingles. I cry out, practically sobbing my orgasm. Squirming and writhing against the rough texture of his face, I push my hips upward, begging him to lap every drop.

My whole body turns soft, weak and limp, draped over the branch now wet with my release.

Shame settles deep inside of me, smothering the lingering intoxication with the cold, black tincture of regret.

“Who gave you that photo?” Thierry’s voice is ragged and weak, broken by harsh breaths.

Tears trickle down my temples, and I can’t bring myself to look down at my body that’s so ravaged and magnificently destroyed by this man. “Why?”

Pressure at my stomach draws my attention to where he’s rested his head there, breathing against me. “Because the boy in the picture is me.”

More tears fill my eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re lying.”

“My name is Thierry James. Bergeron is my mother’s name. My father is Russ James.”

31

Thierry

Nine years ago …

“Dat you, Thierry?” My mother calls out for me from the kitchen, where the smell of gumbo has my stomach rumbling.

“Yeah. Just grabbing a quick shower, and I’ll be right down.” I dump my gear onto the floor just inside the door, and hang up my keys beside the others. Muscles still burning with the extra hour’s-worth of practice, I climb the stairs, groaning with the ache.

Homecoming is this weekend, and the pressure is on, weighing me down like a fucking anchor. This town and its football. Thankfully, it’s my last year, and then I’m off to bigger and better things.

I managed to snag an internship for next year, working as a Summer Analyst for Richmond and Associates, one of the largest investment management companies out of Dallas. A position typically reserved for second year undergrads, but that’s the beauty of being captain of the football team, I suppose. Make the right connections, and doors just seem to open.

Next fall kicks off my freshman year at A&M, where I netted a full-ride, courtesy of the athletic department. The scout hounded me relentlessly, but it wasn’t until Mom and I actually toured the campus that I made my decision to become an official Aggie. Four Star quarterback with thirty-eight touchdowns my junior year and only three interceptions, I’d say it was in the bag, if not for my massive slip in grades at the start of this semester. Thankfully, there’s still time to fix it, but it’ll mean busting my ass to undo all the damage my father left in his wake.

Entering my small bedroom, I groan on finding evidence of my snooping mother: a usually messy bed neatly made up, pillows fluffed to perfection. If she looked hard enough, she’d probably find the collection of Jessica Rodier’s panties, which I make a point to keep as a souvenir every time we fuck. Luckily, she hasn’t snooped to that level, yet.

From my dresser, I open the drawer for a pair of boxers, pushing aside the overturned picture of my father and me crawfishing. It’s been three months since the piece of shit up and skipped town with one of the cheap whores he always had hanging around his house. My parents divorced when I was fourteen years old, and though there was a time I was devastated by it, I’ve since come to appreciate my mother’s decision to sever ties with him. As a drunk and a gambler, the man has always been an albatross around our family’s neck. A fate my mother didn’t deserve.

Born on Chevalier Isle, she had a long-standing history, was respected by the locals, who warned her to keep away from the mysterious outsider who showed up one day out of nowhere. Nearly twice my mother’s age when they met, my father certainly wasn’t my grandparents’ first