Sloane audibly swallows.
“You wanna know something, killer? Learning the enemy is a lot like learning a lover.” I lick my lips, my nerve endings humming, excited by our proximity. “And I was fucking good at my job. Too good. I was never wrong, and I never lost.”
Her tongue darts out to trail her bottom lip, and I can’t help but track the movement with my eyes, my body suddenly starving. A short thread unspools between us, thinning as lust swirls in the air, and I’m reaching for her waist at the same time her hands rise to my chest.
Warning bells peal out in my mind, the sound deafening, but I ignore them, desperate to have my hands on her once again.
Our mouths collide in a wet, heady kiss, and I haul her up against me the second we connect. Her arms move up, clasping around my neck as if she can’t possibly get close enough, her center hot where it presses into my stomach.
“Thought we weren’t doing this again,” she murmurs.
My heart races, pounding so hard I can barely make out her words. A storm of emotion wars inside my chest, conflicting desires struggling for dominance, but it’s hard to care when someone tastes this fucking sweet.
I grunt, my palms sliding beneath her ass and squeezing hard. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Kiss me harder and find out.”
Her teeth scrape against mine as we shift, lips dueling at a brutal pace, and frissons of heat spring up in my stomach, coiling tight.
Pulling her farther into me, I guide her hips atop my belt buckle, aware that she’s probably still needy from where I left her unsatisfied before. She’s so light, so small, that it takes almost no effort at all for me to dry fuck her while I’m bearing all of her weight.
My dick jumps at the thought, noting how easy it’d be to piston into her at this angle, and she hisses out a breath as I help her pick up the pace, grinding her clit against me.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, white-knuckling the roots. “Oh. Lincoln, I’m—”
She lets out a little whimper, and I groan against her. “Yes, you are. Give it to me, killer. Give me those sweet little sounds when you come for—”
Monet’s bark shatters the fantasy, and I mutter a curse as I rip my mouth from hers, dropping her back to her feet. She blinks up at me, eyes hazy, and I take two massive steps back as the dock begins to shake with the weight of an intrusion.
“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Alex says as he approaches, wearing a dark green Quantico hoodie. He smiles at Sloane, and I’m suddenly thankful for the poor lighting out here, because I’m positive she’s thirty different shades of pink right now.
Sloane clears her throat. “Linc—Mr. Porter and I were just discussing the less than ideal sleeping situation.”
Alex sighs. “I told you it’s not a big deal to share the sleeper in the guest bedroom, Sloane. It’s a full, there’s plenty of room.”
I nearly choke on my saliva, the image of the two of them sharing a bed—in my fucking house, no less—bearing down on me like a comet, obliterating everything in its sight. Disgust washes through me, and I glance between them, wondering just how well the two partners really know each other.
“We’ve been sharing a hotel room,” Alex says, shrugging. “I don’t think it’s that different.”
“We had way more space in the hotel.”
“I didn’t think we needed space, Sloane. I—”
Discomfort wedges into my chest, prompting my mouth to speak before my brain catches up. “She can sleep in my room.”
Silence. Then, Alex chuckles, although the sound is weird and stilted. “Uh, no offense, stranger, but... you’re a stranger. Not sure why she’d want to sleep with you over me.”
Once again, ignoring the double meaning, I reach up and grip the back of my neck, exhaling sharply. A headache sprouts up behind my eye, and I decide I’m very much done with the entire evening.
“I’ll take the couch. It’s comfier, anyway.” And I don’t need a bed to sit up all night. “Problem solved.”
Sloane seems to hesitate, chewing on the corner of her lip. I tear my eyes from the action. “Are you sure? I hate to throw you out of your own bedroom.”
I shake my head, snapping my fingers, signaling Monet to heel. “It’s fine, Detective. I don’t plan on being around much these next few weeks, anyway.”
Chapter 16
Branches scratch against my skin as I race through the trees, the smell of birch and white pine strong in the air. My lungs burn as if a thousand razors are slicing through the tissue, but I push forward, praying that my legs won’t give out.
A sick sense of dread winds its way through me, my feet stumbling over loose rocks and twigs, the cold air sharp against my overheated skin. It takes everything in me not to look back, but a woman’s voice whispers in my brain, telling me to run.
There’s a thick fog covering the ground, making it impossible to see more than two feet around me in any direction, so when I reach the sharp edge of a cliff, my heart seizes in my chest, my ankles twisting as I falter to a stop. And only then do I spin and look.
But there’s nothing there.
It’s quiet, other than the sound of soft waves lapping against the rocks and my loud breathing.
Where am I?
The crunch of leaves makes my breath stall and I twist around, bits of gravel skidding off the ground and slipping over the edge, plummeting into the water.
“Hello?” I call out, squinting my eyes, trying to see. “Please—”
Two hands reach through the mist, making my insides jerk, my stomach flying into my throat. A quick shove and then… I fall.
But I don’t hit the water.
Something soft cushions the landing, and I take deep breaths, allowing myself to lie still, staring up at mist that covers everything from my sight.
My head turns to the side, a fragrant scent filling my nostrils as I do, and I blink slowly.
Sitting up tenderly, I lift up my hand, a handful of something soft and silky falling from my fingers.
Petals.
Black roses, to be exact. And I’m surrounded by them.
What in the world?
I reach down again, my arm sinking deep into the flowers, curiosity brimming through me, wondering how deep they go. A sharp sting radiates up my arm and I jerk it back, my heart slamming against my chest as I watch blood bubble, creating a throbbing sensation in my forearm. My chest tightens, breaths coming in shallow pants, a shiny, green thorn protruding from the wound. I reach up and pull, and it pops as it releases, thick red liquid dripping steadily down my arm.
The stinging increases, turning into a heavy pain as the wound morphs in front of my eyes. My stomach drops to the floor, my insides twisting with panic as I watch letters etch themselves into my skin, as if by magic.
It spells out one line.
Signasti fatum tuum.
I shoot upright in bed, my chest heaving and perspiration dripping from my brow. My heart is ramming against my ribcage as I run my fingers through my hair, trying to get myself together. I glance over at the red numbers displayed on Lincoln’s digital clock and try to steady my breathing.
It was just a dream.
The same one I’ve had every single night for the past two weeks; ever since we moved in to stay at Lincoln’s cabin. Sighing, I push off the comforter and stand from the mattress, padding my way softly through the small hallway and into the living room, my eyes glancing toward the empty couch.
Lincoln hasn’t slept here since the day we showed up. In fact, I’ve only seen him a grand number of three times in the past fourteen days, and even that was just in passing.
My fingers tremble as I walk to the kitchen, putting the teakettle on the stove to heat while I prepare a mug for chamomile. I grin as I look at the words on the side.
World’s Best Uncle.
Something tightens in my chest as I imagine a world where Lincoln Porter is happy. Warm. Caring. A vision of his eyes sparkling, his head thrown b
ack in laughter assaults my mind, and my heart pinches, knowing I’ll never see it for myself and hating that even the smallest part of me wants to.
The kettle whistles, bringing me out of my reverie, and I pour the water to steep the tea. It’s become my nightly routine here; at least on the nights where it’s Alex’s turn to work.
We alternate, one of us taking the night to sleep and the other staking out the lighthouse and surrounding area. So far, there’s been absolutely nothing.
Although, who knows what’s been happening on the water when we’re both stuck on land. I’ve been begging Stoll for days, just to give me something. Let me get out on the water and see if anything raises alarms.
But for some reason, Klepsky’s been putting up a fight and Stoll listens to everything he says, so they’ve both been adamantly against it. The incompetency of Skelm Island’s precinct is beyond anything I’ve encountered, and it makes my job extremely difficult. Normally, I’d be neck deep in evidence. Living, breathing, becoming the mind of the serial killer in order to track them down. But that’s hard to do when the cops you’re depending on don’t want you here in the first place, and throw up unnecessary roadblocks just to let you know you’re unwelcome.
I wrap my fingers around the hot mug, walking to the front and covering myself in a beige cardigan, before slipping my feet in my shoes and heading out the front door to walk toward the dock.
Maybe the fresh air will calm my nerves.
Moving to the edge of the water, the thick mist swirls around me, so reminiscent of my nightmare it makes my bones chill, unease winding its way up my spine.
My eyes snag on Lincoln’s lobster boat, slightly rocking against the waves. Sipping from my mug of tea, the warmth coasts through me, and I close my eyes, imagining the liquid infusing my nerves with calm.
It doesn’t work.
My mind races. I’m no stranger to nightmares, although this is the first time the case I’m working on has interfered with my dreams. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to focus fully in my waking hours, my mind too lost in everything Lincoln Porter and the way it feels to be surrounded by his arms.
Stupid.
“Can’t sleep?”
The sound jolts me out of my daze, the hot chamomile spilling over my fingers and scalding the skin. I drop the cup, the sound of it shattering on the wooden deck harsh in the quiet early morning air. “Ow, damnit.”
Lincoln’s strong frame hops over the edge of his boat, moving toward me. My stomach tightens, my fingers gripping my singed hand.
He stops when he’s in front of me, his palms reaching out until they grasp mine, his touch making the burn radiate through my fingers and burrow itself in my veins.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Come on.”
He tugs and I follow without a fight as he leads us onto the boat, the strength of his hold making me feel safer than I have since the nightmares started. He pulls me on board, and hustles us to the door of the interior cabin, holding it open and moving to the side so I can enter first.
I’ve seen the inside of the boat before, but this is the first time I’ve truly taken it in without the eye of a crime scene. It looks lived in. There’s a kitchenette that leads to a small round table surrounded by blue cushioned benches, and behind that there’s a door on the left which I know is the restroom, and a mattress with perfectly made covers pushed against the walls. Monet snores softly from his bed on the ground in the back corner.
Lincoln steals my attention as he pulls me over to the sink and runs the water, moving my hands under the stream. I cringe when it pours over the burn, but soon it washes away the sting and I breathe a sigh of relief. I glance over at Lincoln, his eyes laser focused on the redness of my fingers. Meanwhile, I’m laser focused on the way his palms feel as they cup the outside of my hand, holding it steady. My eyes glance to his face, my heart stuttering as I take in the sharp angles of his jaw, slightly hidden beneath the scruff of his five-o-clock shadow.
He looks tired, but even with the deep-purple bags under his eyes and the roughness of his unshaven face, he’s so beautiful it hurts.
“Better?” he asks, running the pads of his fingers over my reddened skin.
My stomach flips. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Thanks.”
He flicks his eyes to me, but doesn’t move his hand, and neither do I.
“Have you been sleeping in here?” I nod my head toward the bed in the back.
He shrugs. “Figured you guys could use the space in the house. I don’t like clutter.”
I tilt my head. “Is that what we are to you? Clutter?”
“You’re sure as fuck not my friends.”
Sighing from his animosity, I tug my hands away. “I don’t know what I did to you, Lincoln, but I’m sorry for it.”
His gaze narrows as he turns off the faucet. “Do you always offer empty apologies when you don’t know what you’ve done?”
“I haven’t done anything!” My hands slap against my thighs.
He stomps toward me until he’s so close I can see the pulse in his neck.
“Don’t you get it, detective? Being here is you doing something. Go back to wherever the hell it is you came from and leave me the fuck alone.”
I huff out a breath. “God, you are so arrogant. You think I want to be here with you?”
He smirks. “You sure act like it when you’re rubbing your sweet little pussy on my dick.”
Heat floods through me and I reach out, shoving him in the chest. “Fuck you.”
His hands jump up, wrapping around my wrists, pulling me flush into him. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” He leans in close, his breath tickling my neck. “It’s not like you’re figuring shit out while you’re here anyway, might as well mix a little pleasure with your business.”
Unwanted arousal glides through my insides when his grip tightens.
“You talk a big game, Lincoln,” I rise up on my tiptoes until our heavy breaths mingle in the air. “But we both know you don’t have the follow-through.”
His eyes flare and my stomach clenches.
“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” He leans in farther, his lips skimming across mine. “Is that what it will take to get you out of my life? Out of my goddamn head?”
My chest twists.
“No, that’s—” I start.
But I don’t get to finish my sentence. Because he slams his lips to mine, his tongue stealing the words from my mouth.
Chapter 17
I don’t know what the fuck it is about this woman, but her very existence gets under my skin in a way no one else ever has. Like some sort of parasite, she’s crawled beneath my surface and made her home in my veins, filling me with a level of hatred that cannot be good for my blood pressure.
The last few weeks have been absolute torture, with her being mere feet away. Sleeping in my bed, getting naked and using my shower. I’ve beat off more times to that thought than I care to admit, and my forearms are more sore than they’ve been since I left the SEALs.
That’s the main reason I’ve been sleeping out here. I don’t necessarily trust myself, and if my direct action after taking her to the lower level of my boat is any indication, I shouldn’t.
My dick is far too eager to meet her.
When I crash my lips to hers, cutting off the end of whatever she was about to say, my body temperature skyrockets. Heat pulses between my ears, engorging my cock, and I turn in the small space we’re allotted, pressing her back into the counter before I have a chance to see this as a warning sign.
Maybe I can fuck her out of my system. Flush this need, this fixation, by pumping my cum into her tight little body.
Sloane’s mouth is soft, pliant, as it moves against mine; I grip her wrists in one hand, trapping them between us, and slide the other up to cradle the back of her neck. Tangling my fingers in the hair at the base of her skull, I tug gently, slanting my lips on hers as I push my tongue inside.
She tastes like chamomile an
d a hint of mint toothpaste. Like interrupted sleep and desperation, somehow.
Or maybe that’s me.
Swiveling her hips, she huffs as she comes into contact with the outline of my erection, her breath hot and sticky as it rolls over my face.
She sucks my bottom lip between hers, opening her eyes as her tongue flicks out.
Teasing me, like she thinks she’s in charge here.
With a devilish grin, she bats those long lashes up at me, and I can’t stop imagining how this exact scene would look from a different angle; her on her knees, willing to do whatever I ask, those icy blue eyes as seductive as they are fucking beautiful.
I glide my hand around her neck, moving to cradle her jaw in my palm.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Sloane says softly, flexing her fingers in the grip of my other hand. “If we... you know. Go through with this.”
My eyebrow arches. “If?”
Pink stains her cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, there’s still time to stop, right?”
“Do you want to stop?”
She blinks, her breaths growing shallow, and gives a tiny shake of her head. Stroking over her smooth skin with the rough pad of my thumb, I smirk.
“Then there are no ‘ifs’ about it, killer. I’m gonna strip you bare and ravish you.”
A nervous laugh bubbles past her lips, but she seems to choke on it, hands shaking as I release her wrists and press my pelvis into her.
Pinned between me and the counter, she’s quite literally trapped and under my control, and the flare of liquid heat piercing her gaze tells me she likes it.
I shove at her cardigan, pulling back just enough to push it off her shoulders.
Even though she might not have been anticipating her late night walk to end this way, she’s certainly not complaining as she scrambles to help me undress her. The tan wrap falls to the cabin floor in a heap, and she immediately moves to pull her arms from the spaghetti straps of her navy tank top.
I quirk a brow, and she pauses, her chest darkening with the telltale color of bashfulness.
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