My tongue slips out of my mouth to lick along my bottom lip as I glance toward the door, my heart skipping when I remember where we are. That I’m about to let the town hero eat me out on top of the preacher’s desk.
But God himself could walk through those doors and I’d beg Lincoln not to stop.
He presses my legs wide until the muscles stretch, creating a delicious ache. Leaning in, his nose skims across the seam of my panties, making my abs clench and butterflies explode like a cannon.
“Tell me what I want to hear, sweetheart,” he rasps, his forearm pressing against my stomach until I’m locked in place.
“Wh—what is it you want to hear?” I stutter.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh, and my heart bangs against my chest.
“That I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” I repeat back, although I’m not sure I believe the words I’m saying.
Another kiss, this time to the opposite side, his free hand teasing the edge of my panties. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”
My hands shoot down to his hair, my fingers gripping the strands tight, trying to keep myself grounded as a coil starts to tighten inside me.
He’s barely touching me, and yet I’m already on the edge, desperate to feel the flat of his tongue lick up the seam of my pussy.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper.
This time, I don’t have to wonder if I believe it. I’ve never truly hated him.
His nose continues to slide back and forth, brushing ever so slightly against my clit. It throbs beneath the teasing touch, a gush of wetness coating the fabric and slicking down to the insides of my thighs.
I have never been this turned on before.
My insides flutter, my body being driven to the point of madness, wanting nothing more than to feel him against me. For him to douse the fire that he’s making rage through my veins.
“Tell me,” he whispers, his words puffing out as hot air that wraps around my every nerve. I groan, eyes rolling, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.
“Tell me you’re mine. That you won’t let any other motherfucker touch you.”
My heart stutters, and I suck in a breath. “I—”
He presses his lips against my center then, and even through the fabric, the touch is a thousand electrical volts shooting through me. My thighs tighten around his head and I push myself farther into him.
His fingertips dip beneath the seam of my underwear, moving them to the side, the cool air harsh against my skin.
“Christ, you smell so fucking good,” he groans. “Say it, Morgan.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp out, my stomach somersaulting as I speak the words.
He dives in, his tongue flicking against my clit as if he’s been starving for the taste.
I moan, unable to stop myself from making the sound—even though we’re in a public space—and my body flings back, my elbows collapsing against the desk from the movement, the few pieces of paper and a cup full of pens clattering to the floor.
The sound is loud, but I don’t care.
Because whatever he’s doing feels incredible.
“Lincoln,” I pant.
He hums, his tongue swirling in circles around my sensitive flesh, then moving down to lick up the wetness that’s flowing steadily from my entrance. The heat of his mouth makes my legs tremble, a deep ache settling in my core and spreading slowly outward, until it seizes my lungs and makes my breath stall.
I’m so close.
One of my hands lets go of his hair, reaching down to rub myself, as he laves his tongue through my arousal, drinking me up like water.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, the sensitive nerves pulsing beneath my fingers.
His eyes spark as he leans back and watches me touch myself, his own hand gliding down his torso and gripping his cock that’s visibly straining against his pants. He moves back in, removing my hand and closing his lips around me, pulling my clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking back and forth as he applies suction.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, my legs shaking uncontrollably around him.
My nipples pebble as the tension in my muscles wind tight.
“Please,” I beg. “Please, Lincoln.”
He continues his assault, the tips of his fingers slipping inside my walls and curling upward. I throw my head back at the intrusion, the sensation overloading my body and throwing me off the edge of the cliff.
I come apart violently, my body vibrating against him as euphoria spreads through every nerve; a numbing type of bliss that leaves me floating in space and blacking out from the pleasure.
His hand snaps up to my mouth, pressing hard enough to muffle the noise. I bite into his palm instead of screaming into the air.
Slowly, I come back down, my body weak and my brain fuzzy. “Oh, my god,” I breathe out.
He glides his body against mine as he works his way up, then leans over me, his lips coming down to press into the juncture between my shoulder and my neck.
“Sinful girl, coming on my tongue and screaming the Lord’s name while you do it,” he rumbles in my ear.
He moves then until he’s directly above me, his breaths mingling with mine, our eyes locked.
My chest pulls tight as I stare, unsure what it is that’s happening, but unable to pull myself away.
I can smell my cum on his mouth, and it sends another spike of desire through me. I rise up, my fingers threading through his mussed-up hair and dragging his face down to mine, biting his lower lip.
He moans, his body weight collapsing on top of me, his thick erection grinding against my sensitive core, making me want to feel him sink deep inside me and ruin me for anybody else.
“Lincoln, please,” I speak into his lips. “Fuck me.”
His eyes flare, and he groans again. “You have no idea how sexy it is to hear those filthy words from your pretty little mouth.”
He reaches down, his belt buckle clanking as he hastily undoes it, and my pussy throbs in anticipation.
“Hello?”
The voice is far off and muffled, but it’s enough to shock me out of the daze from whatever we’re doing.
Lincoln jumps back at the same time I shoot upright, and we both scramble to right ourselves as we hear footsteps clacking down the hall.
“Carina?”
“Shoot,” I mutter, palming the top of my hair and jumping off the desk, my feet stumbling as I run to tug on my jeans. My eyes glance over at Lincoln, and he’s leaning against the front of the desk, a slight smirk on his face.
I point at him. “Don’t start.”
His palms raise in the air. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Anyone here?” Alex’s voice is closer now, and I blow out a breath, my gut churning, knowing that he’ll take one look at us and know that everything he said back at the precinct was right.
Closing my eyes, I count down from three, walking to the office door and flinging it open, Alex appearing on the other side.
“Slo—” His voice trails off as his eyes widen, slowly trailing down my form before moving past me and hardening into stone.
My chest cramps, knowing that he’s staring at Lincoln.
“Alex.” I paste a grin. “What’s up?”
His jaw tenses.
“I got the warrant. Let’s go arrest Paul Jensen for murder.”
Chapter 35
“Tell me you’re mine.”
Jesus, fuck. What the hell was I thinking, saying that to Morgan—Sloane—God. Whatever the fuck her name is.
That’s the problem, though—I wasn’t thinking. At all. I’d had enough of her fucking lip, and forced her admission, acknowledging that there’s something between us. Something’s not quite right, and it hasn’t been since the second we met.
Whether she’s my Morgan or not, I certainly just laid claim regardless.
And in Preacher Cartwright’s office, no less.
Slumping down in the back pew of the church
, I rest my head against the wood surface, staring up at the vaulted ceiling and its massive skylight. The overcast sky doesn’t add much brightness to the room, instead bathing the aisles in shadows.
I’d be creeped out if I hadn’t spent my childhood wearing holes in the carpet, at times more familiar with this place than my own home.
“When did they start allowing devils into holy places?” A voice echoes against the ceiling, grating on nerves I’ve been holding tight since Alex interrupted my time with Morgan.
It’s been fifteen minutes since they left to round up Paul Jensen and raid his home, and I’ve been trying to console my dick ever since.
Now, as I turn and see Jordan Thomas hobble in through the front doors, my cock deflates to a point where I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to use it again.
Pulling the toboggan from his head and stuffing it into his pocket, Jordan starts up the aisle, taking a seat at the far end of the pew across from me. He exhales, producing a paper-wrapped forty from his coat flap, and holds it up toward the Jesus statue on stage.
“Should you be drinking in here?” I ask, even though I don’t particularly feel like engaging with him.
He grunts. “Come try to pry it from my hands, Porter. I fuckin’ dare you.”
I roll my eyes, annoyed that he’s ruining my silence. I should get up and go find my mother, make sure she’s home now that an actual arrest is being made. Surely, Paul being off the streets is enough to put her mind at ease.
Provided they find something tying him to the crimes.
There’s a thought niggling at the back of my mind, though, a tiny pulsing sensation that grows the longer I linger on it.
It’s insistent, the belief that Jensen had as much to do with these murders as I did, but since I can’t prove it—and he’s been less than willing to offer anything real to the contrary—I don’t have any room to suggest otherwise.
I know Morgan’s a damn good detective—what I’ve seen so far, and the research I did do when she first rolled into town proves that. Even if she’s easily distracted.
If she thinks he’s suspicious, then maybe he is.
Besides, like Gabe said, the lack of evidence isn’t proof that he didn’t do it. Just like a lack of bodies from Halloween almost twenty years ago doesn’t mean the Jensen girls didn’t die that night.
“Never thought I’d see you back in church after your pops’s funeral,” Jordan comments after a brief silence, keeping his stare straight ahead.
I shrug. “Probably didn’t think you’d see a serial killer running rampant on the island, either, but here we are. Stranger things have certainly happened.”
My eyes shift to the left, watching him from my peripheral. For some kind of reaction, a tell that might point to him being the Fate Reaper.
If anyone’s targeting me specifically, trying to frame me for their crimes, my bet would be on Jordan; especially since his little harbor gang has unmitigated access to the ocean and knows which traps are registered to Porter Lobster Co.
Not to mention the personal vendetta he has against me.
But that doesn’t explain why he’s targeting these women. And it would exonerate Jensen, and frankly, I’m not sure he’s innocent, either.
Jordan hunches forward, taking another sip of his drink. “Stranger than you taking over the family business, when it was clear to everyone you didn’t want to?”
My heart squeezes. “It’s not called a family business for no reason.”
“Family businesses don’t typically sell out for a little extra cash.”
Clenching my jaw, I turn on the bench, facing him. “How else would you have proposed I try and pull a sinking ship from a whirlpool of debt?”
“Debt?” Jordan raises an eyebrow, glancing over at me. Intrigued by this new bit of information—despite being one of my father’s closest friends, I guess financial hardships weren’t a hot topic of discussion.
Still, never wanting to seem outmaneuvered, he shakes his head slightly, speaking around his can. “You could’ve joined up with the Thomas Company. We’d have split profits in honor of your old man until you broke even.”
“And my father’d be rolling around in his fucking grave, regardless.”
“At least you’d still have companies interested in buying from you,” he quips, stretching an arm across the back of the pew. “Little birdie down at the wharf mentioned local grocers are steering clear of your catches.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I snap, even as my gut churns violently.
Is that why I’ve not sold a haul in over a week? Because of my cleanup work for the Fish and Wildlife Department?
Or is it the bodies my traps seem to attract?
“I know no one wants to buy fish from a sellout,” he says. His gray eyes match the shade of the sky, stormy and foreboding as the clouds. “Or a murderer.”
“I was cleared of suspicion,” I reply slowly, narrowing my gaze at him.
“This time.”
My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “Something you’re trying to say, Thomas?”
He smirks. “Of course, I’m not taking credit for the Fate Reaper’s work. I’d never try to do that.”
The implication is silent but clear, hanging in the air between us. A goddamn confession, if I’ve ever heard one.
And it’s obvious that he’s still not forgiven me for rejecting the Thomas Company, or for refusing to let him poach my territory.
“What are you even doing here, Jordan?” I ask, sighing. Wishing I believed in God enough to ask him to smite the man across from me.
“Seein’ as how the town preacher’s wife just turned up dead, I thought I’d pay my respects.” He glances around, as if just noticing that we’re the only two in the church, and frowns. “Guess I thought there’d be more people.”
“What do you know about Tracy’s murder?”
He swings his gaze around, slowly coming to rest on my face. “Careful there, son. You’re starting to sound an awful lot like those cops you used to hate.”
Resentment settles in my gut like a capsized boat to the ocean floor. I hate that I can’t even deny his claim, because fuck me, I do sound like a cop. A Skelm Island officer, no less, haphazardly trying to piece together a puzzle without even looking at the full picture first.
Morgan’s rubbing off on me in more ways than one, I suppose.
“Well, as enlightening as this conversation hasn’t been,” I say, pushing to my feet, tired of being in the same room as this man. “I’m afraid I should be going. Try not to touch the holy water—I hear it burns demons.”
When I get to my mother’s house a while later, I find her slaving over a pot of chili on the stove.
She’s wrapped up in the “Kiss the Chef” apron Daisy got her last Christmas, shimmying her hips from side to side as she belts out the chorus to the “Monster Mash”.
The house is fully decked out in Halloween paraphernalia from over the years; zombie statues that she sews together every year and sets up in the corners of the living room, purple and orange lights strewn up along the crown molding, and fake cobwebs stretched out in every corner.
If there’s one thing this woman takes seriously, it’s Halloween.
Okay, also family.
And murder.
But Halloween is a close third.
She used to throw them for my father, who loved the unofficial holiday, but would have rather died than admit it. So, instead of going to church and praying for the souls of the damned trick-or-treaters, she’d whip together a spooky “fall festival” and invite the entire town over for games and candy.
Eventually, it became Skelm Island’s favorite fall activity.
“There’s my baby!” she squeals as I walk into the kitchen, extending her arm for me. Her dark hair’s pulled back and tucked into the neck of her black sweater, fingernails painted a bright shade of purple.
I wrap myself in her embrace, bending down to press a kiss agai
nst her cheek, and she holds up a spoonful of the broth for me to taste.
I slurp at the spoon, letting out a soft sound of agreement when I straighten back up. “Needs a dash more chili powder, and I think you’re ready to go.”
Nodding, she reaches over and uncaps a spice jar, shaking flakes into the soup and mixing. “I never got a chance to talk to you about your stake out,” she says after a few seconds of quiet stirring.
“You mean, about Tracy’s…”
“Hand?”
I grimace. “I was hoping you didn’t know the specifics.”
She dips her chin, drawing in a shaky breath. “Unfortunately, that news broke while me and the girls were still trying to lure Jensen out of his house.”
“Didn’t work, eh?”
“Nope. But it sure felt good watching your little girlfriend haul his ass out of there. Like the fog lifted the second that man was forced to face his wrongdoings.” She pauses, tilting her head as she stares out the window above the sink. “Well, the metaphorical fog, anyway. I think global warming is making the real fog worse.”
“Detective Sloane is not my girlfriend,” I say.
“Oh, jeez, Lincoln. Did you break up with her already?” She holds up the wooden spoon, aiming it for my stomach, and I jerk out of reach before she can maim me. “Gabe said you like her.”
I’m going to kill him.
Curling and uncurling my fist, I lean against the counter, shrugging. “I do. But it’s… complicated.”
Complicated because I’m supposed to hate her, but find myself constantly wanting to be in her presence.
And then, the whole ‘she might be my missing best friend’ thing.
My mother sighs, shaking her head. She adjusts the temperature on the stove, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “These things usually are.”
She glances up at a picture of her and my father hanging on the wall by the fridge; them on their wedding day, during their first dance. Beside that, a gold-framed photo of Gabe and Daisy at their honeymoon send-off, the biggest grins plastered on their faces.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 22