by Hazel Hunter
Lightly, he captured her lower lip, drew it completely into his mouth, and let his tongue fondle it. He stroked her one way and then the other, moving the soft flesh and sucking on it, until the quaking finally stopped. Slowly, her arms wound around his waist and, as she stepped closer, he felt his arousal jab into her abdomen. The press of it into her was like a jolt of electricity. His entire body tensed, as did hers. He let one hand drift downward, lightly grazing the front of her throat, skimming over her collar bone, until his fingers found her plump breast and he palmed it.
Isabelle moaned into his mouth as he lightly squeezed the tender mound. Smooth and lush in his hand, he felt the dimpled center of her nipple stiffen. Gently, he molded the ripe flesh in his hand as her arms tightened around his waist and his arousal was pinned between them. The feel of her skin pressing along the length of him was nearly shocking, the engorged tip already sensitive. The entire shaft swelled now and his hips pulsed with the need to thrust. He immediately took her other breast, equally warm and soft, and cupped it.
Her mouth seemed to pause in shock and, as his tongue speared into her, he kneaded and stroked each breast simultaneously. He plumped them, squeezed them and let his hands explore their round fullness. Suddenly, she pressed herself to him, the swelling flesh thrusting into his hands, her hips doing a sensual gyration against his. His arousal throbbed in aching response and in the next moment, his hands had pushed her panties down and he was lowering her to the bed.
• • • • •
Isabelle didn’t bother stepping out of her shoes as the panties finally pulled free of them. Mac’s mouth on hers was like a drug: hypnotic and consuming, soft and yet possessive, owning hers to the point that her lungs screamed for air.
But his hands were just the opposite. When he finally released her breasts to guide her hips to the bed, her nipples instantly ached for his touch. Suddenly, his mouth released hers and her lungs heaved like a bellows, pulling in one lungful of air after another. Slowly, he lowered himself over her, the hard slabs of chest muscle grazing maddeningly across the stiffened peaks of her breasts. As she lay back, though, his hand found her again. Even as his hair roughened thighs squeezed between hers, spreading them, his lips found the skin behind her ear and his fingers delicately plucked one nipple.
“Yes,” she gasped as her back arched wildly in response.
Her hips tilted hard against his, his engorged arousal pressing at her entrance, as her nipple tightened in response. His thumb rode across it, rubbing it, as he bit gently into her neck. Her hips lifted to him and her abdomen contracted as the tug on her sensitive nub made the other nipple harden in empathy. And as Mac’s arousal nudged against her sweet spot, warmth flooded between her legs.
Her hands flew to his chest, her palms over his nipples, squeezing the thick pecs. Mac hissed into her neck, driving her to squeeze harder, but the material of her gloves frustrated her. She was dying to know what those nipples felt like, how the hair on his chest would feel running under her fingers, but the gloves would not permit that. Instead, she quickly slid her hands down his incredibly taut waist, onto his hips, and tugged them to her.
But as she tilted her hips up to his and pulled, Isabelle realized that was the last thing she needed to do. Mac’s thrusting arousal sank into her immediately, the hot distended flesh spreading her as he drove up inside. She’d wanted it, needed it, urged him on and yet the sudden fullness and stretch made her cry out involuntarily.
Mac suddenly freed her breast and raised up on both elbows. She opened her eyes to see his face just in front of hers, looking down at her. His blue-green eyes were fevered, his breathing hard, and his lips parted as though in question. But there was no answer that she could give. Instead, she let her legs and knees lift higher, her high heels riding along the outside of his hips. He glanced back at them, his chiseled torso twisting, the muscles rippling under the taut skin as he reached backward. Slowly his hand caressed the top of her foot. He smoothed his warm palm under her calf, outside her knee, and then up her thigh. The large hand was tender as he rubbed back down her thigh and then her knee. But at his hip, he paused. Gently, his fingers wound around her hand and slowly but firmly he raised it above her head. His weight pinned it to the mattress as he grasped her other hand and did the same.
As their fingers entwined, he smoothly and steadily pushed into her. The rigid part of him glided upward, deep inside her, as her hips rocked with his, her ankles crossed in the small of his back. The penetration of his hot flesh seemed endless, filling her inch by inch as he completely imbedded himself. Her hips wriggled with the mounting pressure and, above her head, her fingers tightened around his. Her lungs fought for more oxygen as Mac’s breathing grew heavy and harsh.
But as the weight of his hips settled on hers and his groin finally connected with her, her back arched. He ground into her then, his distended shaft pushing at the walls of her body, his hips crushing her sweet spot. But just as the tiny center began to pulse, he drew back and then thrust again. Her hips tucked up under his, trying not to let him go. Her hands tugged at his with the impulse to hang on to his waist. But there was no way she was going to move his hands or arms and, as he plunged upward into her, she had no choice but to writhe.
He lowered his chest to hers and his mouth found her neck again, even as her hips bucked upward and her torso jerked against his.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely into her throat.
Quickly, he drew back and thrust again, moving hard into her, as her sweet spot throbbed against his weight and her hips struggled to satisfy themselves. She bucked again, completely involuntarily, her chest meeting his as her back arched away from the bed.
“God, yes,” he hissed.
Again, he plunged into her as her hips moved to accept him, trying to take all of him. He connected with a soft thud, the vibration of their bodies racing to her sweet spot and it thrummed in response. A convulsion spread through her abdomen, taking her breath away and, as he tried to rear back again, her legs gripped his waist tightly and hung on. But there was no stopping the primal rhythm that had taken over. His hips deftly swiveled below her legs and pumped his hot flesh into her yet again. She raised herself against him, pressing upward to meet his every thrust, as his increasing rhythm fed the growing yearning in her and a familiar coil of tension began to build in her tight depths.
She lifted her hips to his thrusting body as he drove into her. The rock hard length of him surged upward, again and again, filling her completely only to withdraw. Her torso struggled to keep up, undulating against his, as he rocked her with each new penetration. But as the tempo increased, she thrashed against him, her body writhing, aching for fulfillment. Mac panted as he pounded into her harder and faster and air was forced from her lungs in breathless urgent gasps. His strokes crescendoed, his hips pumping at a frenetic pace, his thrusts possessing her and penetrating to her very core. Her sweet spot buzzed with the pounding and a sudden convulsion rocked her body.
“Mac,” she managed to gasp between breaths.
Suddenly, he buried himself in her.
Her hips rocketed to life, gyrating wildly as a wave of clenches exploded in her abdomen. Inside, she felt him thicken and his fingers tightened around hers.
“Isabelle,” he breathed, just as his arousal jerked within her.
He grunted heavily with the release of it and her body convulsed around him. Over and over she spasmed, the dazzling waves of passion sweeping through her. Mac’s arousal jerked again and she felt his climax ripple along its length, molten and spewing. His massive chest flexed into her, their bodies joined at the hips.
As the clenching deep inside her continued to milk him, she shuddered uncontrollably. A deep groan welled up from his chest as he convulsed, bucking deep inside. Together they rode the surge and ebb of pleasure, rocking in unconscious time until, slowly, the waves began to fade. Though tiny tremors of ecstasy continued to reverberate in her abdomen, her climax had finally passed. His hips pulse
d a few more times but eventually they grew still.
Mindless oblivion began to take over as a rush of relief washed through her. Mac’s warm body lay on hers now, his breathing harsh behind her ear, their bodies slick with sweat. She felt him slowly withdraw and his hands release hers but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes or even move her arms. Deep peace settled on her and she gave herself to it completely, lulled by the rhythm of Mac’s breaths.
Eventually, she felt him move to the bed beside her and gently guide her arms down to her sides. She wanted to turn to him, say something, see his face, but as he put a pillow under her head, she realized she was utterly exhausted. He draped his giant arm over her midriff and nuzzled behind her ear. Though she had no idea if he saw, she smiled. Then, as a deep sigh of male satisfaction washed down her skin, she drifted into blackness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Nothing useful,” Sharon confirmed, holding out the report to him as Mac entered the living room. “As you suspected.”
“Okay,” he said, taking it from her as well as the offered cup of coffee.
Isabelle left his side, headed to the kitchen, and glanced back at him with a little smile just before she disappeared behind the swinging door.
The morning had been a strange series of little rituals. Though they’d slept late and needed to get going quickly, she’d unwrapped a new bar of soap for him. She’d made breakfast while he was in the shower and, while she was showering, he realized that she used paper plates, styrofoam cups, and plastic utensils. Everything was disposable. He’d had a few minutes to look around her apartment as well. Though he’d tried to turn off his profiler’s brain, that wasn’t really possible. Despite the rundown neighborhood and the lack of a car, the furniture all looked new. Nor were there any knick-knacks. Or photos. When she’d finished and entered the living room, she’d been dressed in a particularly form fitting dress of dark green, a neckline that dipped a little deeper, and delicate light green gloves to match. She’d actually blushed when she realized he was staring.
“So,” said Sharon. “No news is good news?”
Mac realized he’d been grinning and abruptly stopped.
“No,” he said. “Not in this case.”
“Oh,” Sharon said, looking toward the kitchen. She’d been about to go back to her computer when she stopped, apparently remembering something. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look at the transcript I texted everyone but the abductor misquoted the Bible.”
Mac scowled.
“Did he?” he said, before he took a sip of coffee.
“Yes,” she said nodding. “I compared it to several versions online.” She sat on the couch and brought up the transcript. “The King James, the New International Version, the New American Bible, and others,” she said pointing at the screen. “He says ‘With whom the kings of the earth had committed incest’ but the correct quote is actually ‘With whom the kings of the earth had committed fornication.’ He did the same one more time. ‘Drunk with the wine of her incest’ ought to be ‘Drunk with the wine of her fornication.’”
Mac sat down next to her.
“That’s an interesting slip,” he said. “One might even say Freudian.” He paused. “The killer was nervous.”
“Killer?” Sharon asked.
“He’s not a kidnapper, not in the conventional sense,” Mac said. He leaned toward her. “He intends to kill Esme,” he said very quietly. “That’s clear. No ransom request, claimed not to have known her name. She’s little more than a means to an end for him. With the raving phone call and the incest slip, he’s starting to come into focus.” Mac paused and then thought out loud. “Good verbal skills, aggressive behavior, dares to call when he knows the call will be traced. Arrogant, probably intelligent.” He looked at the computer screen. “Incest? Maybe something he’s experienced.” His gaze shifted to Sharon. “Do you see where this is headed?”
“A serial killer,” she whispered.
“A sexually-motivated serial killer. But what we don’t know is why he hasn’t killed Esme yet.”
At that moment, Isabelle and Anita came in from the kitchen. Anita took a tray of pastries to the sideboard near the stairs as Isabelle followed with another. Mac focused on her. The killer had wanted to speak with her. He’d been so nervous on the phone with her that he’d misquoted the Bible. Something about a psychic being part of the team had unnerved him.
And that felt wrong in Mac’s gut. Again he got the feeling this man was simply not what he seemed. Serial killers didn’t get nervous on the phone or make Freudian slips while quoting Bible verses. But whatever he was after, Isabelle played into it and was likely the reason that Esme was still alive.
He clenched his jaw and shook his head. He needed more time and yet time was close to being gone. This was the third day, the third, virtually unprecedented. He had to have more time. Whatever the killer wanted, he had to be thwarted. He had to be stalled.
An idea began to form in Mac’s mind as he watched Isabelle quickly smile at him and follow Anita back into the kitchen. The killer had to be lulled into a sense of security. They’d give him what he wants. What was it he said? ‘It’s a war between you and me.’ Fine. Make him believe that he had won.
“What does DC say?” Ben asked.
Sharon was gone and Mac was sitting alone on the couch, Ben standing next to him, waiting. Mac stood.
“Exactly what you’d think,” Mac answered quickly. “But I’ve got a plan.”
Ben smiled–not a smile of relief or even happiness. It was the smile of a man who wanted the tide to turn–the grim grin of someone who felt his time was coming.
“Of course you do,” Ben said.
• • • • •
“I’m going to what?” Isabelle asked, not quite believing what she’d just heard.
“Get on television and say you’re a fake,” Ben said, repeating what Mac had just said.
Ben, Mac, and Sharon stood across the center island of the kitchen. Anita stood at Isabelle’s side.
“I don’t understand,” Anita said. “How is that going to help?”
“We’re going to give him want he wants,” Mac said to Anita. “Lull him into thinking he’s got time. That he’s got the upper hand.”
“He’ll get careless,” Ben said.
“He’s already making mistakes,” Sharon said.
“At the very least, he’ll be off balance,” Mac said, still not looking at Isabelle. “That shoe will be on the other foot for a while.”
Anita was silent, looking at the three of them and then she turned to Isabelle. Anita’s lips were pressed together in a slight grimace and she blinked once and then twice.
This is so ironic, Isabelle thought. In all my life, being a psychic has never felt so good. Working with people, making a real difference. And now…she was supposed to deny it, just when she’d had her first, big break. Even if she got the chance to say that she’d lied about being a fake–what good would it do? You couldn’t unring the bell. All the years of trying to make people understand–gone.
Anita swallowed and reached out to her but then hesitated, her hands wavering in the air.
Isabelle took them in hers.
“Let’s do it,” Isabelle said quietly.
“Thank you,” Anita said, clutching Isabelle’s arm.
Isabelle patted Anita’s hand.
“The important thing is Esme,” Isabelle said, mustering a smile. “Didn’t I say that we’re going to find her?”
Anita hugged her tight.
• • • • •
“It’s not what I want,” Mac said, when they were finally alone.
Sharon had left to compose the statement that Isabelle would read, and Ben and Anita had followed her. Though her words were measured, Mac could see that Isabelle was deeply upset.
“But it was your idea,” Isabelle said. “Wasn’t it?”
“I mean I don’t want you sidelined,” he said, coming around the island, moving
one of the stools out of the way. “I want you with me,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his.
Isabelle shook her head and looked down at their hands.
“Sometimes I think I don’t understand you,” she said quietly.
“Really?” he said. “Even after…last night? Or after our hands touched?”
“Do you believe I have psychic ability?” she asked suddenly and looked up at him.
The question came as a surprise.
“What?” he said, sensing that everything turned on this.
“You’ve never once acknowledged it,” she said. “As far as you’ve ever said, everything I contribute is something your investigation has already revealed. Or it’s a decent guess. Or a logical thing to say.”
Her eyes flicked back and forth between his and he felt the squeeze of her hand.
“Mac, do you believe I have psychic ability or don’t you?”
He wanted to be able to say yes, that he believed her unequivocally, without a doubt in his mind. It’s what she wanted to hear, maybe even needed to hear. But, sadly, it wasn’t true and Isabelle didn’t deserve a lie.
“I’m a man of science,” he began. “I rely on facts, on data.”
Isabelle’s shoulders suddenly sagged and she quickly lowered her gaze. In moments, she had dropped his hand and was backpedaling.
“No,” he said reaching toward her, but it was too late. A lopsided smile appeared on her lips and her eyes teared up. “Isabelle,” he said quietly, “don’t.”