by Mary Frame
It only takes him a second to respond after the initial shock of my assault and then he’s lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist. He leans me against the wall, his hands holding me up under my thighs, still in the entryway, his hips rubbing into my center. I moan into his mouth.
He pulls back slightly, leaning his forehead against mine, breathing heavily, and says the one thing that might compel me to stop: “Our food’s gonna get cold.”
I shake my head slightly. “I don’t care.”
Weird, but true.
He pulls back farther at that, looking me in the eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say before grabbing his head and pulling his mouth back to mine.
Kissing him is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve kissed guys, sure, but not anyone I’ve felt anything for. Well, there was Cameron, but he doesn’t count.
When I’m kissing Dean and he’s kissing me…it’s like a dance, a mutual sharing of affection and passion. I never want to stop. It makes me want to rip off all my clothes and burst into show tunes.
Dean’s tongue is sliding against mine, and I feel like I could do this forever: kiss Dean against a wall. It gets intense and then suddenly he pulls back and gazes at me.
“What?” I say after a minute when I start to feel self-conscious from all the staring.
“Are you doing okay?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I ask, a little confused about why he’s asking for a moment, before I remember the last time we got hot and heavy and I had a super embarrassing panic attack. Oh, right. That.
Instead of responding, he just smiles and then hikes me up a little, pulling away from the wall before lifting me up and over his shoulder as easily as if I were a sack of dirt.
I squeal. I can’t help it, I wasn’t expecting him to toss me over his shoulder like that.
“Now are you taking me to your evil lair to have your wicked way with me?” I ask as he starts walking, jostling me slightly against him.
“Yes,” he says and smacks me lightly on the butt. “If my evil lair is the couch.” And with that, he tosses me onto the worn sofa, immediately following me down and hovering over me on the small space.
I expect him to go back to what we were doing before—getting all hot and bothered. But instead he moves slowly towards me until his lips move softly against mine, a light rubbing of lips, across and over, and over again. His hands run down my body, but not urgently. This time it’s slow and soft. He kisses my nose, my eyelids, and then back to my mouth, barely touching his lips against mine.
“Tell me,” he says against my mouth, “if you want me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
He kisses me again. He’s being so gentle, touching me like I’m a bubble that might pop if handled too roughly.
It’s great. Wonderful. Amazing. I’ve never felt so treasured in my life. Except after about five minutes of the light touches, I’m so turned on I think I might lose my mind. I try to get him to go faster, harder. I squeeze his biceps, running my hands up and down his back, under his T-shirt, putting my hands in his hair. When my ministrations don’t entice him to take more action, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“If this is your wicked way, I think you’re doing something wrong,” I gasp.
His lips brush across my collarbone and down to where the top of my shirt meets skin.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his breath tickling me.
“I need…” I have no idea how to explain it. I have no experience with this. “I need more,” I say finally.
“More what?” he asks, one of his hands moves lightly up my arm, pulling the strap of my top down before biting me gently.
“More everything!”
“I like driving you crazy,” he says against my chest, right above my breasts where the fabric for the tank top begins. I can feel his smile against my skin.
I fist my hands in his hair and pull his head up to look him in the eyes. “Less foreplay, more action,” I tell him.
He laughs then, and kisses me hard on the mouth. “As you wish,” he whispers against my lips.
Then he’s moving, running his nose along my jaw to kiss down my collar bone, sliding fabric away as he moves. I’m moving too, pulling at his T-shirt. He stops for a second and pulls it over his head and I try to admire his body up close, but he doesn’t give me the time.
The next thing I know, my bra is unhooked and my top is pulled over my head and tossed somewhere on the ground. He’s worshipping my body with his mouth. My legs have flopped open and he’s lying in between them. I’m not really sure what to do with myself. The sensations coursing through me wherever his lips meet flesh are overwhelming, but not panic inducing. He makes his way down, pausing just above my pants, running his finger underneath the waistline, against my lower stomach.
He stops suddenly and rests his cheek against my belly. “We’re not going to have sex tonight,” he says, gazing up at me.
“What?” I can’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. “What do you mean, no sex? You’re going to deny me now?” My voice comes out way whinier than I intend.
He laughs against the sensitive skin of my lower stomach and I squirm against him.
“I’m not denying you anything,” he says. “We just aren’t having sex. Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too soon.”
“Too soon my ass!”
“Freya,” he says, holding back laughter. “You’ve been through a lot. You might think you’re ready now, and then you might regret it in the morning.” His eyes meet mine, the normally bright blue color muted by the dim light. “I never want you to regret me.”
I respond by reaching down and helping him slide all the clothes off my body and onto the floor. Surely, I can change his mind.
Before I have a chance to do or say anything else, his head is between my legs and his tongue is doing things that I can’t even fathom. I squirm underneath him, some of the sensations too intense, but he holds my hips steady with his hands. An embarrassingly short amount of time later, probably no more than two minutes, an orgasm rips through my body, making everything quake and tremble.
While I’m recovering, he kisses his way back up my body, settling beside me on the narrow couch and pulling me against him.
“You still have your pants on,” I say against his chest.
“That’s just self-preservation.”
“You think I’m gonna go all nutso and chop off your balls while you sleep?”
“No.” He pulls away slightly and kisses my forehead. “I don’t want to be too tempted.”
“To chop off your own balls while you sleep?”
He chuckles and sighs. “Hmm. Maybe.”
After another moment, I pull away from him, stand up from the couch, and search for my clothes strewn all over the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Well, since you aren’t putting out, I’m going to get food. I need sustenance,” I announce. I tug on my pants while scooting into the kitchen, grabbing the now too-cool-to-eat soup off the counter. I find bowls and reheat the food, bringing it out to the living room along with the rest of the food still in the bag.
Dean unfortunately put his shirt back on and he’s sitting on the couch, looking relaxed and happy. It’s a good look on him. I’m not sure I could ever get enough of it.
He smiles when his eyes meet mine, and he takes the bowls from me, setting them on the small coffee table.
We eat our soup, he feeds me egg rolls, and we finish watching Love Actually. Well, we sort of watch it. Our conversation starts with asking some basic “getting to know you better” questions, like what’s your favorite color (mine is purple, his is black), and then dissolves into ridiculousness.
“What would you rather eat, an earthworm or a beetle?” I ask him.
“What kind of effed up question is that?”
“This is serious. I’ll know whether y
ou prefer crunchy food to soft and squishy food.”
He eats a spoonful of soup and thinks for a few seconds before saying, “Then I have to go with the beetle. Soft and squishy sounds disturbing. There’s a lot to be said for texture. What about you?”
“Totally the beetle, I’ve seen pictures of earthworms that are like five feet long. What if you had to eat that? I think the biggest beetle is like seven inches. Much more doable.”
“So you’re saying bigger isn’t always better?”
“Not when it comes to the consumption of gross animal species.”
After the food is gone, we both clean up the mess.
“Okay,” I say as Dean’s washing the bowls and I’m putting the bags in the trash. “Would you rather drink a cup of pee, or lick a homeless guy’s ass?”
“You’re disturbed.”
“What, you can’t handle the question?” I face him with my hand on my hip.
“I can handle the question.” He finishes stacking the dishes in the dishwasher and dries his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter and watching me.
“How big is this cup of pee, and can I get the homeless guy to shower and disinfect first?” he asks.
I laugh. “Now you’re thinking.”
He shakes his head. “If I’m thinking like you, something’s seriously wrong with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Freya
Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them.
–Washington Irving
A persistent banging rouses me from sleep. What the hell is that noise?
I slept like the dead. I haven’t moved from the position I fell asleep in, cradled against Dean’s chest, in his bed.
I lean back slightly and watch him sleep like the giant creeper I am. This is where I should probably wax on and on about how sweet and handsome he looks while he’s sleeping, but really he looks like a slack-jawed yokel.
Somehow, it’s still cute.
I slide out from under his arm without waking him up and walk over to his laptop where you can see the video from the front door.
The figure banging on the door is familiar to me. Lucy. What the heck is she doing here? Right when I finish the thought, she looks up at the camera and waves.
I find my clothes strewn about the room and quickly shrug them on before shutting Dean in the bedroom to sleep, and heading to the front door.
I unlock and open the door and Lucy lets out a breath when she sees me.
“You’re here,” she says.
“Yeah, come in, come in.” I usher her inside and shut and lock the door behind her. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been trying to call you,” she says.
“Oh.” I haven’t even thought about my cell phone in the last week. “My phone is on the charger I think. I haven’t turned it on since we got back last night.”
“I have to tell you something. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Um, okay.” We sit in the living room on the couch.
Lucy takes a breath and holds it, not saying anything, just watching me with an odd expression on her face.
“Lucy, you look like you have to take a giant dump. You’re acting even weirder than normal. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Cameron.”
“What about Cameron?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?”
“He’s dead,” she says, a little bit louder and slower.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She blinks at me.
“I-I don’t mean that literally. It’s just, I can’t believe this. How? Why? When?”
“He was shot. I don’t know why. It happened last night. The time of death was between eight and ten in the evening. A bit earlier than the last murders.”
I can’t do anything but stare at her. I’m not exactly sure how I should take this news. Cameron was a bastard, and I may have wished—metaphorically and in passing—that he would disappear forever, but…dead? For reals?
“How did you…?”
“I purchased a police scanner after the shooting incident.”
“Of course you did.”
“The police are on their way here now. They’ve obtained a warrant for Dean’s arrest.”
And with that bombshell I’m struck speechless.
A sound at the bedroom door distracts me from Lucy for a moment. It’s Dean, leaning against the doorframe in dark, low-slung jeans and a gray T-shirt, arms crossed over his chest, looking entirely too attractive.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.
“Long enough.” He looks at Lucy. “How much time do you think I have?”
There’s a loud knock at the door and a muffled voice says, “Open up, it’s the police.”
“Not much,” Lucy says.
Dean straightens and looks at me. I stand but I can’t move.
“This is all my fault,” I say.
“No.” He moves over to me and hugs me against his chest. “It’s not your fault. Stay with Lucy, or stay here. Don’t do anything crazy, you understand?” He pulls away far enough to look in my eyes.
“I’ll stay with Lucy, but I’m not promising anything else,” I say, and my voice only warbles a little bit.
The banging on the door gets louder, harder.
Dean’s eyes focus on me with even more intensity. “I mean it, Freya. Don’t put yourself in any danger. Don’t make me worry about you more than I already will.” He kisses me hard on the mouth, the action all too brief, before moving towards the door. He stops for a moment and puts a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Take care of her,” he says, his voice stern.
Lucy nods, and he opens the door.
I can’t watch. I think I might be crying because everything seems blurry and surreal as the cops cuff Dean and take him away, reading the Miranda rights like they do in the movies, which makes me feel like maybe this isn’t really happening. But all too soon, he’s gone.
Then a detective is standing in front of me and telling me I need to go down to the station for questioning, and I absolutely have to or else I could be charged with obstruction of justice. Lucy agrees to drive me, and the drive happens in a blink of motion that I remember nothing of.
And then it’s just me and Lucy and the hum of the air conditioning in a small room that looks exactly like the interrogation room I rescued Dean from.
I’m not sure how much time passes. I feel shell shocked and exhausted.
The next thing I know, Lucy is handing me a glass of water, and then Detective Hanson is sitting in front of me. She’s not as casual as the last time I saw her. Instead of jeans, she’s wearing dark slacks and a blazer.
“Freya, right?” she asks.
I nod.
“I just have a few questions for you. What’s your relationship with Dean Collins?” she asks, getting right down to business.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“And what was your relationship with Cameron Myers?”
I glance at Lucy. She gives me an encouraging nod.
“He’s my ex-boyfriend.”
“Have they ever met?”
I hesitate. “I-I think so.”
“Would you say their relationship was amicable?”
I know exactly where she’s going with this. “Look, Dean didn’t kill anyone. He was with me all last night. So before you go making assumptions, he has an alibi.”
“Would you say that you’re a credible witness?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
She just stares at me, her expression blank.
“I’m not lying!” I say loudly.
“I didn’t say that you were. But didn’t you also impersonate a lawyer for the sole purpose of getting Dean out of questioning with this very same department?”
“Um, I…”
“It’s a yes or no question, Miss Morgan.”
Now I’m Miss Morgan? I never told her my last name. “Yes,” I say, pushing aw
ay the nervous thought that this woman has been investigating me. “That doesn’t change the fact that we were together last night. All night long.”
We’re screwed. There’s no other suspects. Once again, Dean is a connection to the victim and I’m the least reliable witness in the history of all witnesses everywhere. And it’s my own fault I suck.
“Did Dean leave the apartment last night at any time, for any reason?”
Shit. He left to get food. Should I leave that out? Should I pretend I forgot?
No. I can’t lie. They must have the videos he has running constantly monitoring his front door. If they got a warrant for his arrest, they got a warrant to search his apartment. They know he left. They know how long he was gone. Lying will just make us appear guilty.
“He left to get dinner,” I say reluctantly. “But he wasn’t gone long,” I add quickly.
“He went to The Golden Flower. Do you know how long it takes to get there from his apartment?”
“Um. A few minutes?”
“Right. And you ordered ahead.”
“And?”
“And we’ve reviewed the tapes from the restaurant. There’s a twenty-minute time frame that we can’t account for.”
I hesitate, risking another glance at Lucy. Her mouth is drawn in a straight line, expression blank.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She shrugs. “Just wondering if maybe you can account for that time. We know you were in the apartment the entire time he was gone, the tapes prove that, and his cell phone records show he didn’t call you while he was gone so…”
“So what?”
“So, it doesn’t take much time to shoot someone in the head.”
“He didn’t do it! I know he didn’t!”
She seems almost sympathetic. “It doesn’t matter what you know. What matters is what you can prove.”
“You’re right. Can I go now?” I stand up and Lucy stands with me.
“Where are you going?”
“I may not be able to prove to you that Dean is innocent. But maybe I can prove that someone else is guilty.”
Lucy speaks up for the first time. “Aren’t you a member of the vice department, Detective Hanson?” she asks.