Sin and Bone

by Debra Webb

  The silence that followed her monologue had her turning up the glass and emptying it. Not nearly enough. She poured herself some more. He took the bottle from her hand before she could set it aside. He drank straight from the mouth of it. Mesmerized by the defined muscles of his throat, she managed to get her own glass to her lips so she could drink.

  He set the bottle aside. “You’re almost right.”

  She swallowed a gulp of wine and laughed. “Almost? Where did I go wrong, Doctor? Because I’m not seeing it.”

  “I don’t hire women solely for the purpose of sexual release.”

  She downed another gulp of wine, hoped it would calm her pounding heart. Or maybe just make her light-headed enough not to care how her foolish body reacted to him.

  “I hire them to punish me.”

  She finished off the wine, set her glass aside. She must have heard him wrong. “I don’t understand.”

  He reached for her hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  She should have resisted. She should have simply said no.

  She should have gone back to her room.

  But she did none of those things.

  She allowed him to lead her along that endless corridor and then down the stairs...to the room. His fingers held loosely to hers. Pulling away would have been easy. But she didn’t.

  The lights were dim except for two spaces, the bed and the horizontal bar where the handcuffs hung from chains.

  He’d already shed his jacket and tie. Now he unbuttoned his dark blue shirt. The color, she only now realized, made his eyes more the color of the sea. Her pulse stumbled. “What’re you doing?”

  She felt dizzy. The wine, she told herself. So not smart, Bella.

  He cast the shirt aside. Her throat tightened at the sight of his bare, broad shoulders and the exquisite way they crowned a beautifully sculpted chest and then tapered into a lean waist. His ribbed abdomen spoke of rigorous workouts. Punishment. The realization came so suddenly she swayed.

  He walked over to the dangling cuffs and thrust his hands into them. He pulled downward and the cuffs locked, securing around his wrists with a succinct snap. He looked at her, a gleam of vulnerability in his eyes. “Pick up the whip.”

  “What?” Only then did she notice the coiled leather waiting near him like a snake ready to stride. She shook her head, aware enough to know the almost-hidden note of desperation in his voice wasn’t from sexual need. “No.”

  “You’re afraid.” He kept his blue eyes steady on her. “You don’t need to be afraid, Bella.”

  The way he said her name made her shiver, made the nerves all over her body tingle.

  “I’m not afraid.” Well, maybe she was. She was afraid because heat was roaring through her now. She was on fire. She was tempted, so tempted, but also terrified that she would do this and like it and not be able to stop. Sex play was one thing, but taking advantage of Devon’s self-loathing was something completely different.

  “Do it. Now.”

  His curt tone made her jump.

  Did he really think he could make her do this by snapping at her? “No.”

  “Then go back upstairs, little girl. This is no place for you.” He looked away.

  What the...? She was walking toward him before her brain had given her feet the order. She snatched up the whip that lay at his feet, the black leather tool nearly invisible against the obsidian leather floor. She walked around him.

  “You’re a freak. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, I do know that.” Those blue eyes were hooded now.

  Her throat was so dry she couldn’t possibly swallow. Her hands shook and wild sensations rushed through her body. Power, urgency, need, fear... The turmoil whipped through her like a hurricane. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Six lashes.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Do it now.”

  Hands still shaking, she walked around to his back. Broad, muscled and...scarred. Her breath trapped in her lungs as she instinctively moved closer. She reached out, touched his skin. He tensed, those sculpted muscles going rigid. The scars weren’t deep but they were raised ever so slightly and discolored.

  “Why?” The word whispered out of her.

  “Because I need to feel the pain.”

  She moved around to face him. She stared at him for a long moment, the whip clenched tight in her hand. “No.” She shook her head, her certainty mounting. “You don’t need to feel the pain. It’s just the only way you know to let go of control long enough to feel anything.”

  “You’re a psychiatrist now, are you?”

  “No, but I watched my parents torture each other my whole childhood because the pain was the only time when they felt free from the rest of the burden life had dumped on them. What you’re doing to yourself is the sexual equivalent of cutting.”

  “You can’t do it,” he challenged. “You’re afraid. Afraid you’ll enjoy it too much. Perhaps as your mother did. Or your sister.”

  She threw down the whip and slapped him hard on the jaw with the flat palm of her hand.

  He shook it off and smiled at her. “Do it again.”

  Damn him! She’d played right into his ploy. Worse, her body hummed with need and, damn her, she wanted to do it again.

  “Pick up the whip and show me how bad you can be, Ms. Lytle.”

  “No.” She reached for the hem of her T-shirt. He might have her on fire for him, he might have her ready to explode with need, but he would not rule her. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it my way.”

  She tossed the shirt onto the floor. His gaze fixed on her breasts. She pushed her lounge pants down her legs and kicked them aside, leaving nothing but the lace panties. Lacy lingerie was her one secret indulgence. Now she waited for his reaction. For him to deny that his body could want something without the pain.

  He stared at her, his nostrils flaring, chest rising and falling rapidly.

  She moved toward him. When she was close enough, she reached for his fly. He drew away but she had the upper hand since there was only so far he could go. She slid the belt from its loops with a hiss of leather against silk. Then she pulled the button free, carefully lowered the zipper over his hardened body.

  She dropped to her knees and removed his shoes, his socks, and then she tugged his trousers down his long legs. His briefs bulged with the desire he would have preferred to deny. He didn’t want to enjoy this. She understood now. He wanted to be punished for failing his dead wife. For failing himself.

  She walked around behind him, making him tense. She dragged the briefs over his tight backside and down his muscled thighs. Her body sizzled, dampened with need. She knelt down, pulled his underwear free of his ankles. Then she moved in close behind him. She kissed his back, licked the scars. So many scars. He shuddered. Her hands moved up and down his chest, over his ridged abdomen and lower to cradle his heavy cock.

  He groaned as she smoothed her palm down the length of him. She kissed and kissed those scarred tracks, all the way down to the cleft of his ass. She made her way around him, kissing and smoothing her hands over his skin, touching him everywhere. And then she latched on to a nipple, sucked hard. He threw his head back and growled.

  She sucked and nipped until his cock prodded so hard at her she thought she would come just standing there in front of him. She reached up, touched his face, traced his lips, threaded her fingers into his hair. He was so very handsome.

  “Tell me what you want,” she murmured.

  He moistened his lips. “Nothing.”

  Fury snapped inside her. She gripped his cock and slid her palm back and forth, smoothing and tugging. “Nothing?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  She stepped back, peeled off her panties. His eyes came open and he watched as she walked toward
him once more. She reached around his neck and held on while she lifted herself and wrapped her legs around his waist. She pressed downward, forcing his cock against her. The smooth, hard feel of his shaft rubbing against her wet folds took her breath. She was the one to groan this time. She held on tight to him while she rubbed up and down his length, careful not to allow him inside.

  The friction, up and down, up and down the shaft of him, stroking harder and harder against her clitoris, her breasts grinding against his solid chest, had her rushing toward orgasm. So close, so close. She no longer cared what he wanted or didn’t want. She wanted this. To feel him big and hard against her. The first crash of pleasure made her cry out. She rode it out, moving up and down, harder, faster.

  And then she came.

  He was panting as hard as her, his cock throbbing insistently against her damp folds. She laid her head against his shoulder and shivered with the final remnants of exquisite pleasure.

  “You see.” She lifted her head, put her lips close to his ear. “I’m not afraid to feel the pleasure without the pain. It’s you who’s afraid. Call it punishing yourself, call it whatever you like, but it’s plain old fear.”

  His arms tensed as he jerked downward, the cuffs clicked and his hands were suddenly on her back, holding her firmly against him while he strode toward the bed. He placed her in the center of the dim spotlight and moved over her, his face a harsh mask of need.

  She reached for his face to pull him into a kiss but he dodged the move. His mouth landed on her breast. He sucked so hard she felt the pull all the way to her core. Then he bit her. She yelped. He bit her again, then moved to the other breast. He sucked and gnawed at her until she undulated beneath him on the verge of coming again.

  He pushed her thighs part, pressed the heel of his hand against her and applied just the right pressure. Orgasm crashed down on her.

  His fingers dug deep inside her, caressing those clenching muscles. He pushed and tugged, loosening her, finding that spot inside that made her squirm with need. And then he moved onto his knees and lifted her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was coming again, so hard, so hard. He pushed into her, going so deep she screamed with the delicious ache of it.

  He moved slowly. She tried to buck her hips but he held her still. She begged him to go faster but he refused. So slow, so deep, so damned slow. Over and over, he penetrated her, fractured the walls she had built around her feelings, made her want something she could not name.

  She cried out with the new waves coming, so very far away. He withdrew to the very tip and then he went in hard and deep, filling her so completely, his body covering hers, pressing her against the leather, skin to skin, his cock so deep he felt a part of her.

  They came together and the orgasm went on and on.

  When the waves of pleasure had receded, they lay there, sweating and panting for long minutes.

  Finally his mouth founds hers and he kissed her.

  As certain as she was that her body could take no more, she arched her hips and urged him to take her to that place of pure sensation again.

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday, June 7, 7:30 a.m.

  Devon paced the floor while he waited for the news from Victoria. Bella had been on the phone with her for several minutes.

  They had avoided each other since waking. He’d never slept in the room before. He’d lost count of the number of times they’d found release. Total exhaustion had prevented them from moving to his bedroom.

  Or perhaps he had felt safer there, less personal.

  He shook his head. Not so. Last night had felt intensely personal and incredibly intimate.

  More than just sex.

  He pushed the thought away and focused on the woman pacing the floor with the cell phone pressed against her delicate ear. Even now, he thought of all the ways he had tasted her—all of her. He knew every part of her, every sweet and salty and lush inch. He had been married to Cara for five years and had not known her so thoroughly, so intimately.

  The call finally ended and Bella turned to him. “Richard Sutter has not left the country. Not unless he used an alternate ID.”

  “Richard is a man of means with extensive contacts. It’s possible he left the country as someone else.” Devon shook his head. “But it doesn’t feel right.”

  Bella slipped her phone into the pocket of her sleek jacket. She wore a skirt today. It was straight and covered those luscious thighs all the way to her knees. The matching pale lavender jacket and blouse fit well, showing off her curves. The color suited her. She stood in front of the fireplace, the rough stone and rich wood a perfect backdrop for her softness. How could a woman look so soft and fragile and be as strong as he knew her to be? She had commanded his performance last night, drove him and guided him like a maestro leading a world-class orchestra.

  “I know what you mean,” she agreed, seeming distracted. “Why go to so much trouble to bring you down if he wasn’t going to hang around and watch? Has he accomplished what he set out to do? I don’t think so. What’re your thoughts, Dr. Pierce?”

  Dr. Pierce? He crossed the room and stood directly in front of her. “Devon,” he said. “You should call me Devon.”

  She searched his eyes for a moment. “Are you certain that’s what you want? Last night we both needed escape, but today is business. If we bring what we did outside that room, then we’re starting something different. Is that your intent?”

  A vise gripped his chest. Fear. He recognized his old friend. “Point taken, Ms. Lytle.”

  She opened that sexy mouth but his cell phone interrupted whatever she intended to say. Perhaps it was best.

  The display showed a blocked call. “Pierce,” he said.

  “Help me.”

  The voice croaked across the line.

  “Who is this?”

  Bella’s face turned questioning, so he put the call on speaker. “Hello?” he said, hoping to prompt the caller to speak again.

  “Please help me.”

  The voice sounded familiar. “Ms. Maynard?”

  Bella nodded her agreement with his assessment.

  He urged, “Ms. Maynard, where are you?”

  “I don’t know who she is,” said a male voice, taking over the call, “but she’s lying on the sidewalk on Shakespeare over here in Logan Square. The old abandoned shoe warehouse. She said she needed help, so I let her use my phone. You better get somebody over here. She might not make it.”

  The call ended.

  “Call an ambulance,” Bella said as she rushed away. “I’ll get my bag.”

  * * *

  ONE HOUR AND thirty minutes later, they stood in the observation area of the surgery unit at the Edge. Devon had called for an ambulance to rush Audrey Maynard here. She’d been badly beaten in the last twenty-four hours. At present, the most pressing issue was the infection at the site of her previous surgery. Dr. Reagan had reopened the original surgical wound and would debride and clean as necessary before closing once more. Close observation and IV antibiotics would be needed until she was out of danger.

  Since she was unconscious when she arrived, she had not been able to provide answers to any of the questions Devon or the police had for her. Corwin and Hodge had arrived and were waiting to speak with Devon now.

  “Hopefully when she wakes up, she’ll be ready to give some real answers.”

  Devon turned to the woman at his side. “If she can’t or won’t give any answers, we’re exactly where we were when this whole thing started.”

  He tried to pinpoint what it was that had set this insanity in motion. There had been no new honors bestowed upon him. No flurry of activity in the news. Nothing unusual at all. It wasn’t any sort of anniversary. Not of his wife’s death or of when they married or of when his partnership with Sutter began or ended.

  The week was like any ot
her except for Audrey Maynard showing up pretending to be his wife and then the murder of his longtime house manager. Part of him wanted to deny the harsh realities. But then that would mean he would have to deny last night. His gaze lingered on Bella. He could not deny what he’d felt last night. For the first time in a very long time, he had felt true pleasure, genuine need.

  And he yearned for more.

  “We shouldn’t keep the detectives waiting any longer.”

  He stared at her a moment longer. “No matter. We have nothing to tell them.”

  “They’ll have questions. They always do.”

  The two detectives waited in the small lobby of the surgery unit. Devon invited them to his office, where they could speak in private. As they wound around the corridor to their destination, Bella quietly suggested a seating arrangement to him. Once in his office, he took the seat behind his desk, ushered the two detectives into the chairs in front of his desk, and like the last time, she settled at the small conference table to watch.

  “Let’s recap a few things,” Corwin suggested.

  Devon waited for him to begin. He saw no reason to give his permission. The detective was going to say and ask what he would. His comment was simply a way to kick off the conversation and, no doubt, a stab at setting a casual tone.

  “The blood in your jacket pocket was a match to the dead mechanic’s,” Corwin announced.

  Devon wasn’t surprised. “If the blood in the trunk of the stolen Lexus was his, then of course it was the same as what you found in my pocket. We’ve established that I inadvertently touched the blood.”

  “The blond hair found in your house is a match to the hair found in the Lexus driver’s seat and in the bed where Audrey Maynard stayed in this ER.”

  “Detective Corwin,” Bella said, “we’ve already discussed how someone is framing Dr. Pierce. What can you tell us about who that person is? Have you followed up with Maynard’s associates? Dr. Pierce’s former partner? You must have something more than what you’ve regurgitated the past few minutes.”