by Sarah Andre
“I don’t understand the question,” he said bluntly.
“You don’t sleep with a pillow?” She gestured at the lone one centered precisely in the middle.
“I’ll sleep over there.”
Silence descended. He was through making the bed but couldn’t seem to stand and join her. The topic wasn’t over for her, he could feel it in his bones, but he was done. With everything. He’d sell his soul for a few hours of sleep.
“Come eat,” she said.
“After I touch base with my brother.”
“Come on. You look like you’re about to drop. Call him in five minutes.”
He stood stiffly and claimed the other chair. His stomach grumbled fiercely, and he counted the hours since the Chinese lunch. Over nine. He shoveled in a handful of potato chips, so many he could barely close his lips. Aware of her scrutiny, he concentrated on chewing like a normal person. Ended up biting his cheek. Fuck it.
“Ever seen one of these?” She pointed to the virtual-assistant cylinder by her elbow. He shook his head and shoved more chips in. She leaned toward the device and spoke its name. Neon lights raced around the top. “Play ‘Irreplaceable’ by Beyoncé.”
A female voice repeated Gretch’s wish, and just like that, music filled the room. The lyrics were brash, confident, and oh so Gretch. She bobbed her head to the upbeat tempo and nibbled a pretzel, chewing in a pleasant, symmetrical way. A wavering smile stayed on her lips long after the song ended, and her eyes grew misty.
“That was Dwayne’s favorite song,” she said finally, flicking Sean a glance. “If he were here, he’d make us listen to it another twenty times.”
Her face crumpled. Without a second thought, Sean leaned in and embraced her, stroking her back and cupping her head as he murmured through her heart-wrenching sobs. Ever since Trick had broken the news, Sean’s imagination kept playing out the horrific stages of the execution. Dwayne taking forever to open that outer door, seeing a stranger and halfheartedly accusing him of being religious fanatic with pamphlets. What had gone through his mind when the sword flashed through the air? How could an entire neighborhood not have one witness? Who could have done this and why?
A disquiet settled over him. Was there any merit to Gretch tying Adyton and his cohorts into it? That seemed a huge stretch by any imagination.
Sean held Gretch long after she stilled. Eventually she eased from his arms, wiped her eyes, and sighed the remnants of her grief. He crunched on another handful of chips as if it was natural for her to fall apart and require his embrace. Thank God she had no clue how much her need for his comfort and the feel of her body were balms to his soul.
“Doesn’t it seem like last night was a million years ago?” she asked quietly.
The events flashed back—being pinned to the hotel door, clutching her scalp, thrusting into her mouth. Yes. A lifetime ago.
He remembered every second of that nirvana. And the colossal aftermath. He struggled to keep expressions off his face. Managed a shrug as he reached for the last of the chips. “Guess so.”
A moment went by. It was clear she was building up to something by the way her fingers knotted in her lap. She took a deep breath. “Sleep on the mattress with me, Sean.”
There was suddenly no saliva in his mouth to mingle with the chips. All his bodily fluids dumped into his hardening cock. The erotic way she’d said that created an urgent response in every part of his body for a repeat of…well, most of her skills. He wanted her so goddamn badly.
He sipped water, but his fist clenched the bottle too hard. Water flowed down his chin and onto his shirt. For fuck’s sake! He thunked the bottle down. “I can’t. I don’t have it in me to comfort you when you freak out.”
“I won’t freak out. I need your arms around me tonight. I need to feel safe.”
He twisted the bottle so the label faced him. “There’s nothing safe about us being smashed together on that tiny thing.” Just saying it opened the floodgates, and filthy scenarios cascaded into his mind.
“We’re adults, Sean.”
“Exactly.” He poured all the pent-up desire into his gaze. Her eyes widened, and her lips formed a beautifully shaped O.
“Let me draw you a picture,” he said succinctly. “My erection will press into you all night. It’ll be thick and urgent and won’t allow me to fall sleep. Every time I move or breathe, no matter how much I try not to, I’ll brush against your…um…lady lumps.”
Her brows rose. A smile slowly spread across her face. She snorted softly. “Hell, you can’t even say what they are.”
He grinned, half sheepishly, half warning her not to go there.
“Come on.” She crossed her long, shapely legs that looked dynamite in those casual cargo shorts. “Say it. Any of the synonyms.” Her mood lightened, the silliness due to intense grief and utter exhaustion, but he went with it.
“Girly bits,” he said solemnly, and she burst into giggles.
“Raunchier,” she commanded.
His groin ached. “They’re attached to your body, Gretch. You should know what they’re called.”
Her smile died like it had been dipped in sulfuric acid. What had he said? He searched her face for a clue, and she stared back with an intensity that was unsettling. He eyed her half full bag of pretzels. Should he keep eating as if there hadn’t been a lighter mood to ruin? Why couldn’t he learn the pragmatic parts of joking around with another person?
Gretch leaned forward and covered his hand with trembling fingers. He fought the instinct to freeze. Slowly she transferred his palm to her right breast and pressed his fingers into plump warmth. Any remnant of exhaustion left his body as his senses pulsated to life. He gulped in air.
“Say it,” she whispered.
Heat suffused his face, like he was prepubescent. “Breasts.” When her gaze held his unwaveringly, he swallowed convulsively. “Boobs, tits, tatas, jugs.”
“Squeeze it.”
That didn’t sound like such a hot idea. Any second now she’d fling his hand away. Her posture was ballerina-straight. Her breath came rapid and shallow, which heaved the breast in his palm.
He swept aside the chip bag with his free hand and cradled his head, watching her languidly, like this was no big deal. When she didn’t flip out, he tightened his fingers imperceptibly, amazed as ever at the dichotomy of firm, yielding flesh. Women’s bodies were freaking miracles of beauty and function. The exquisite nudes in paintings he’d cleaned over the years had given him a healthy sense of worship, and now, feeling this particular breast sent goosebumps skittering over him.
Gretch yanked up the hem of her t-shirt, revealing mega-toned abs and a half-inch of a black tattoo low on her right pelvic bone that disappeared into her shorts. His gaze snapped up as she briskly transferred his palm beneath the shirt. His heartbeat stalled. Just like that, he clasped prickly lace. The outline of a taut nipple prodded his palm. Her fingers urged his again, and he whispered her name, caressing her more confidently.
A look of wonder widened her eyes. Like this was the first time she’d experienced a man feeling her up. Clearly he was losing his mind.
He circled the areola through the lace, watching her with such intensity he caught every flicker of her eyelashes. Gretch stared right back, clamping her bottom lip between her even white teeth. He thumbed her nipple once, twice. She inhaled a shuddering breath. “That feels…wonderful,” she whispered.
Slowly, trying not to startle her, he caressed his way to her left breast and repeated the tender ministrations. Her eyelids drooped, and a small smile appeared. “Kiss me.”
Sean straightened from his self-imposed slouch. Tracing her jaw line, he tilted her chin and settled into a slow, deliberate kiss. He waited for her to slide her tongue in first, then gently imitated her lick-and-curl technique, concentrating on his exploration. She tasted of lemon-lime and something darkly sweet, like currants or raisins. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and as the kiss deepened, she raked his skull.
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nbsp; Their breathing quickened, but he was in no hurry to move this along. No doubt he’d broken through a massive barrier just now, but there had to be other triggers for her. Something he would do in the course of loving her that would turn this dreamlike moment into something horrific and dirty for her. Although his cock strained, greedy and insistent, he was content with the simple purity of kissing her supple lips and caressing her pliant body.
He traced the elegant curve of her waist, reveling in the juxtaposition of her silky skin and formidably toned muscle, before sliding up to fondle her breasts again. She moaned softly, leaning into his palms this time. Over and over he thrust his tongue or traced her mouth, learning what tricks would quicken her breath. He followed the seam of her bra to the clasp in back and fingered it, so she’d know his interest in proceeding, then stroked down her long, taut lats until he got a clear signal.
She pushed his shoulders and slid from her chair to straddle him. Her pelvis was a hair’s-breadth from his throbbing hard-on. It was sobering enough that he broke the kiss and leaned his head against the wooden chair. He stroked the tops of her thighs with his fingertips, drugged by the vision of perfection. This was Gretch on top of him!
“I love the way you kiss,” she said, trailing her hands across his shoulders and down his chest. “I like how you make me feel.” Her chocolate irises had darkened to coal, her lips were swollen and poppy-colored.
“How do I make you feel?” he croaked. What was he finally doing right?
She lifted a shoulder. Her t-shirt was askew, and as erotic as the sight of a partially bare shoulder and bra strap was, he straightened her clothing.
“Cherished, I guess,” she said in a low voice. “The others just want to get to the end goal.”
“My end goal is whatever yours is.”
A shadow crossed her face, and he swallowed hard. Sure, he could kiss her all night, but they were at the edge of something here. “What is your goal, Gretch?”
Her lashes lowered. “To feel normal. To…um…like it.”
“All right.” He worked in miniscule increments daily. Patience was his most honed skill. “Let’s break it down.” His fingertips feathered a trail up her thighs again—just to the edge of the shorts’ seam. “Do you like this?”
She nodded, eyes still downcast.
Ever so slowly, he slid his palms around her perky ass. “What about now?”
She rubbed her lips together, peering at him almost curiously. “Not so much.”
“Okay. Good to know.” He groped for the bra hook and flicked it open. A flush covered her cheeks, but her eyes stayed curious. Taking as much time as he would to unwrap a priceless statue, Sean neatly rolled the shirt and eased up her bra until plump breasts with dusty-pink areolae lay inches from his lips. “Can I taste?”
She bit her bottom lip. Her fingers played with strands of his hair. Finally, she nodded shyly, encircling his skull and guiding his head. His heart thrummed. His cock strained. He lapped in wonder. Her satiny skin tasted salty and still smelled of pepper spices.
She moaned softly, and the sound of it, the vibrations under his tongue, cracked the last of his self-control. He broke away. “God, I want you, Gretch.”
“Yes!” She laved his mouth with her tongue, thrusting and curling wickedly, sighing with glee. He shook with need, and urgency replaced gentleness. He pulled her fully onto his hard-on. She stiffened instantly, wrenching her lips from his.
Shit! Profuse apologies formed as he tried to push her back, but she fought it, and an instant later her mouth slammed onto his. He grunted in surprise at the violent pressure. Her tongue drilled so deep he fought the gag. Her hands snaked to his jeans, fingers gripping his waistband. He’d been here before. This wouldn’t end well. Twisting his head, he broke off the kiss.
“No,” he growled, snagging her wrists. The glittering gaze staring back at him held no warmth or desire now, only empty, black revulsion. It sealed his determination. “Get your hands off me, Gretch.”
She froze, wide-eyed, like he’d doused her with ice water. “Excuse me?”
He panted, guilt and respect for her battling his mindless lust. She eased back onto his knees still gaping at him.
“I don’t know what happened in your past, Gretch,” he said between gulps. “But it seems to start with your need to suck a man off as fast as possible, and get him the hell out of your sight.”
“How dare you—”
“We’re stuck here together,” he plowed on. “We don’t need this complication.” He loosened his grip on her wrists, and she yanked down the hem of her shirt.
Sean mustered his gentlest tone. “How about we lie down on the mattress and call it a day.”
She staggered into the director’s bathroom. He stiffened in anticipation of the door slam and the household of women who would awaken. Of Hank’s sharp knock on the door. The biggest surprise of the day was the soft click instead.
He groaned and adjusted himself painfully. What a long, tense night they had ahead. He eyed the burner phone. May as well call Jace and get the “you’re such a fuck-up” lecture over with too.
33
Crime scene tape roped off a generous area around the open door to the Allen/Collins apartment complex. The outer door stood open, and bright police lights spilled out into the night. Even from half a block away, the massive puddle of blood in the foyer hall and along the top step was gruesomely apparent. Jace glanced around the cozy neighborhood, lined with terrified faces and a frenzy of reporters. How, in the age of smartphone cameras and live streaming videos, had no one caught the beheading?
Jace shouldered his way into the crowded crime scene just as the body bag was being wheeled out. He stood back respectfully, a tightness gripping his throat. For as many terrorists as he’d killed in the line of duty, and friends who’d been killed, he still reacted to the instant permanence of death like a sissy. One second you’re here, the next you’re gone. Dwayne Collins had annoyed the hell out of him yesterday, so very much alive, but the man hadn’t deserved this.
Jace sent up a quick prayer as he scooted by the photographer, and halted by Dirk. “Bring me up to speed.”
Dirk jerked his chin by way of greeting. “Complex doesn’t have security cameras, but the neighbor directly upstairs heard a high-pitched scream just after eight. Vic had defensive wounds like he tried to block the blow. Half his forearm was severed too.”
Jace nodded, shutting down any physical reaction. He was a former SEAL, for fuck’s sake. When would he get used to the horror of people’s last suffering moments on this earth? “Any evidence left behind?”
Dirk scowled toward the uniforms grimly combing the scene. “They don’t think they’re getting much. It’s SOP with fingerprints and trace right now.”
Jace muttered his thanks and crossed to the far end of the complex foyer where Margo spoke on her cell phone, finger plugging her free ear. Beside her was a wizened man, whose white hair had to be a true bowl cut. His face was sorrowful, eyes rimmed in red. Jace introduced himself.
“Dennis Rutledge. I manage the place.” They shook hands, and Jace offered his heartfelt condolences.
“I’m assuming you gave Special Agent Hathaway your statement?” Jace nodded to his boss, who sounded like she was wrapping up with, “Yes, sir. Will do, sir.”
Rutledge nodded. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I wish I had been. I would’ve given my life for that boy. Heart of gold, that one.”
“I met him yesterday. It didn’t strike me he ran with a dangerous crowd.”
“No, sir. Most of them boyfriends he brought home were quiet and upstanding.”
Margo was off the phone and excused herself to Rutledge. She pulled Jace a small distance away. “That was Garcia; he’s heading to the police station. Evidently Donatello has information he thinks he can bargain with. Did you find your brother?”
Jace nodded. “They’re bunking the night at a women’s shelter. I’ll pick them up at seven tomorrow morning.”<
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“The same place Gretch went when we all thought she was kidnapped?”
“Yeah. South Saginaw and Seventy-fourth.” He glanced around the busy foyer where his task force team mingled with the local PD. Was there a mole here who had pointed out Collin’s investigative work to Adyton? Jace didn’t have enough proof to voice his concerns. “I’d just as soon the location remain between us for now,” he ended cryptically.
Although she threw him a questioning glance, Margo nodded. “Did you know Gretchen Allen from Moore and Morrow was the vic’s housemate?”
“I didn’t make the connection until you called me with this news. But at his office yesterday, Collins spoke to someone on the phone and mentioned his housemate. I believe the person on the phone was Brandon Meyers, the stalker I paid a visit to yesterday on Gretch’s behalf.”
Margo studied him like he’d fucked up good. “And then this stalker shows up at her home?”
Seriously? Now she was jumping to conclusions without gathering all the facts? “Meyers is a high-profile hedge fund manager, and the vic worked exclusively to out wealthy clients for money laundering schemes. In fact, Collins mentioned he was days away from busting some big names in Chicago. There could be a connection that resulted in Meyers coming here to see Dwayne, not Gretch.”
Margo’s eyebrows knit as she typed the name into the database on her phone. Seconds later, she flashed the screen at him. “Him?” Meyer’s cocky mug smiled up at him.
“Yep.”
She motioned Rutledge back over and showed him. “Was this the man Mr. Collins argued with?”
“He was here, all right.”
Margo’s fingers flew on her phone as she typed the information in. “Mr. Rutledge here told me this gentleman visited Dwayne last evening and a loud argument ensued about an hour later. We’re combing the apartment for forensic evidence.”
Jace turned to him. “Did you hear anything specific?”