Wicked Sin

by Ainsley Booth

“It didn’t work on me.”

  Leaning back to better look at me, she tips her head to the side and gets a puzzled expression on her face. “No, I don’t think I had the same shields with you. Huh.”

  I can’t help but grin. I try to hold it in, but my lips twitch, and the smile spreads against my will.

  “What about new co-workers?”

  Here she hesitates. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about the work that we do at LAST and who does it. But that has always felt like a very safe space to me—no spider sense tingles, no creepiness. And I’m the only new hire in the last year. Our clients are all women or people who identify as non-gender conforming. Don’t you think this is a man?”

  We do, so I let that go for now.

  “New friends?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t have any friends. I know that sounds horribly lonely, but I’ve been really focused on myself for the last couple of years. My only friend is my youngest sister, really. And she has her own life in San Francisco.”

  “You don’t trust easily.”

  “Or at all. I’m a messed up girl, Luke. Never forget that.”

  “I won’t.” You’re safe with me, Taylor. I kiss her softly, my lips dusting against hers. Against the corner of her mouth, then again on the soft, sweet swell of her lower lip, and to the other corner. Back and forth. I’ve got kisses for days. “Did you ever go up to San Francisco, then?”

  “Once. Ali is more likely to come here for a visit. Her husband is a Mayfair.”

  “Of the New England Mayfairs, I assume.”

  She giggles. “Of the Mayfair Enterprise Mayfairs. Microconductors? LaunchX? They’re going to send the first manned mission to Mars.”

  “Oh. Those Mayfairs,” I tease right back. I don’t follow business news. “I thought he looked more like a special forces operator.”

  “He was, in the past. Newly returned to the family fold. They have an office here, and he sometimes comes for work, and brings Ali with him.”

  “Nice. So when she comes down, where do you go? We’re looking to push some pins into a map, basically. See if we can find a trend.” I’m not going to tell her that McBride will overlay Taylor’s social map with the victims of the reservoir murderer and try to find points of commonality.

  She rattles off a list of high-end spas and shopping areas. Then she lists a plastic surgeon. “What? You don’t think I look like this naturally, do you?”

  I hold my hands wide. “No judgment.” But a small amount of curiosity, because whoever did her work did a great job. “Can you remember dates? Procedures?”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “You could talk directly to McBride if you’d rather. Cut me out of this conversation.” I kiss her again, on the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose. “But I don’t care. You’re gorgeous. Whatever makes you happy.”

  “Botox every four to six months. Last appointment was three months ago. I had a tummy tuck last year, after I gained and lost some weight after the move. And a little lift here,” she touches the outside corner of her eye. “Two months ago.”

  I lean in close and kiss her there, too. “No scars?”

  “They’re in my eyebrows. Dr. Jain is a genius.” She touches my mouth, then the little scar on my cheek from a bad collision with a t-ball stand when I was a kid. “You’re not vain enough to get work done, are you?”

  “I’m vain enough to go to the gym five nights a week when I don’t have a house guest.”

  “I do that, too. But the gym doesn’t help with skin sag.”

  She’s stunning. Youthful, sexy…but it’s not for me to say what makes her happy. So I pause for a bite-y, growly kiss that makes her squirm. Then I go back to my list of questions from McBride. “Tell me about that gym. Address, clientele. Any guys there start to pay a lot of attention to you?”

  “No. I’m a frigid bitch, remember?” She tells me the address. It’s in Beverly Hills, which is a bit of a drive for her.

  “Why do you go that far for the gym?”

  “Privacy. It’s secure, the staff is well-paid, and nobody gawks at me. Frankly, in some parts of Beverly Hills, nothing I’ve done is shock-and-awe worthy of attention.”

  “But you don’t live there.”

  “No. I prefer to live in a more…generic neighborhood? That sounds bad.” She fiddles with her fingers, trying to find different words. “I want to be anonymous. That’s part of it. But also, I don’t want to build any critical relationships here that could be weaponized by my mother. No connections, no leveraging. I’m so over all of that. It’s toxic. And I have a lot of regrets that I didn’t pull out sooner. Or in a saner fashion.”

  “Does your mother still have that kind of hold on you? You said you haven’t seen your parents in a year.”

  She pinches her hands tight, stopping the fidgeting, and takes a sobering breath. “That’s right.”

  “Where was that? Back in Washington?”

  “No. They came out to L.A. for the Oscars last year. My mother was one of the executive producers of that horrible movie about the snuff film fanatics that was nominated for best picture. We had drinks at her hotel the day before the ceremony. It was a reception of sorts, and I went because she sent an embossed invitation and it didn’t feel like the invite was optional.”

  I tap those dates into my notes. “Did you meet anyone that night that gave you the creeps?”

  “Everyone that was there? I’ve never heard so many people call a movie about depravity sexy in my entire life.” Her cheeks turn pink. “It’s not the good kind of depravity.”

  I know what movie she’s talking about. A dark, twisted thriller that had a solid NC-17 rating, big with the can’t-get-laid-voluntarily crowd. Not my thing. “Nope, it’s not. And how did the interaction with your parents go?”

  “Awkward. Distant. I didn’t hear from them afterward, and that was just fine by me. I think I disappointed them. They’d hoped I’d show up with a movie star on my arm, and instead, I was alone, and left alone—another great disappointment. My mother likes to trade in secrets, and you don’t learn those by going to bed lonely.”

  I set my phone aside because that sounds heavy—and personal. Beyond the scope of the investigation, unless her parents slide into focus as suspects—but the murder connection makes that less likely.

  The profile is clear. We’re looking for a man who targets women, and who has targeted Taylor in a different way, for a different reason.

  “This isn’t for McBride and Singh. This is just me asking because I want to make sure I don’t hurt you as a partner by tripping over some of that history. How old were you when your mother first used you like that? Sent you into the lion’s den to be sexual prey.”

  She drops her head, her hair curtaining off her face from my too-curious, too-rough question.

  Fuck. “Shit, I’m sorry, Taylor. It’s none of my business.”

  She shakes her head, her face still down. “It’s just more complicated than that. She didn’t just start one day. Not really. It permeated everything. I grew up watching things that weren’t quite right. And some things—secret things—that were very, very wrong.”

  “Do you want to tell me about them?”

  “No.”

  My heart cracks for her, for that little girl who saw too much. “Okay.”

  Slowly, she lifts her face and gives me a sad smile. “I don’t remember the first time I saw something I shouldn’t. Probably I was a toddler. I remember quietly storing that kind of knowledge away, though. Like nuggets of information that might one day be useful. I learned that secrets are powerful. Once they spill out, they’re just messy and hurtful. And it hurt enough keeping them inside, I wasn’t sure I could handle what it would feel like if they scattered all over the floor.”

  “How many secrets did you keep like that?”

  “More than I could ever count.”

  I gently stroke her cheek, desperate to keep her gaze on me. For her to see that this is s
afe, that I’m here for her no matter what she says. “You sound like a spy forced into service against your will. Like you were a small, scared Harriet the Spy, but it was a very real, very grown-up thing and not a game at all.”

  “I guess I was. And no, it wasn’t a game. The consequences were clearly life or death. I knew that as a teen, for sure, and probably sooner.”

  “Have you ever told anyone?”

  “Never.”

  “You’ve been holding this in forever?”

  “Yes.”

  That’s horrifying. How lonely. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you said it happened.”

  She blinks, slowly. Appraisingly. “That’s a good line.”

  “It’s not a line.”

  “People lie about bad things happening to them all the time.”

  “Not all the time. And when they do, it’s usually for a reason. Something else that happened. A need that’s not being met. In a very rare instance, it’s to manipulate the system.”

  She curves one eyebrow up in an elegant gotcha. But she doesn’t have me caught with anything, because I’m not fooled by her act. She’s still very much that scared little girl thrust into an adult mess.

  “And even though I’ve told you I’m a manipulative bitch, you don’t think that’s me?”

  “You keep saying that, but I don’t feel manipulated, I promise. For example, you didn’t mean to kiss me the first time, in the kitchen. That knocked you off-kilter just as much as it did me. I think you’ve cultivated this image of you being manipulative to get people to stop playing with you, not for any other reason. And I’ve done my best to show you I’m straight up here. I’m not playing you, Taylor. So I don’t think you’re playing me. I just think you don’t mind me thinking that so you feel like you’ve got the upper hand.”

  Blink. Blink. Then she smiles. “Okay. Maybe.”

  “And of course…” I trail my fingers over her thigh, then settle my hand on her hip. I squeeze. Hard. “I prefer to have the upper hand. And I think you do, too.”

  “Have we reached the reward part of the interview, Detective?”

  “We have, princess. We have.” I dump her sideways onto the couch, crawling after her as she shrieks in mock-protest. Bracing my hands on either side of her head, I hold myself above her and make sure the parameters are clear. “Nothing too intense. This is just a little stress relief. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. This is safe. And just between us. You and me, okay?”

  “Please.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Kiss me again.” She laughs weakly as her tongue darts out to swipe her bottom lip. “I can’t get enough of that, and I don’t even like kissing that much.”

  “What do you like, then?”

  Her eyes glitter, then she blinks. Once, slowly. A sweep of dark eyelashes against her cheek. Bright eyes again, staring right into my soul. “I liked being fingered.”

  “You want to fuck my hand again, princess?”

  “Aren’t you’re the most romantic person in the world,” she gasps as she hauls me close. “And yes. Please.”

  “I like the way you say that. So polite. So proper. Such a good girl.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know. You’re my bad girl, aren’t you?”

  “The worst.” Sharp words. True words.

  “Are you warning me?”

  “I don’t need to warn you. You know exactly who I am.”

  “I do. And I like you, exactly as you are.”

  She laughs and leans back. Presenting her pussy, as if it’s the only part of her I’m interested in. Hardly.

  I hook my fingers over the waistband of her jeans and lazily rub my thumb against the button. “You don’t believe me.”

  “No, I do.” She bats her eyelashes at me again. This time more coyly. A flirtation. “I know you like me, Luke.” Her gaze drops to my crotch, where my appreciation of her is on full display. “You like the way I push your buttons, for example. You like that I’m smart. Street smart, at least. I know the ways of the world. I’m no Pollyanna.”

  My chest squeezes tight. She’s not, and that’s just fine. I’m not interested in some innocent ingenue. “You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter.”

  “That’s a way to pretty up the reality of it, sure.”

  “Wow, do you talk to your counseling clients with that negative little mouth?”

  She pouts, her lower lip jutting out.

  I want to bite it. I want to make her bleed, make her cry, make her gasp and shout and admit she’s perfect just exactly how she is.

  I curl my fingers into her pants more, my fingertips grazing the top of her mound. “No panties, Taylor?”

  She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “Nope.”

  I lean in. “I like that, too.” Her breath hitches as I brush my lips against hers. “Now be a good girl and come on my hand.”

  26

  Taylor

  He doesn’t even undress me. He just works his hand into my pants, like touching me is enough. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who didn’t want to look at me all spread out. And now this is two for two where Luke stays pressed against me, kissing and touching and just being in the moment.

  It’s nice not to feel like a sex Barbie.

  It’s even nicer to give in to the dirtier, stickier parts of second base. Grinding and sliding against his hand, letting him be rough because I know he’ll stop if I want him to.

  Giving in to the roughness with that safety net is exhilarating. Like this is what sex was always supposed to feel like, and my efforts to separate it into two parts—the rough and awful side of sex I let happen to me because it was better than the alternative. And the safer, sweeter sex I desperately tried to have with other people that never felt quite right.

  This is better than all of that put together. This is hot and fast and hard—God, so hard, with Luke’s weight pressing against me in all the right places, his hand the perfect violation between my legs. And when I come, it’s a rush of good and bad feelings, like it always is, but this time the good ones are the ones that linger.

  I never want to wash off the residue of Luke wringing that feeling from my body.

  When I finally stop shaking, he licks off his fingers, then kisses me. Slow and sweet.

  Then he lets me wrap my hand around his cock and jerk him off—what I missed out on the first time. He’s big and warm in my hand, throbbing as I rock my fingers up and down his length.

  Again, he’s pressed right up against me, like he likes it when we don’t have quite enough room for this. When he comes, it’s in a messy spray against my skin, my belly. And that feels good, too.

  Later, Luke and I work out together. He’s got some heavy weights in his basement, and it feels good to lift them, to test my body in a good-stress kind of way.

  And the whole time, I think about what he’s put in front of me.

  Kinky sex. Hurt-y sex.

  Nice, happy, healthy sex.

  And how much of an idiot am I that I genuinely didn’t realize the two could go hand in hand?

  I don’t miss how his eyes smolder when I make little unhappy noises at the end of a set. Push myself to lift a little more, tax my body to the limit.

  He wants me to make those noises for him, because he hurts me because I want him to hurt me, and I do.

  The kernel of what I might confess to him, what I really want more than anything else, has started to form. The words seem still so far out of reach, but for the first time in my life, I can see a path between where I am and what I secretly want more than anything else.

  “Having fun?” he asks as he collapses on the mat next to me.

  “Yes.” And it’s the truth.

  He showers first, while I’m still stretching out, and when I finish going through my whole body routine, I find him already in the kitchen prepp
ing dinner.

  “I’ll be back to help you soon,” I promise before I head upstairs. But when I stop in my room to grab my shower supplies, there’s a message on the pager from Wilson.

  Watch the news tonight if you can. Video leaking of Gerome Lively and Victor Best. Chatter says leak is internal Secret Service. Timing is suspicious. Cole is still in L.A. if you need him.

  If I need him for crisis management. If I need him to twist the world’s perception of me…again.

  My stomach rolls over.

  I never want to be in the public eye ever again. But definitely not tonight, not when I’m so close to a real thing with Luke.

  Maybe I should try to go back to thinking of him as Detective Vasquez.

  If it’s on the news, it’ll be there later, too. It’ll loop for days, and racing back downstairs without a shower is not a good choice for my mental health. I cannot succumb to the sick feeling in the pit of my belly to go and see what the video is. First I need to take care of myself, recenter myself as fine and whole and healthy, exactly as I am.

  Who I am has not changed. If something from my past is dredged up, that’s still in the past, even if for others it is in the present.

  I am a good person.

  I am a kind person—at least most of the time. I try, and that’s all anyone could ever ask of me.

  But the whole time I stand under the hot water, the panicked worry refuses to budge from the base of my throat.

  Finally, I give in, get out, dry myself off, and pull on leggings and a t-shirt.

  When I open the bathroom door, Luke is waiting at the top of the stairs. Extra casual, like he doesn’t want to alarm me. Oh no.

  “What’s up?” I ask as normally as I can.

  “There’s a video you should see. From a few years ago, before the election campaign. Victor Best was a guest on Gerome Lively’s yacht.”

  I desperately try to do the math. “Oh?” I make it sound like I’m trying to make a joke, even though I know it’s not funny. And it’s not really a joke. “I’m not in it, am I?”

  “No.”

  “Did you think I might be?”