Tickle His Fancy: Trident Security Book 6 (Trident Security Series)

by Samantha A. Cole

  Easing out, he thrust forward again, his eyes remained focused on her face. Her moans urged him on. Faster. Harder. Her body yielded to him over and over as her breathing and heart rate increased. Sensations she’d forgotten existed assailed her. His pelvis hit her clit on each inward stroke. As he slammed into her, she began climbing again, and even though she was prepared for it, her orgasm was even stronger this time, which she hadn’t thought possible. “Brody! Ohhhhhh. . .yyyyessss!”

  “Fuck, baby! Shit!” With one final plunge, he stiffened as he came and his forehead dropped to the pillow next to her head as his body shuddered. His release triggered another one in her and her head spun as her entire body quivered. His weight fell onto her, but she didn’t care as they both gasped for air. A contentment she never thought she would experience again came over her. He nuzzled her neck. “That was incredible, sweetness. And I can’t wait to do it again.”

  Neither could she.

  Chapter 10

  Rolling over, Brody reached for Fancy, but all he found was an empty bed. His eyes blinked open, and he checked the digital clock on the nightstand. Just after 3:00 a.m. What the fuck? Where the hell was she?

  Noise from the bathroom caught his attention. The shower was running. Frowning, he threw the covers off his nude body and climbed out of bed. Pushing the door open, he was surprised at the darkness. When he switched the light on, his heart clenched at what he saw. Naked, Fancy was sitting on the floor of his walk-in shower. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and her arms were wrapped around them. Her shoulders were shaking. Fuck. She was crying as the water pelted her from above. Her teeth were chattering as she stared at the blank tiled wall.

  Stepping over, he realized the water was cold—almost freezing. How long had she been in there? He flipped two switches on the wall next to the shower. When he’d had Parker renovate the master bath, he’d gone all out. There was a reserve heater, so there would never be a lack of hot water, and when you stepped out of the shower, the overhead red heat lamps kept you warm as you dried off. Sticking his hand under the cold water, he waited until it ran hot again, then sat on the tile floor next to Fancy. Without saying a word, he pulled her shivering body onto his lap, then stroked her hair and skin as the water raining down on them began to warm her again.

  She tucked her face into his neck. “I-I’m s-sorry.”

  “Shhh. It’s okay, sweetness. I’ve got you. Let it out.”

  Her sobs almost broke his heart. He had no idea what had brought it all on, but there was no way he was running away when she needed him the most. Kissing her forehead, he murmured words of comfort and reassurance, as her shivering subsided. Being warmed up again also seemed to ease her crying. He smiled when he felt her shift and kiss his neck. “If you’re warm enough, let’s get you dried off and back under the covers. We can talk there, okay?”

  She nodded, and he reached up and shut the water off. Helping her stand, he followed, then brought her out to stand under the heat lamp. Grabbing one of the fluffy towels from the rack, he rubbed it over her skin from head to toe, drying her off. He towel-dried her hair as best he could, then wrapped her in the terry cloth robe he kept behind the door. Once she was taken care of, he ran another towel over his own body. Leading her back to bed, he let her climb in, then pulled the covers back over her. “I’ll be right back.”

  Comfortable in his own skin, he didn’t bother to put anything on his naked body as he shuffled out to the kitchen. He retrieved two glasses of water and brought them back to the room after shutting the music off in the living room. It had been faint enough not to disturb them as they’d slept and he’d forgotten it was on.

  Handing her one of the glasses, he brought the other to his lips and drank half of it while making sure she rehydrated herself. He climbed back under the covers and noticed she’d shed his robe, laying it at the foot of the bed. Turning on his side, he placed his hand on hers over her abdomen. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry—“

  “Don’t apologize, Fancy. Talk to me.”

  She took a shuddering breath and stared at the ceiling as she spoke. “I don’t know what brought it on, but I woke up crying and didn’t want to wake you. I-I didn’t tell you everything earlier when I told you about the accident.” He rubbed his thumb over her wrist, silently encouraging her to continue. “I-I was pregnant. . .we found out a few weeks before the accident and w-were over the moon about it. We hadn’t actually been trying, but we weren’t taking any precautions either.”

  His heart and gut twisted. He was certain he knew where this was going, but it was obvious she needed to get this all off her chest. “What happened?”

  “When I woke up from the coma, they told me I’d miscarried. I learned my husband and my baby were both dead six weeks after it happened. Patrick’s family had taken care of the funeral and everything—which I understood—but it was like going to sleep and waking up to find everything you knew and loved was gone. I-I flipped out—which is an understatement. I became manic-depressive—crying one minute and screaming with rage in the next. It got to the point, when I was physically well enough to be released from the main hospital, I was sent to the psychiatric ward for two months. Corey and my aunt became my rocks.” She swallowed hard, and he patiently waited for her to continue. “If it wasn’t for them visiting me every day, I don’t think I would have ever recovered—mentally or emotionally. Aunt Denise wanted to take me back to Ohio, but I couldn’t do it. This was where Patrick and I were going to follow our dreams, and I knew he’d want me to stay here. It took me a year or so to finally shake off my grief enough to rejoin the living. Patrick had taken out a large insurance policy at work that I hadn’t known about. That’s what I used to start the business. It’s what he would’ve wanted me to do.”

  Jesus, this poor woman had been through hell and back several times. That she’d pulled through and turned her life around again, proved how courageous and strong she was. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “Where were your brother and parents through all this?”

  She shrugged and swiped at the tears which had started falling down her cheeks again. “My father couldn’t be bothered with coming to see me. My brother had been here for the first week but had to go back home to work. He flew back in for a few days after I woke up. My mother. . .well, let’s just say she didn’t know how to deal with a grieving widow and leave it at that.”

  Taking a few strands of her drying hair, he rubbed them between his fingers and thumb. “I don’t know how you did it, sweetness, but I’m in awe that you recovered from, not only the accident but the loss of Patrick and the baby. And I’m sorry you had to go through it all. I’ve never wanted to turn back time as much as I do right now. If I had to give up ever knowing you, for you to have not gone through that, I would, and that’s saying a lot because you’ve become very special to me. I can’t even remember what my life was like before you came into it, and I don’t want to.”

  That was as close to a declaration of love he was willing to make right now. She was far from ready to hear that from him. Finally, turning to face him, she stroked his cheek. “It doesn’t bother you that I was institutionalized?”

  He held her palm to his cheek, as he stared into her eyes, wanting her to know his words were the truth. “Not at all. Everyone deals with grief in their own way. If that’s what it took for you to recover, then, no, it doesn’t bother me.”

  Smiling for the first time since he’d found her, she leaned over and placed a soft, quick kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

  A yawn escaped her, and he glanced at the clock. She’d told him earlier, she needed to leave by five fifteen at the very latest to run home for a change of clothes and be at the shop by six. “We have about an hour before we have to get up. Roll over, close your eyes and try to sleep for a little bit.” He nudged her to her side facing away from him, then pulled her tightly against his chest. She was asleep in minutes while he watched over her.

  *
* *

  After kissing Fancy goodbye and telling her he’d call her later, Brody walked out of the bakery with his coffee in one hand and a box of pastries in the other. He’d let her sleep for a few more minutes while he’d gotten dressed for the day, then followed her to her condo and waited while she ran inside and did the same. She seemed different after their middle-of-the-night talk—lighter, happier. And he hoped that meant they had a future together. He wondered what she would say if he asked her to go back to Texas with him in six weeks—his family had a huge hoedown every year. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins—everyone came. The only ones he’d ever missed had been when his SEAL tours or missions had prevented it. Ian and Dev had it penciled in every year not to send him on any assignments unless it was an emergency during the fourth weekend in October.

  Walking across the parking lot, he scanned the area, searching for anyone who shouldn’t be there, and for Russell, but no one was around. As he reached his truck, his cell phone chimed with an urgent text from the Trident line—at just after six in the morning, this couldn’t be fucking good. Opening the driver’s door, he placed the box on the passenger seat and the coffee in the center console, then checked the message.

  Body found. Possibly Heather. 575 Winfield Street. Meet me there. Ian.

  “Fuck!”

  With rush hour not having started yet, it took him about ten minutes to get to the crime scene. It was hard to miss with the number of strobe lights flashing from multiple police cars, an ambulance, a coroner’s vehicle, and CSI units. The closest he was able to park was half a block away, and after locking his truck, he hoofed it the rest of the way. Bystanders and the media were being kept a fair distance from the scene, and Brody flashed his Trident ID to a uniformed officer, earning him passage to the inner circle. They had worked with Tampa PD on numerous cases in the past and had a good reputation among the officers and detectives.

  Ian, Devon, and Marco were already present, and he was confident Boomer was on his way. The three men were standing along the “Police - Do Not Cross” tape, which ran from the front of a laundromat clear across the parking lot to a patrol car, while uniformed and plainclothes officers milled about on the far side. They couldn’t see anything from here—the body had to be behind the building. Brody stopped next to Ian. “What’s going on?”

  Boss-man ran a frustrated hand down his face. “Just got here ourselves. Webb called and said to get over here. He’s still back behind the building, so we’re waiting to find out what’s up. What I do know is it’s a female homicide victim who fits Heather’s description, and a few cops and two EMTs have come back around and tossed their cookies.”

  Shit, that’s not good. When people, experienced in seeing the worst that could be possibly be done to the human race, were puking, the scene had to be horrendous and beyond anything they had seen before.

  Long moments passed before an ashen-faced Webb rounded the rear corner of the building, just as Boomer arrived. The detective spotted them and strode over, stopping for a brief exchange with another detective on the way. When he reached them, he shook Ian’s hand and nodded at the rest of them. “Thanks for coming. I’m going to need your help on this…fuck, I can barely comprehend what this is. . .what the fuck I saw. . .”

  They waited in silence while the rattled man gathered his composure. “It’s definitely a dump scene only. Wherever he did. . .that. . .had to be somewhere they weren’t heard because I guarantee she screamed the whole time. I can’t imagine what she went through.”

  Before he could explain further, two men from the coroner’s office came from behind the building, rolling a gurney between them with a body bag on it. Both men were as pale as everyone else who’d come from back there. Webb flagged them to stop, then turned to Ian and the others. “You don’t all have to look, but I would appreciate an ID and any insight you might have. This goes beyond anything I’ve witnessed or even heard of before.”

  They all stepped forward, not imagining it could be worse than the atrocities they’d seen committed by radical al Qaeda and ISIS terrorists. They were wrong.

  Webb indicated to one of the coroner’s assistants to show them the body. Before he did, the man glanced around, then turned the gurney slightly so no unauthorized eyes would be able to catch a glimpse. Brody took a deep breath as the bag was unzipped and a white protective sheet was lifted.

  “Fuck!”

  The expletive was spat by more than one of them. The coffee in Brody’s stomach churned and threatened to come back up. He swallowed hard, forcing it back down as he stared at the horrifying remains of Heather Davis. While her face was mostly recognizable, the rest of her was not—at least what they were able to see. The sheet still covered her lower body. There wasn’t an inch of skin, from her neck down, left untouched by what had to have been a bullwhip or similar implement. The oozing, pink and red, shredded flesh of her torso and arms conjured up images of beef being freshly ground by a butcher—and that’s what the sick bastard who had done this to her was—a psychotic butcher.

  Having seen more than enough, Ian nodded at the ME’s assistants, and they quickly covered the body and zipped up the bag again. As the gurney was rolled toward the transport vehicle, Ian coughed, then turned to Webb. Everyone else was too stunned to talk. “The entire body like that?”

  The detective nodded grimly. “From her neck to her toes, front and back. As you saw, only a few strikes to the face, but he left that mostly intact for whatever sick reason. Maybe so we could identify her. . .I’ve got no fucking clue. Any ideas?”

  “Looks like the bastard used a bullwhip, but you’ll need the coroner to confirm that. I’ve been in the lifestyle for years and never heard of anything like this. Whip Masters are usually highly trained and never break the skin. There’s no way to tell if the killer is inexperienced or knew exactly what he was doing. Is he. . .or she, I guess. . .in the lifestyle? Again, hard to tell. And if your next question is do I think her Dom did this, no, I don’t. . .ninety-five percent certain. I’m sorry, I know this doesn’t help, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”

  Webb blew out a harsh breath. “No, it doesn’t help, but hopefully, at some point it will. We’re not sure what time she was dumped yet, but the estimated time of death is ten hours ago. The ME will narrow that down further. There are no cameras on this building, but we’ll check with the surrounding businesses to see if anyone has one and caught something.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, his fists clenched in anger, Ian asked, “Has Scott Harrison been notified?”

  “Not yet. That’s my next stop.” The detective glanced at his watch, which caused Brody and a few others to look at their own—it was just after 7:00 a.m. “The good doctor is about to get a very depressing wake-up call.”

  “If you want, I’ll go with you. I’ve known Scott a few years and already reached out to him after we heard she was missing.”

  Again, Webb nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Give me a few minutes to finish up here and we’ll go.”

  “Take your time.” As the detective walked away, leaving them on the other side of the crime scene tape, Ian turned to his team. “I. . .fuck!” He kicked a discarded soda can in disgust.

  Yeah, that’s pretty much what they all felt right now.

  Chapter 11

  Striding into the Trident offices, Brody left the box of pastries on Colleen’s desk; he’d completely lost his appetite. Entering his war-room, he stopped short when he saw a pair of legs sticking out from under the newly installed secondary work area. “Hey!”

  The person startled and a smack resounded in the room. “Fuck!”

  Sliding out from under the desk, holding his hand to the swelling knot on his forehead, the new computer whiz, Nathan Cook, glared at him. Brody gave it right back. He’d totally forgotten the kid was starting today. “What the fuck are you doing under there?”

  “Making a few adjustments—”

  “I already hooked up everything you fucking need.�
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  The twenty-seven-year-old, über-skinny geek stood, then flopped into his desk chair. A former NSA—National Security Agency—computer tech, Nathan had high government clearance—Ian and Dev wouldn’t have hired him otherwise. The NSA had signed off on Nathan coming to work for Trident, and due to the classified missions the team did for multiple U.S. government agencies, they’d allowed Nathan to keep his security clearance.

  The guy was about five eleven, with unruly, curly, brown hair, matching brown eyes, and wearing a vintage, Pac-Man T-shirt, jeans, and high-top, Converse sneakers. He pushed his wire-rimmed eyeglasses back up the bridge of his nose—yup, they didn’t make ’em any geekier than this—all that was missing was a button-down shirt and a damn pocket protector. “Maybe everything you need, but I brought a few toys of my own.”

  Brody was not happy, which was putting it mildly. He wasn’t used to anyone messing around in his war-room and wanted to know what other “toys” were being connected to his setup. “Like what?”

  Nathan smirked. “Isn’t the saying around here, if I tell you, I’d have to shoot you?”

  Taking a threatening step closer, he snarled. “No, it’s the other way around—tell me or I fucking shoot you.”

  “Chill, Evans. It’s just an interface for the mainframe at NSA. Remember? That was in the contract the Sawyer brothers signed with the agency when everyone agreed I could come work here.” When Brody just glared at him, the guy held up his hands in surrender and added, “Jeez, who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

  Letting out a deep sigh, he finally relented. “Not you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. It’s just been a really shitty morning so far. Do what you have to do. Just make a list so there are no surprises for me later.”

  Taking the seat in front of his own computer setup, he pulled out the keyboard shelf and booted up the hard drive. When it was up and running, he logged into the FBI’s secure NCIC—National Crime Information Center. He had access to it through special permission from the FBI. Almost every police department in the United States used it and entered major crimes into it; the exceptions tending to be small departments with few employees and minimal budgets. As each year passed, though, there were fewer and fewer on that short list. The system was also used for statistics, but he wanted to run a search for homicides similar to what they’d witnessed this morning. He was sure Webb and the rest of Tampa PD would be doing the same, but he still entered keywords to be searched for in the vast database. Homicide. Female. Submissive. BDSM. Bullwhip. Whip. Torture. If any results came close, he could add more parameters and narrow it down further.