Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  “What do you think?” she asked, studying herself critically in the mirror as she handed him the pants to try on.

  “Too dom,” he choked out, striving for a neutral expression. “You're supposed to be my slave.”

  Jesus.

  The very thought had his head spinning. And his body betraying him big-time. Talk about fantasies coming true...

  “Yeah, you're right. Though...maybe with a collar?” She turned to him, a question in her eyes. Something in his own must have warned her off. “No, maybe not.” She hurried out and shut the door with a smack.

  He gritted his teeth and yanked off the pants he was wearing in favor of the ones she'd given him. There was no way he'd get them fastened. Not with those laces back and front, and definitely not with this killer hard-on.

  He was still fumbling with the ridiculous closings when she knocked.

  “I can't get these damned things laced,” he snarled.

  He was not having a good time. How he would ever survive the next hellish weeks he hadn't the slightest idea. What the devil had possessed him to choose her to do this with?

  But he knew the answer before the question had even finished forming in his mind. He’d studied her for a year. She was the only one.

  She walked in wearing her own shoes again instead of the boots. She'd added a leather slave collar, studded and sporting a leash-ring on the front of it.

  “Here, let me help you,” she murmured. She dropped to her knees behind him, and grasped the ends of the ties that laced up the back of the pants. His stomach dropped along with her, and his pulse went into hyperspace as he watched her in the mirrors.

  “Caroline,” he warned, but she wasn't paying attention. She was plucking at the laces over his butt, a focused look etched on her face. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Her hands caressed down his backside, smoothing the wrinkles from the leather. His muscles flexed into taut bundles under her fingers.

  “Caroline.”

  “Hmm?”

  Her breasts were practically spilling out of the leather crescents of the bra. The black of her slave collar contrasted erotically with the long white column of her neck. Her tongue peeked out from between her moist lips in an unstudied move of concentration. Her hands on his ass were fast sending him over the edge. He endured about another ten seconds of her ministrations before snapping.

  He spun, braced his legs apart, and drove his fingers through her hair, holding her head rigid between his hands.

  “Stop.”

  Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered to rest on his abdomen. “What?” Her lush red lips parted as she peered up at him. They were the sensual, pouting lips of a natural-born fellatrice.

  Oh, God.

  His erection throbbed under the tight, slick leather binding his hips. Right then as he held her a tongue's length away from his bursting need, he vowed to have her. Just like this. Exactly like this. On her knees before him, his fingers wound in her hair. Only, there would be no supple leather barrier to protect her from him. From his lust.

  The image shook him to the core.

  “These pants don't work for me,” he ground out.

  Her gaze wavered, flicked down in sudden awareness to the blatant arousal in serious danger of breaching the low-slung leather waist. Shock rounded those fellatrice lips into an 'O' of surprise and she jerked her hands from his groin.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, clearing her throat. He could see her struggle to appear undaunted. “Maybe we should try something a bit...roomier.”

  Again she disappeared through the door and he wiped the sweat that had gathered on his brow. Placing a shaky hand on the wall, he leaned in and gathered his wits.

  This was never going to work. He had to get rid of her. If he didn't he would jump her, and more—much, much more—sure as his name was Michael Patrick McGraw. There was a limit to the strength of his icy façade. And she was fast chipping through it. Too damn fast.

  She'd have to quit the task force. He was sorry, but that was the only solution. She'd been right yesterday to question him. There was no way they could ever work together. Okay, so he was a male chauvinist Neanderthal pig, but there it was. All he could think about was tearing her clothes off and fucking her blind.

  And that was no way to run an investigation.

  He'd talk to Bobby this afternoon. Then he'd break it to her as gently as he could.

  Sorry, baby. You're history.

  Chapter 4

  When a knock sounded at the door, Caro glanced over the rim of her wine glass to see what time it was. Eleven-seventeen p.m.

  Who the hell could it be? Eleven-seventeen was late even for Julio to come whine on her shoulder about his and Barry's latest tiff. Julio liked to be all tucked up by this time. Needed his beauty sleep, he always said. Caro figured no amount of sleep would make her beautiful, so she couldn't relate. Still, visitors seldom showed up on her doorstep after nine p.m., regardless of how late she was awake.

  Tugging down the hem of the oversized T-shirt she'd pulled on after her shower, she clicked off the TV and walked to the door. As she peeked around the curtain on the sidelight window, her breath backed up in her lungs. There, leaning against the wooden rail separating her part of the front porch from the other half of the old Spanish-style duplex she shared with a neighbor, stood Mick McGraw.

  Dressed in well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt that shone like a beacon in the dusky moonlight, he watched her steadily. Almost as though he expected her to sneak off and pretend to be asleep. For a brief second she thought about doing just that.

  Coward.

  Straightening her spine, she swung open the door and forced a smile to her lips. “Lost, Detective?”

  “Hopelessly,” he said, straight-faced. “Listen. We need to talk.”

  At eleven-seventeen at night?

  Then she remembered the meeting that morning. Damn. She'd hoped he'd forgotten all about that conversation. “Look, if you're here about moving in together, I don't think—”

  He glanced up looking confused for a second, then shook his head. “No. It...it isn't about that.”

  “Ah.” She held his gaze a split second longer, trying to figure out just what was going on. His expression was stern and unyielding, but in his eyes she swore she saw something soft, along with...an emotion she couldn't quite identify. Guilt? Desire? Guilt over his desire?

  Yeah, right.

  Oh, what the hell. After his uncharacteristic reaction to her that afternoon, anything was possible.

  She hoisted her wine glass. “I was just having a nightcap. Would you like to come in?”

  His gaze darted to the glass and back. She almost fell over when he said, “Sure,” and strode past her into the dimly lit living room. Careful what you wish for, girl...

  Closing the door in a jitter, she turned and nearly ran smack into him. He stood directly in front of her, looking very large and very solemn, like a man with something on his mind. She wished she'd thought to flick on another light before answering the door.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying her best to ignore the sexy, masculine scent teasing her nose.

  “I have this rule,” he said.

  Now, there was a shock.

  His words jolted her right out of her growing panic and firmly into well-known territory. Here it comes.

  “Mm-hmm. Let me guess.” She leaned back against the door and took a fortifying sip of wine. “You have this rule against getting involved with other cops.”

  That earned a nod. “Common knowledge, I guess. I don't fraternize with other cops. Ever.”

  “So I gathered.” She gave him a sardonic smile, feeling the first edge of disillusionment. Not because he didn't want to fraternize—she'd figured that one out a good year ago—but because she was beginning to fear he did. With the usual proviso, naturally.

  He opened his mouth to say something more, but she held up a hand. “No, no. Please. Let me continue.”

  He p
ursed his lips, then conceded. “All right.”

  “But your wife—no, wait, you're not married. Okay, then, your girlfriend doesn't understand the pressures of being a cop. You need someone to talk to. So, you're willing to make an exception. Right? Just this once. As long as it doesn't get out at the station. About our relationship, that is.”

  She took another sip. “How am I doing?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, grimaced, then said, “Do guys really feed you that crap?”

  “You're saying you're not?” Despite his reputation for being different, she was mildly surprised. That would be a first.

  “I don't have a girlfriend.”

  She saluted him with her wine glass. He wouldn't, of course. What could she have been thinking? “Point to you, McGraw.”

  He eyed her. “Do you think I came here tonight to seduce you?”

  “You? No.” She almost laughed. But something in his expression stopped her. “Well, maybe for a minute. No.” She shook her head. “No, of course not.” Confused and slightly flustered, she gave in and bit her lip. “Did you?”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped and he glanced away, frowning. “Like I said, I don't fraternize. I wanted to talk to you about the task force.”

  Relief swept over her. And here she'd deluded herself into thinking— Well, never mind what she'd been thinking. That was never going to happen.

  Rescued from herself, she smiled. “Before you do, I just want to say thank you, Detective.”

  He looked nonplussed. “What?”

  “For picking me to work with you.” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “I know I gave you a hard time about it day before yesterday. And I really do know you had your choice of any woman in the department. I just want you to know how grateful I am to be on your task force. To be given this chance. I won’t disappoint you.”

  His jaw dropped and he swallowed. “I, uh... Shit.” He reached around her for the door knob. “This was a bad idea. I've got to go.”

  Hell, damn and blast.

  Now what? Here was maybe her only chance to figure out the elusive Iceman and she was about to lose it over saying thank you?

  “Wait!” She touched his arm. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

  He jerked back from her, his expression turbulent. “You didn't. It's just late.”

  Oh, God, this was going downhill fast. She scrambled for something to keep him there, talking. “What was it you wanted to discuss? Did the autopsy report come in?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Great! You can tell me what was in it.” She took his hand and tugged him toward the living room. “We can also strategize about tomorrow night at Brimstone.”

  He balked.

  “I promise, no fraternizing. You have my word,” she said, making a crossing motion over her heart.

  He still hesitated, the look on his face switching between sharp resolve and uneasy capitulation.

  “One drink, Mick. What’s the harm?”

  His gaze drilled into her with obscure purpose. “We'll leave our badges outside the door?”

  “We'll leave our badges outside the door. Swear.” Whatever that meant.

  He closed his eyes and slowly hissed out a breath. “All right, then.” He allowed himself to be pulled along into the living room. “But just for five minutes.”

  “We can still talk about the case though, right?”

  “Why not.”

  “You can tell me your theory about the killings.”

  “Who says I have one?”

  “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  A flicker of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. “We're both going to regret this, you know.”

  It was simply amazing the difference in his face that smile made. It gave her the shivers clear to her toes.

  “Never.”

  She was still walking backwards when she bumped into the couch. They halted and stared at one another.

  Suddenly she was electrically aware of her severe lack of clothing, and of his powerful body standing over her. Just where had she been leading him, anyway? Easy, girl. She dropped his hand and quickly retreated to the liquor cabinet, snapping on a floor lamp along the way. The blue mosaic Tiffany lamp on the mantel was pretty, but definitely not bright enough. “What will you have? Wine? Or?”

  “Got something stronger?”

  “Have a seat.” She waved at the couch. “I hear you're a tequila drinker. Slice of lime, right? Beer chaser?” Just for good measure, she flipped on the lights above the wet bar.

  “Sounds good.”

  She stooped and opened the bar fridge. “Corona or Mic dark?”

  “Mic dark, eh?”

  “Julio likes it.”

  “In that case I'll have the Corona.”

  She glanced at him, barely resisting a smirk. “Need a glass?”

  He shook his head, but didn't move, electing instead to watch her prepare his drink and pour herself a refill of merlot. A large refill. To her chagrin, the bottle shook a little as she pressed the cork back into it.

  Silly. She wasn't a suspect in one of McGraw's investigations. And being naked under your sleep shirt wasn't a crime as far as she knew. So, why did she suddenly feel like she should hide that fact?

  On the other hand, the Iceman wouldn't notice if she were parading around in nothing at all.

  Her traitorous mind spoiled that little illusion by dredging up images from their afternoon shopping expedition. Of his strong fingers holding her head immobile, his blatant masculinity on proud display before her as she clung to his lean, muscular hips. Of his gaze burning into hers so hotly she thought she'd ignite on the spot. Even now, she could smell the heady scent of leather and desire that had whirled about that dressing room.

  She gave herself a mental kick. All right, maybe he'd notice if she were nude. But he'd still do his damnedest to deny it. As he had this afternoon when he’d sent her from the dressing room with a bark and a growl.

  So she was just going to ignore it, too.

  She handed him his drinks, returned for her own and walked over to the couch, seating herself carefully so her T-shirt wouldn't ride up her thighs.

  Tossing him a smile, she raised her glass. “To my new, um...Master.”

  He inclined his head and returned her toast, a strange glitter in his eyes. “And to my new pleasure slave.”

  She took a sip but had a hard time swallowing it. He tossed his tequila back in a single gulp and sauntered over to set the glass on the bar. To her surprise, he flicked off the lights above it. Turning, he stood there nursing his beer as his gaze stalked restlessly around the room. Okay, so maybe it had been a bit bright with three lights on.

  Swirling her wine, she studied him. It was the first time she'd seen him in anything other than slacks, button-down and tie. Well, other than that afternoon, which didn't really count. He looked good in jeans. And his T-shirt was pleasantly snug. Even if it was plain white, freshly laundered, and probably starched. She hid a smile behind her glass. Still, it fit nicely. Very nicely. Almost as nicely as those tight jeans.

  Their eyes met again.

  We'll leave our badges outside the door.

  No.

  That wasn't what he was here for. She had to put a tight lid on her wayward thoughts and concentrate. She wasn't sure exactly what he was here for, but fulfilling her secret fantasies wasn't it. Not that she would ever in a million years actually go through with those fantasies. No, she had to act like the professional he expected her to be.

  Correction. Like the professional she was.

  The Not-Interested Professional.

  No teasing. No flirting. No kissing.

  Definitely no kissing.

  So, what did that leave?

  She endeavored to say something before his eyes bored a hole through her resolve. “Why don't—”

  “Caroline, I need—” he said at exactly the same moment.

  They both laughed nervously. “You first,” she said.

>   After a brief pause he shook his head. “No. You go.”

  “Okay. Why don't you fill me in on what was in the M.E.’s report on the Connors?”

  His eyes flickered, taking her in as though he were coming to some sort of decision. “I could do that,” he finally said.

  He strolled over, casually settling on the couch next to her. Right next to her. She determinedly ignored his knee bumping hers as he leaned forward to put his beer on the coffee table.

  “Death by strangulation for Mrs. Connors, using the same kind of fabric strip as on the other two women. Based on the pattern of bruising, Forensics thinks it was probably a scarf,” he said. “Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles consistent with the same fabric. Light abrasions from the restraints, but not extensive enough to indicate a real struggle. No heavy bruising. Champagne residue on the wife’s body.”

  “Champagne?” she asked, surprised. “On her body?”

  “One of the things we’ve kept from the press. The torso’s covered with the stuff. Plenty in her stomach contents, as well. Same with the other female victims.”

  “Body shots?”

  He paused. “Mostly higher.”

  “Aha.” Was it getting warm in here? “Was the lab able to identify the brand?”

  “Coeur de Diable.”

  “Expensive,” she mused. “I assume you’re questioning stores that sell it?”

  He nodded. “There’s another...interesting thing the M.E. found the three women had in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something else we’re keeping under wraps. As it were.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’d all had wax jobs. Complete wax jobs.”

  It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. “Oh! You mean...” Heat suffused her cheeks. Professional, Palmer. She kept her gaze firmly locked on her wine glass. “I see. All three?”

  She sensed him nod again. His thigh against hers moved slightly closer. “And there were traces of nipple rouge on one of the women’s breasts.”

  Oh, Lord.

  Never having experienced either, she was at a loss to comment. “I see,” she repeated, cleared her throat, then added, “Just traces?”

  “Most of it was either wiped off or—” he shrugged “—wore off during the evening’s activities. There was also evidence of oral sex on all the husbands.”