by Frost, Thea
I take his face in my hands and lift it to mine. Oh, the torment in this smoky green eyes. "But why? Why would I leave you?"
"I'm no good, Bryce." Oh, that anguish. "I'm a broken man. I'm twisted. Everybody who gets close to me. Everybody I care about gets hurt. Gets broken."
"No," I whisper. "No, I don't believe that."
He smiles his broken smile, and it nearly breaks my heart. "Believe it."
"I won't leave you." My voice shakes. "I can't leave you."
Sadness washes across his face. "Remember, later, that I tried to warn you."
Tears sting my eyes. I shake my head. "I trust you. I trust you, Jack."
I see his desire come stealing back into his face. "Then so be it. You're mine. Come what may."
"Yours," I whisper.
I hear him growl, and then he kisses me, hungry, demanding, and before I know what's going on he turns and carries me across the room to his floor-to-ceiling bookcase. He presses my back against the shelves, kisses my neck where it meets my shoulder, and then sets my feet on the floor.
"On your knees," he growls.
I drop. My black skirt keeps my legs pressed together. He cups my chin and rubs his thumb over my lower lip. He's incensed. Breathing deeply, roughly. His eyes almost gleam in the gloom. I take his thumb in my mouth, and then he pulls his hand free.
"Unbuckle my belt." I do so, hands clumsy. "Unzip me. Pull out my cock."
Fuck, but he's big. He's straining against his boxers, and I feel myself cream a little more when I touch him, pull him free. How can he be so big?
"I'm going to do what I want to you," he whispers, holding my head still as he takes his cock and rubs his head against my lips. "Your body is mine. You're mine, to do with as I wish."
I open my mouth to take him, but he slides his cock across my cheek. It's so smooth and hot. I close my eyes.
"Say it," he demands, voice cruel.
"Yours," I whisper. I can feel his precum on my cheek. He rubs his shaft over my lips, then on the other side of his face. It feels so primal. So dirty. Like he's claiming me for real. Making me his. His plaything.
"My what?" His voice has grown husky.
"Your fucktoy," I hear myself say, and can't quite believe it. I've never said that in my life. But now it feels so right. So wrong. I'm losing control. Of my body. My mind.
"Yes," he says, and slaps his cock once, twice against my cheek before thrusting past my lips and deep into my mouth.
I startle, then go to raise my hands but stop when he growls. Taking my head with both hands, he mouth-fucks me, slow, long strokes, his whole body rigid with tension. I focus on my breathing, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, trying not to cough, not to gag.
"Stand," he orders, backing away.
I do so, wiping the back of my wrist across my chin.
"Strip."
Gladly. I reach behind my back and unzip my dress. Shrug the straps off my shoulders, then pull my dress off my breasts. I'm wearing a lacy red bra, and when I shimmy the dress down over my round hips and step out of it, I can feel his approval. Feel the simmering tension rise in the air.
I go to remove my panties, but he steps in again. Takes my face in his hand, lifting a blindfold in his other hand. My eyes go wide, then he slides it over my head. This isn't a makeshift blindfold, but a real one. He cinches it tight, then presses me back against the shelving. Takes my left wrist and lifts it high.
I feel cold metal against my skin as he clicks something closed around it. Handcuffs. A knot forms in my stomach as I hear him click it around something up high.
"Jack," I protest.
He takes my other hand. Cuffs it. Lifts it high.
"Jack," I say, panic rising within me. This is how they found Jackie Oleander. Blindfolded. Handcuffed. Dead.
He leans in. "Do you trust me?"
For a long, aching second I float in the void of fear, and then slowly I nod.
He cuffs my other hand up. I'm stretched out, on my tiptoes. I can't see a thing. I'm helpless. Completely at his mercy.
His hands trail over my body. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "So perfect. Your tits. Your hips. I love your smell. Your taste."
I shiver as he touches me. I'm so wet. Fear slides through me, mingling with desire. I feel doubt again, but force it down.
"I gave you a chance to leave," he says again, voice so low I can barely hear it. "I told you it wasn't safe to stay with me."
"Jack..." I whisper again, but he silences me with a finger.
"You deserve better," he says. His hands move down my body. Slide over my pussy. I open my legs wide. I want him to touch me. To make me come.
"You deserve a good man. A man who will treat you right." His fingers trace my pussy lips through my slick panties. I'm so wet. So hungry with desire.
"I'm not that man," he says, fingers pushing my panties aside. I groan as he slides two fingers deep inside me, to the knuckle, then turns his hand so that he cups my mound again, his fingers within me pressing tight against my canal. Then he starts to move them, making an undulating come-hither motion that sends sudden and violent waves of pleasure through me.
I gasp, rock my hips forward.
"I'm going to use you," he breathes, voice close to me. "Going to make you come. Make you scream. Make you cry. I'm going to take my lust out on you. Again. And again. And again."
I'm wound so tight that I come almost ridiculously fast. His touch is so expert. So knowing. So good. His fingers are so strong. He coaxes me, works me, pushes me to the point of orgasm, and then I'm falling, shaking, crying out as I come. He lessens the pressure, but still strokes me.
"Jack," I whimper. "Oh, Jack."
He kneels before me. Lifts my leg and rests my thigh on his shoulder. Leans in so that his mouth covers my slit, his tongue licking a trail of fire up between my lips to circle my clit. I shiver, still coming down off my first orgasm. Down and in he slides, out and around. Varying the pressure. The stroke. He lifts my other leg up so that now both thighs are on his shoulders, hands supporting my hips, my weight cruel on my handcuffed wrists.
But I don't care. I don't care about anything but the fire he's building in my core. I grip the shelving with my hands and thrust against him.
"Like that," I whimper. "Fuck me with your tongue. Like that, oh, fuck."
He bears my weight on his shoulders with ease, and licks and fucks me, savoring my taste, exploring my lips, my every secret area. His hands drop from my hips to hold me up by my ass cheeks, and then I feel him spread my ass, and his thumb rubs gently against my asshole.
I jump, and feel him smile against me. Tilt his head back to look up at me. "Have you ever been taken from behind, Bryce?"
I shake my head, mute.
Again he presses against my little hole, but then eases away. "Soon," he whispers. "But not tonight."
He stands then, lifts my legs so that they're wrapped around his waist, and slides his cock inside me. I want to touch him so badly. Run my hands over his sculpted body. Instead I just cry out as he slams into me, shoving me back against the bookshelves.
Did he fuck Jackie Oleander like this? The thought makes me jealous, terrified. What has he actually told me tonight that proves he's innocent? Nothing. But I know it. In my core. He isn't a killer. He's a broken man, but still a good one.
Again and again he thrusts into me, fucking me in the way I'm coming to love. With athletic grace and power, his hips rocking back and forth as if he could do this forever, my body rising and falling as if I'm floating on the ocean. Deeper and deeper into me, my pussy tight on his cock, his hands holding me up by cupping my ass.
"Come for me," he whispers. "Come for me, Bryce."
I need no encouragement. the torrent of emotions I've been feeling, the tension and fear find outlet in this raw sex. I feel my climax coming, approaching, brought on by his unstoppable pistoning into me, and then I come, the pleasure tearing a scream from my core, my vulnerability and desire and fear swirling away
before the sheer power of my orgasm.
Jack leans back, one hand around my waist, slamming into me again and again, pushing my orgasm to greater and greater heights, extending it, redoubling it, until with a cry of his own he comes, and I feel him ejaculate deep within me, again and again. He groans, straightens, and then leans into me, resting his face on my shoulder, holding me close.
I sob for breath, throat ragged, burning from my screams. My arms are still up and spread, my eyes still covered. Even though I can't see him, can't hold him, I've never felt so close to him. To anybody else.
Jack straightens at last and lowers my legs to the ground. I feel a keen sense of loss when he slides his cock free from my pussy. He unlocks the handcuffs, one then the other, and lifts me in his arms.
I reach up and pull the blindfold free. He's carrying me across the living room to his bedroom. I rest my head against his shoulder. He lowers me into his bed and pulls the comforter over us. I snuggle against him, drowsiness claiming me. He curls around my body, arms holding me tight.
There's no need for words. For more talk. I hold him and he holds me, and in that silence I find my greatest intimacy with him, a sense of comfort. Of union. I've faced my doubts. My fears. I trust him. I want to be with him. Through whatever's coming.
He's a good man, I tell myself. At heart. At his core. Hidden from the world. He's a man I can trust.
*
I wake up alone. Morning light is pouring through the large windows. I feel luxuriously rested, like a cat that's had her fill of cream. I stretch and reach out to Jack's side of the bed. It's cold. On his pillow is a folded piece of card. I pick it up and read, Work called. Make yourself at home. Back later.
I smile and hold the card to my nose. Am I imagining it, or can I smell his scent? Setting the card back, I sigh and curl a strand of my hair between my fingers. Everything is silent. This high up above the streets, I can't hear the traffic. It's a rare kind of stillness. I allow my eyes to drift around Jack's room, taking in its minimalist decor. Expensive and subtle. Like the money doesn't need to be flaunted.
Eventually I get out of bed and shower. I really need to start bringing a second set of clothing. I'll just wear my little black dress home and change there. I relish the shower. As I wash, I realize there are bruises around my wrists from the handcuffs.
They're tender to the touch. My heart skips a beat as I recall last night. The cold feel as the cuffs clicked into place. The loss of control. The horrible parallel to Jackie Oleander. Did Jack do that on purpose? Was he testing me?
Uneasy, I decide that whatever the test was, I've passed. For now.
I get out of the shower and see that my phone is blinking. I've missed a call. Blake. I immediately call him back.
"Where have you been?" His voice is sharp.
"Where have I been?" I'm outraged. "I tried calling you all day yesterday."
"Don't dodge the question. If you're going to take this job seriously, you need to be available whenever I need you."
I bite down on my next retort. "Fine. I'm here. What's going on?"
"Wilkinson wants to meet again. He said you have something that belongs to him."
"I do. His case file. I took it when Jack interrupted us. It was very interesting to read."
Blake's voice grows harsh. "You shouldn't have taken that folder, Bryce."
I feel something harden within me. "That's not my name."
"Yes. It. Is. Bryce Fischer. You need to return that folder immediately."
"Does the name Jackie Oleander ring a bell?"
Silence.
"Do you know how she died?"
Again, silence.
"Blake?"
"Jackie Oleander was Jack's previous dealer."
"Who looked fucking exactly like me."
"Did she?" He sounds almost careless. "I didn't know that."
"She did. Isn't that a crazy coincidence?" Something about the sex last night is making me feel brave. Demanding. Angry. "That you selected a replacement dealer who looks exactly like his previous one who died in some strange sex game only a month or two ago?"
Silence. Then, "That's unfortunate."
I laugh bitterly. "Yes, unfortunate. What else aren't you telling me, Blake?"
It's his turn to laugh. "Do you think I don't want you to succeed at this mission, Bryce? I've told you everything I know."
I wait. "Fine," I say at last. "I'll give Wilkinson's file back. Is he going to continue investigating Jack?"
"That's up to him. He's from a different department. We've got no jurisdiction over him."
"How do I get in touch with him?"
"I'll send you his number. And, Bryce?"
"Yes?"
"You give me any more attitude like you just did, and I'll make you regret it. Do you understand me? I'm your only link back to the real world. The only person who can attest that you're not a lowlife drug dealer with a real criminal record. Got it?"
I start to swear at him, but he hangs up. Furious, I stare at the phone and sit down on the corner of Jack's bed. Damn Blake. What would he say if he knew I'm fucking Jack? That I'm getting handcuffed and blindfolded? That I trust Jack more at this point than I do him?
My phone beeps. It's a text from Blake with Wilkinson's number. I dial it.
"Hello?"
"Detective. This is Bryce. I've got something of yours."
"Damn right you do. I need that file back. Immediately. And you'd best not have gone through it."
I laugh. "You know I have."
"Damn it. Where are you? I'll meet you there."
"No. I'll come to you." Hell, no, I'm not bringing Wilkinson in here.
"Fine. I'll give you my apartment's address. Just swing by and drop off the file."
"See you in ten."
I hang up. Pull on my little black dress. Curse as I realize I'll have to show up to Wilkinson's place wearing my sexiest outfit at nine in the morning. Too bad. I'm beyond caring what he thinks. I pick up Jackie O's photograph from the living room floor, head downstairs, and get my car out of valet. The rest of the case file is in the trunk. Then I drive over to Wilkinson's. Fast.
The detective lives in a crummy, four-story apartment block. Top floor with a view of the poor part of town. I park across the street and get out, smoothing my dress down over my thighs. I make sure my gun is holstered, safety on, and grab the file. A quick drop-off and I'm gone.
Up the stairs to his apartment door. I knock. I hear a muffled voice from within, so I try the handle. The door's open.
The apartment is a stark contrast to Jack's luxurious home. Two fans swirl lazily, stirring the already warm and humid air. Bamboo blinds hang over the windows, so that the light that filters through them looks like steeped tea water. The living room is mostly empty, with a dining table shoved against one wall. Wilkinson is rising from where he was smoking by the window.
Smoking and drinking, I see.
At this time in the morning.
His eyes go wide at my dress. "Wow. You didn't have to dress up."
I make a face. "I didn't. Here's your file. We done?"
He lifts his glass. "What's the rush? Want a drink?"
"No, thank you. I don't drink whiskey before ten."
"Give it time. You will." He pauses. "You fucking Jack?"
My eyes go wide. "That's none of your business."
"That's a yes." He finishes his glass and sets it down. "He got you under his spell yet? I'm guessing you're seventy-five percent there."
"What are you talking about?" I want to leave. But I need to know more.
"Jack. That black voodoo shit he seems able to do to the women who enter his life." He steps closer. "I've been watching him for nearly - what - six years? You're not the first little girl he's fucked and convinced he's a martyr."
"You're referring to Jackie Oleander."
"Her," nods Wilkinson. "And the others. What is it about him? The tattoos? The underwear model look?" He scrutinizes me, then shakes his h
ead. "No. It's the whole gotta-save-him thing, ain't it? You want to fix him. Save him from himself." He grins. "Pretty genius, that act."
"How do you know it's an act?" I'm trying to keep cool, but it's hard. Others? Martyr act?
"Oh, c'mon!" Wilkinson's drunker than I thought. His gestures are expansive. "The guy's the top dog in the city. You think you get that much power by playing nice with others? I've been watching him for years, girl. I've seen the collateral damage. The dead bodies. Your Jack ain't no knight in shining armor. He's filth. He's a devil. He's pure fucking evil."
I shake my head. "You're wrong."
"Ha! You're right. I was wrong. You ain't at seventy-five percent. You're almost at one hundred." He steps closer. "He got you begging yet? Begging for him to hurt you? Punish you? Make you pay for his pain?"
I take a step back, eyes wide. There's a seam of hatred in his voice. I remember the obsessive nature of his file. "Goodbye, Wilkinson." I turn to the door.
"We ain't done," he growls, and grabs my arm.
I go to pull my gun.
He clamps his hand around my wrist.
"You gonna shoot an officer of the law, girl?" He's right up against me, breath reeking of whiskey. Worse, he stinks of sour sweat. Like he hasn't showered in some time.
"Let me go."
"Just tell me one thing." His breath washes over my face. "You believe he ain't a murderer?"
I open my mouth, but I don't know what to say. I believed Jack when he said he didn't kill Jackie O. But anybody? Ever? He's one of the two top criminal bosses in the city. Could he have gotten there without getting his hands dirty at all?
Wilkinson smiles. "So you're not sure. He could be a killer. The kind of man you've dedicated your life to arresting. But you're still sucking his cock. Letting him shoot his load all over your juicy tits."
"Let me go," I hiss, tearing at his grip, but he's stronger than I am, and when my gun slides free he tears it from my hand, reverses it, and presses the muzzle under my jaw. "Uh-uh," he whispers. "Careful. Didn't your daddy teach you not to play with guns? You're liable to get hurt."
"Detective Wilkinson," I say, voice shaking. "You're crossing the line. Let me go before you do something you'll regret."