by Kylie Brant
His mouth found a spot beneath her ear that she hadn’t known was sensitive. And when he teased it with tongue and teeth, the floor rocked a bit beneath her feet. A strange sort of lethargy was creeping into her limbs. Weighting her down while reaction skipped along nerve endings, firing an answering response.
In sensual retribution, she hooked a finger in the elastic waistband of his shorts. Traced the boundary where fabric met flesh across his abdomen. Then abruptly lost her concentration when she felt his hand slip inside her panties to cup her butt.
Tearing her mouth away from his, she pressed it blindly to his chest. To trace with lips and teeth every hard angle and hollow found there. Nate smoothed his palm over one cheek and squeezed lightly, before his palm reversed its path, moving to the front to trap the moist heat between her legs.
A slight moan escaped her as his fingers stroked her damp flesh. And suddenly it was important to wrest control of the pace. Because she didn’t want slow and wouldn’t last through languorous. Which meant she needed to drive him a little bit crazy as well.
She drew her leg up to rub against his, losing herself for a moment in the sensation of hair-roughened skin against her flesh. She traced a finger over the straining length of him, once. Again. Was rewarded by the sound he made, something between a curse and a groan. And reveled for an instant in his response.
Without warning, he swept her T-shirt over her head and paused to enjoy the sight of her breasts, peaked and waiting. Leaning forward, he caught a nipple between his lips and sucked strongly from her. And her senses began to fragment.
Distantly his words echoed across her mind. I want it all. Whatever you’ll give me. And then more. She knew the demand should frighten her. It would have, if she didn’t reciprocate it fully.
Risa wanted everything he had to give. Everything he’d seek to hold back. And somehow, she’d managed to still those inner alarms that he might just manage to elicit the same unbridled response from her.
With more haste than finesse, she pushed the shorts over his hips. Freed him from their confines and shoved the fabric down his thighs. With short, swift movements, he divested himself of them before scooping her up in his arms and walking with her back toward the darkened hallway. And into his bedroom.
She would have liked a chance to look at the area, to see what she could learn of the man from the space he slept in. But desire was twisting through her, clawing for release. He dropped to the bed without releasing her and rolled to stretch out atop her. And this time when his mouth found hers, there was an edge of desperation in his kiss.
Recognizing it would have been more satisfying if it didn’t whip up an answering frenzy of need. She clutched his hard biceps. Tested the shoulders layered with muscles. The sleek expanse of his back. The tight, curved butt. And every nerve inside her stretched as taut as a bow.
There was a ferocious hunger in the sweep of his hands over her breasts. Raw unvarnished passion in his touch, just shy of rough. He left her for a moment, and her eyelids dragged open uncomprehendingly before his weight settled again and his mouth went between her thighs.
It took only the first stabbing movement of his tongue against the hypersensitive cluster of nerves to have the orgasm slamming into her. Eddies spiraled endlessly. She struggled for breath. Twisted away from that demanding mouth.
But he held her legs in place, knees bent and splayed outward, leaving her vulnerable. Sensitive. And lavished stroke after sensual stroke with lips and tongue until need—so recently satiated—began climbing again.
Risa withstood the sensual assault as long as she could. But the next time she pushed at his shoulders, he relented. Raised his head. And she sat up, pressed him back on the bed and straddled his thighs.
There was a purely masculine smile of satisfaction on his lips. One that would have bothered her if she weren’t so certain he’d be losing it within moments. His hand reached out, pulled open the drawer of the bedside table, and fumbled for something. Handed it to her.
Taking her time, she tore open the foil packet and took inordinate care in sheathing him. A fraction of an inch at a time. Stripping off her panties she straddled him again, taking his hardness in her hand and guiding him inside her.
His hands went to her hips and he gave a quick upward lunge to seat himself fully. And for a moment, for one dizzying instant, she doubted her ability to carry out her vow. To control the pace until he was aware of nothing else. Until his senses were steeped in her.
When he would have moved again, taken over the tempo and set a pace that would drive them both to madness, she pushed his hands away from her hips. Laced their fingers instead. And watched him in the darkness as she finally moved. Keeping her movements slow and shallow. Saw the moment the smile faded from his lips and his jaw clenched.
She could feel his urgency in the taut muscles beneath her palms. The way they quivered beneath her touch. His hands, when they rose to cup her breasts, trembled slightly.
But he didn’t take control of the speed or the act. Not even when his thighs went tense beneath her hips. His breathing sounded harsh and ragged. And she wanted, needed, to see that control unleashed.
Quickening the pace, she rode him faster. Harder. Deeper. Reached between them to touch his heavy masculinity and felt his restraint snap. Nate’s hands went to her hips as he surged inside her. She met him stroke for stroke, the edge of her vision graying. This was what she wanted. The primal unharnessed need given full rein. She’d known it would be starkly satisfying to watch him lose control.
She hadn’t realized his loss would fuel her own. Heat, quick stabbing spears of it, arrowed up her spine. The shadows enveloped them in a tight black cocoon of sensuality. There were only the two of them racing each other to climax. The sound of flesh against flesh. The rasp of their breathing. The creak of the bed.
Her blood beat a rapid tattoo in her veins. In her ears. Their hips pounded together in a frantic tempo. Nate gave one last violent surge and colors shattered behind her eyelids. Sanity fractured.
But as they both hurtled over the edge of passion, his name was on her lips.
Chapter 20
Risa opened her eyes, disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a moment to remember she was in Nate’s house. Another to recall that she was in his bed.
And another to set aside a bit of pique to find herself alone in it.
Shoving aside the emotion, she rolled to the side of the mattress, stood. Her muscles felt pleasantly lax. It was hard to set aside the sense of well-being, she acknowledged as she searched for her T-shirt, after a night of good sex.
And impossible to set it aside after a night of superb sex.
She found her shirt neatly folded at the base of the bed, which saved her having to do a nude search for it. Not that she would have managed that with aplomb, but she wasn’t quite up to parading in front of the man naked.
Pulling the tee over her head, she finger combed her hair and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She’d promised him breakfast. And since it was difficult to recall the last time she’d eaten, she might just match him, appetite for appetite. Much as she had a few hours earlier.
Strolling in a languid manner to the kitchen, it took only the sight of him to have tension shooting into her limbs. Ice filtering through her veins.
With a slight frown on his face, Nate was studying the sketches she’d made last night. The drawings she should have taken back to her room. Tucked in her bag, away from prying eyes.
But she hadn’t gone back to her room, she recalled sickly. And her mind definitely hadn’t been on the drawings.
He looked up then, saw her standing there, and raked her figure with his heated midnight gaze. “You look good all sleepy and rumpled.” Satisfied memory sounded in his voice. And something else. Something that promised to make them both late to work if she gave him half a chance.
She found it exceedingly difficult to match his even tone. Heading toward the fridge, she swung the door
open, anxious for an excuse to avoid watching his attention shift back to the sketches.
“I didn’t know you were artistic.”
Making a production of gathering up eggs, cheese, and milk to set on the counter, she didn’t answer.
“These are good. A bit . . . macabre.”
“I have dreams sometimes. It helps to sketch out the images. Where do you keep the bagels?” She hoped to distract him. “And the frying pan?”
He crossed to find both for her and set them on the stove. Again clad in the shorts from last night, he appeared in no particular hurry to get ready for work. When she snuck a glance at the clock, she realized it wasn’t even six thirty.
“More like nightmares, I’d say.” Her spine stiffened as he wandered over to look at the sketches again. “Weird, the way dreams are, with everyone and anyone you’ve encountered in the last few days all jumbled together. Emmons. Muller.” He paused. “Geez, that’s a good likeness of Jett. Darrell.” He laughed a little. “Should I be hurt that I didn’t appear in your dreams?” She heard the sound of another page turning. Then silence.
Risa forced herself to turn around. And saw the exact moment he flipped to the page of Walter Eggers. He stilled. Stared at it fiercely. And when he didn’t speak . . . when one long minute stretched into the next, she made a tentative stab at an explanation. More of one then she’d ever offered anyone else, outside of Raiker.
“He’ll be next. Not last night. I called and he was still home in bed. But soon.” He stared at the sketch a moment longer. Then finally raised his gaze to meet hers. What she saw in it nearly made her weep.
“Risa . . . it was just a dream. A horrible one, I’m sure. But packed with visuals from our day, from our worries . . . hell, I don’t know.” He raked his hand through his short dark hair. “It’s our subconscious playing mind games on us. I used to have this recurring dream of being captured by a clown who insisted on painting a big-ass goofy grin and tear drops on me. It was terrifying. I hate clowns.”
His attempt at humor fell flat. “Dreams are the way I zeroed in on Martin Volk. Tyler Temple. And dozens of others before that. Hundreds.”
There was a guarded expression on his face that stabbed deeper than Volk’s knife had. Caused more damage. “You’re confusing instincts with something else.” Something, given his careful choosing of his words, that he didn’t want to identify.
“You need to put an around-the-clock guard on Eggers.” She hated the note of pleading in her tone.
“Because he’s going to be next.”
“Yes.”
The silence was interminable. Then he gave a short nod. “Okay.”
Stunned, she could only stare at him. Nate cocked a brow. “Even without . . . this”—he tapped the page with the drawing of the man—“we can be certain he has knowledge of the background leading up to this thing. With the IA investigation on him and his connection to our case, I can make a solid argument to Morales that he’s crucial to our investigation. He can go up the line and get the strings pulled to keep him on a desk job.” He paused questioningly and she nodded. That would take care of the man’s work hours.
“And you’ll keep him under surveillance after that?”
“I can keep an officer on him.”
Something inside her eased. A tendril of hope unfurled. “If the Cop Killer comes for him, we might be able to catch him in the act.”
Nate rifled through the pictures again. “Anyone else here you want us to keep an eye on? Although Juicy is a given . . . Hey, you even have a sketch of . . .” He looked at her. “Is that Kristin?”
She busied herself cracking eggs into a bowl she’d found in the cupboard. “Not everything in the dreams is relevant. A lot is open to interpretation.” Like the melding of one image into the next. Random snippets of conversation that made little sense.
“That’s what I’m saying, Risa.” Something in his tone alerted her. “They’re just dreams. Open to interpretation.”
Strength leeched out of her body. Her shoulders sagged. She felt as if she were folding in upon herself. Because it was clear by that statement that he still didn’t believe her. Like her mother hadn’t. Like she’d always known her ex wouldn’t.
She’d been stupid to think that Nate McGuire would be any different.
Jett Brandau was hovering outside Nate’s office when they arrived. Taking in the sight of Risa coming in behind him, he said, “Boy, you guys timed your arrival perfectly.” He stopped then, looked more carefully from one to the other.
Nate busied himself unlocking the door. “Is there a reason you’re haunting my office?”
Still watching them both, Jett said slowly, “Yeah, I got news. I told you I’d keep you both updated.” He followed them into the office, shot Nate a what-the-hell look.
Nate kept his expression carefully impassive. The man could draw his own conclusions about Risa’s and his simultaneous arrivals. But there was no way he could fail to pick up on the charged current between them. It’d been present all through the breakfast she’d cooked, then barely eaten. Had continued when she’d joined him in the station house lot. Walked with him inside.
Nate had the sinking feeling that he’d been given an opportunity and had failed miserably at it. The hell of it was, he wasn’t quite sure what his failure had been.
That he hadn’t, what, accepted her dreams as fact? As some sort of psychic road map outlining the future of this case? Just the idea summoned incredulity again. He was a man mired in logic. In reason. And dammit, Risa should be, too. She dealt with the same sort of facts and detail that he did himself. Their job required it.
He’d handled things badly back at the house. He could admit that now. Setting his computer case on his desk, he sat down. But for the life of him, he couldn’t see what he could have done differently.
The watch on Eggers had made sense. He’d accepted that readily enough. And she hadn’t mentioned anything else, so why the hell did he feel like he’d just bombed a test?
“You two are balls of joy in the morning.” Jett dropped into a free chair. “Should I have Darrell bring in coffee?”
“He doesn’t work weekends,” Nate responded automatically. Risa still hadn’t said a word. “I heard Morales tell him he wasn’t to let anyone talk him into trading hours either. They all take advantage of him.”
Jett looked crestfallen. “If I’d known that I’d have stopped somewhere for coffee before coming in this morning.” Then shaking off his disappointment, he got to the point. “I spoke to Lloyd Bennett again this morning. The battalion chief at the fire station that responded to Risa’s fire?” At Nate’s impatient nod, he went on. “Apparently the arson investigator isn’t coming up until today, but he started the interviews by phone yesterday afternoon and reviewed the photos last night. He told Bennett this morning that right now he’d qualify the fire as suspicious.”
“When I asked yesterday, Hannah was unsure whether she’d closed the windows that night,” Risa said quietly. “She did seem fairly certain that she hadn’t opened all you reported that were found open. And she flatly denied taking the batteries out of the smoke detectors.”
Nate hadn’t heard that conversation. It must have taken place when he’d been on the phone. But although Risa had seemed to accept what that meant, there still was doubt in his mind.
Or hell. More like hope. He was already distracted by Kristin and Tucker’s disappearance. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on the case knowing the Cop Killer had Risa in his sights? His nape prickled. That he’d already made one attempt on her life?
Jett was talking again. “You and your mom have a place to stay? Because I know this gal who runs this sweet little bed-and-breakfast just over the line in Montgomery County.” He grinned. “If I send her some business, she just might start talking to me again.”
“Risa’s staying with me.” The brusque pronouncement had both of the others looking at Nate. Jett with surprise, Risa with something a bit more dangerous
. He directed his explanation to her. “We’re not going to let this guy get another shot at you.”
“Meaning that a woman on her own is fair game, but one with a big strong man around will scare him off?”
He didn’t trust the sweetness of her tone. Knew her well enough to be certain sarcasm lurked beneath it.
Help arrived from an unexpected quarter. “He’s right,” Jett told her. “Hell, there’s safety in numbers.” To Nate, he said, “But it wouldn’t hurt to double-check your security system. Your smoke detectors.” His expression was sober. “If Risa’s a target, so are you. Hell, maybe anyone affiliated with the investigation is.”
The rap on the door sounded a mere instant before it was pushed open. Captain Morales stood in the doorway, taking in its occupants with one sweeping gaze. “Good, you’re here,” he said, looking at Nate. “Javon Emmons was scooped up in the BOLO last night. The commissioner says we get first shot at him.”
Emmons was slouched in his chair, a hat pulled low over his eyes. He was more dressed up than the last time they’d seen him. Black-striped jeans and a collared shirt were topped with a butter-soft leather jacket the color of olives. His expression was the same, though. Cocky, with a hint of underlying slyness.
“McGuire. I hear you’re looking at my old apartment. Want to rent it, I hear.” His teeth flashed. “Man, I’ll let you in on a secret. Place has cockroaches the size of rats. Matter of fact, I seen a death match between a cockroach and a rat in the building. Crowned that roach champ.”
“Good to know.” Nate sat back in his chair and surveyed him. “You’re a hard man to find.”
“I’m a rolling stone. Got people to see. Can’t be sitting around waiting for the po-po to come calling every time you gets a notion.”
“Tell us about your brother,” Risa put in.
He sent a lazy glance her way. “Which one? I got lots of brothers. I got stepbrothers, half brothers, full brothers . . . got sisters, too. Want to hear about them?”