The Silencer

by RC Boldt

  A strangled sound tries to escape from me, but I clamp my mouth shut, my eyes bouncing between his and the hand stroking his hard length.

  My clit throbs, practically competing with my racing heartbeat when he sweeps the pad of his thumb over the flared head. Raw, desperate need is so intense that it has my feet eating up the space between us and tossing the condom on the table. I lower myself to the carpeted floor between his legs.

  Bracing my hands on his lean, muscled thighs, I wait for his downstroke, for his fist to land at the root of his cock before I fasten my lips around the broad, flared head.

  His hips jerk, and his guttural, “Fuck!” greets my ears.

  At this very moment, he’s at my mercy. He’ll do anything as long as I don’t stop.

  A heady, electrifying sense of power surges through me as I take him deeper. He lets out a low, tortured moan when I cup his balls that are drawn tight.

  He arches his hips in time with my mouth sliding up and down his length, and the way his body strains, tensing just so, tells me he’s close.

  When his hand moves to gently guide my mouth off him, my eyes cut to him in shock.

  Features drawn tight, he looks like he’s barely hanging on to restraint. Molten-hot lust fills my veins at the unbridled need in his tone. “Get up here.”

  My body moves of its own accord before I have the capability of thought. But the overpowering carnal need pulsing through me propels me to rip open the condom and carefully roll it down his length.

  The condom is pure ceremony on his behalf, but he doesn’t know that.

  He’ll never know that.

  Once all is said and done here, we’ll never cross paths again. I dutifully ignore the lance of pain that sears my chest at the thought.

  Fuck. There’s way too much sentimental shit smothering me lately.

  There’s only one way to escape from it.

  Straddling him, I take his cock in hand and guide him to my entrance. Gliding the tip along my slick lips, I gather the wetness before sinking down over him a fraction.

  Heat blazes in his eyes, and we both suck in a sharp breath because fuck, he’s thick and wide, stretching me in a way that’s delicious and makes me want more.

  Hands frenzied, he shoves my dress up and over my head, practically ripping it off my arms. Once discarded, leaving me in my bra, his voice turns smoky. “You’ve been hiding all this from me?” His heated gaze sears me as he spreads his legs wider and gives a little punch upward with his hips.

  My hands fly to brace my weight on the back of the chair on either side of his head. I sink even deeper around him, his cock throbbing inside me.

  Large palms cup my ass, urging me to move. He dips his head to my collarbone, raking his teeth over my skin before soothing it with his tongue and lips. I rock against him, grinding my clit on the root of his cock, and a moan clambers its way up my throat.

  “Kennedy.” My name sounds like it’s torn from deep within him. “Fuck, yes.” He urges me on, those fingers clenching my ass, begging me to ride him hard.

  The cords of his neck strain, standing out prominently, as I work myself over his hard cock. With my fingers in a punishing grip on the back of the chair, pleasure has my vision growing hazy at the edges as the slickness from our bodies gathers between us.

  His raw expression, the tense lines of his face, incites needy urgency within me. He groans against my neck, punching his hips upward in tandem to mine.

  One of his hands moves to tug down the fabric of my bra, enabling his fingers to toy with my sensitive nipple. I press into his touch shamelessly, and I can tell when he feels the surge of wetness it elicits.

  His groan vibrates against my skin, and the fingers still curved around my ass tug me closer, forcing me to grind harder against the root of his cock. My clit pulses with need as my body clamors for release.

  “So fucking wet,” he grits out as he continues teasing my nipple. “Buried in the sweetest goddamn pussy.”

  His coarse words send another surge of arousal strumming through me, and my inner muscles clench around him.

  “Christ. Your pussy’s gonna squeeze the come out of me, won’t it?” His thrusts turn more powerful as if his body is demanding my release.

  He thickens inside me, stretching me even more. While he plucks at my nipple with the callused pads of his fingers, I bear down on him, giving my clit exactly what I need to tip over the edge.

  Shudders overtake me as I clench around his cock and he continues deep upward drives, working me through my climax.

  A feral-sounding growl erupts from deep in his chest before his entire body tenses and tremors wrack his body. Perspiration clings to his broad chest, and the sound of our labored breaths echoes in the silence of the apartment.

  Allowing myself a moment to gather my wits—and get my breathing under control—I don’t move.

  “Never been so pissed at myself for only carrying one condom.” His muffled words are spoken against my neck, and it must be the post-orgasm bliss that has my defenses down. Because it happens, and this time, it’s different from the subway.

  This time, his self-deprecating humor and masculine grouchiness over not having more protection for tonight have infused a light airiness into me.

  When my slightly wild, unrestrained laughter escapes, he raises his head, eyes still heavy with lingering lust, and his own laughter joins mine.

  I experience the barest trace of something that almost resembles what I haven’t been acquainted with in so very long.

  Contentment.

  Chapter 43

  Landon

  “What in the fresh hell are you doing, Lattimer?!”

  I rake a hand through my hair and clench my teeth so hard my jaw begins to ache. “It wasn’t work related, so it’s none of your damn business.”

  Silence greets my response. When he speaks again, his tone is composed but still icy. “It’s my business when you’re jeopardizing everything.”

  Christ. Reporting to the Vice President is one thing. But to report to him on top of it just adds to the fuckery. “Look, it was late. I’m not an asshole, so I made sure she got home okay.”

  I shift against my couch cushions because just bringing up Kennedy has my dick saluting, ready for another round.

  Of course, he’s got some sick psychic senses and calls me out. “You fucked her.” He doesn’t pose this as a question but as a statement, and I bristle because what happened tonight is no one else’s goddamn business.

  I force my words from between clenched teeth. “I got her home safely, and then I went home. End of story.”

  I’m not sharing one iota with anyone. We might’ve made this agreement before I knew her, but all bets are off if he thinks I’ll give him any evidence of what went on between Kennedy and me behind closed doors.

  Being with her, regardless of her rules and aversion to kissing, was a complete game changer. And when she laughed while I held her on my lap, something just clicked.

  I knew, at that moment, I wanted to hear that laughter for the rest of my life.

  Which means I’ve complicated things to epic fucking proportions.

  “Get the damn job done, Lattimer. I’m relying on you to get to the bottom of things.”

  I tip my head back against the cushion and close my eyes, a sudden weariness plaguing me. “I know. And I’m working on it.”

  “You better.” There’s the briefest pause before he lowers his voice, the warning tone obvious. “Don’t fuck around with her, Lattimer. She’s not like us.”

  My eyes flash open as agitation courses through me, but I stifle it. It’s not worth getting into. He won’t back down, and I sure as shit won’t either. “If that’s all, I’m ready to crash.”

  “That’s it.” His tone is clipped, and I can tell he’s irritated with me.

  “Night.”

  “Good night. Be smart.” Click.

  Be smart. That sure as shit is ironic because I’m pretty damn sure I wasn’t being “s
mart” when I stripped Kennedy from the waist down and ate out her pussy.

  “Don’t fuck around with her, Lattimer. She’s not like us.”

  His words play on repeat while I brush my teeth and shower. It isn’t until I crawl into bed that I wonder why he made that sound like a bad thing.

  She’s not like us. She’s an outsider here. A loner. A woman who doesn’t smile or laugh freely—who didn’t until tonight. With me.

  As I drift off to sleep, Kennedy’s laughter lingers in the back of my mind.

  It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while.

  Chapter 44

  Kennedy

  I shoot upright in bed, sweat clinging to every part of my skin. Gun in my firm grip, I aim at my bedroom doorway.

  My chest heaves with labored breaths, and my vision clears to show an empty doorway and room. No one hovers at the door, ready to do their worst to me with an arrogantly pleased smile plastered on their face.

  No one’s there, I repeat silently. No one’s there.

  Silence blankets the apartment, and although I know I’m alone, it takes more effort than usual to shake off the riddling tension.

  Lowering my gun, I flip on the safety and slide it back beneath my pillow. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, willing my heart to calm.

  This is one of the reasons I didn’t want Landon to stay the night.

  Nightmares often weave their way into my mind. Like visitors who are both unwanted and uninvited showing up on your doorstep. Those who heed no polite protocol and linger no matter how many times you attempt to evict them.

  This particular nightmare, however, is one of the worst. For me, it pales compared to the memories of the beatings and other abuse I endured.

  It marked the moment when they officially took everything from me. Previously, they had robbed me of my innocence, but in that instant, their greedy, evil hands took even more.

  They severed the final, tenuous thread that remained.

  Perhaps it was delusional, but in the tiniest kernel of hope my adolescent self had, I imagined I’d somehow escape my horrific life and find someone who wasn’t bothered by what I’d endured. Someone who would love me and accept me.

  Someone who’d build a family with me. Who would one day look at my pregnant belly with awe and adoration.

  Now, I’ll never have that, even if I dared to open myself up to someone.

  All because of them. Because of the monsters who walk freely in this city. The ones who aren’t freakishly disfigured or possess some evil magic like fairy tales lead us to believe.

  They walk among us, lurking in plain sight.

  Biding my time, planning meticulously, I’ve waited for the opportunity to come back and exact vengeance.

  When I left, the scales were out of balance and in their favor. Now, it’s time to settle the score.

  Being back in this city combined with the unsettling effect Landon has on me has increased my thirst for vengeance.

  If I kill, I’m ridding the world of one more bastard preying on the innocent.

  If I kill, my mind won’t be preoccupied with thoughts of Landon. I won’t continue to wonder what it would feel like if his soft lips dusted along my skin once again.

  Mentally shoving everything aside, I dive into the latest chatter.

  Certain Instagram accounts many deem as “those crazy conspiracy theorists” are better investigators than one would find at local police precincts.

  They might not have a law enforcement degree framed and adorning their office wall, but they’re more rabid about finding the truth and gaining justice than one could ever expect. They make it clear in everything they post that they abhor pedophiles.

  They uncover details the media ignores or calls “unfounded rumors,” or, of course, when they label them as “conspiracy theories” in order to discredit them.

  If I’ve learned anything from all this, it’s that there’s always some truth to most rumors. But when it comes to these particular accusations pertaining to the elite, it’s the furthest thing from a conspiracy theory.

  I know it because I once lived it.

  Which is what brings me to the Secretary of State’s hotel room. Though the man lives in this very city, he’s booked a room with the excuse that his hardwood floors are being refinished.

  It’s a lie, of course. He books rooms periodically, using various excuses, and everyone turns a blind eye. They also ignore traces of blood left behind on the sheets and in the bathtub. The extra towels he requests must be discarded due to the extent of the blood staining.

  I plan to use that to my benefit tonight.

  Secretary of State Fosobik enjoys cutting. He has a loyal “handler” who arranges for young boys and girls to visit his room during these stays.

  And it’s not because he wants to play Uno or fucking Old Maid.

  No. Fosobik likes to rape them. He enjoys it even more if they’re “fresh” and maintain their full innocence. Watching as the light is snuffed from their eyes and terror replaces it is one of his favorite things.

  I know this firsthand.

  The cutting is a newer fetish for Fosobik, which I’m thankful for. He prefers to do a little beforehand and leave the bulk of it for afterward.

  That’s right. He enjoys raping children and cutting them in his spare time. Then he’ll waltz out of here, smug grin in place, and return to the White House to pretend he’s an upstanding citizen with a pristine record.

  What he doesn’t realize is, his hourglass is about to be drained of all sand.

  And I’m the motherfucking timekeeper.

  Chapter 45

  Kennedy

  Saturday

  “I have your extra towels, sir.” Projecting my voice over the music pumping through the suite, I roll the housekeeping cart farther inside.

  Sequentia from Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor plays its haunting melody. Evidently, Fosobik still prefers to listen to it on repeat as a prelude, crescendo, and finale to the vile acts he plans to commit.

  It’s a testament to how far I’ve dredged myself up from the abyss they buried me in that I don’t gag on bile rising up my throat. Because the scene is vividly emblazoned in my mind.

  He’d played this same song and had requested extra towels…for me.

  Although I hadn’t been a virgin, I “wasn’t broken in, just yet” and therefore had still been appealing to him. Those towels had been utilized. He’d been so rough with me that I bled for days afterward.

  Books and movies depicting a hero coming face-to-face with their own demons always seem so poetic. But it’s moments like this that show me the vast difference between writing something you’ve never experienced and that which you’ve endured and will never escape the memory of.

  “Ahh…thank you, young lady.” Fosobik’s smooth, cultured voice greets me when I venture further inside the suite.

  I don’t give a second glance at the knife lying on the coffee table a few feet away, the steel gleaming beneath the soft lighting. My attention veers to the little boy sitting on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up to his chest as if he’s trying to make himself small enough to become invisible.

  His chin is tucked down, hiding the focus of his downcast eyes. One finger absently toys with the outer edge of the Velcro strap of his expensive-looking shoes. He’s in that place already, where one goes when the monsters attack too violently.

  The only saving grace is that he’s still fully clothed. That means I got here in the nick of time.

  His father is a diplomat who should be made a eunuch for agreeing to be paid in return for “sharing” his son, Joaquin, with Fosobik. His five-year-old son.

  Five. Fucking. Years. Old.

  Molten rage bubbles through my veins like lava, but I force myself to maintain my façade.

  This child’s life depends on it.

  Carefully lifting the stack of neatly folded towels, I cradle them in my hands as I take in the sight before me.

  Still dre
ssed in his tailored suit but without his jacket, the Secretary of State’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to just beneath his elbows. The front is unbuttoned partway, revealing the hollow of his throat, the sides baring a fraction of his collarbone.

  Every molecule in my body goes rigid at the sight of that tattoo at his collarbone. It’s a design that’s been permanently etched in my memories.

  I recall fixating on it while my mind floated elsewhere in self-preservation to avoid the excruciating agony of what was being done to me.

  In my pair of French braids and makeup applied to make me appear younger, my innocent and schoolgirl exterior appeals to him immediately. The gleam of interest in his eyes makes that evident.

  Fosobik might prefer underage children, but he doesn’t bother to restrain himself from going after anything—anyone—who represents a challenge to him. And by challenge I mean someone who appears innocent and free of debauchery, someone much younger to his fifty-nine years.

  The younger, the better for Fosobik.

  “I’ll take those, thank you.”

  My feet eat up the space between us, stopping once I’m a mere four feet away. Holding his gaze, I paste a shy, closed-mouth smile on my face.

  A satisfied grin plays at his lips. “Ah, I see.” Eyes alight with arrogance, he peers down at me. “Young girls often fixate on older men like me.” He saunters closer. “A man in power.” Not giving two shits about impropriety or personal space, he stops only when we’re toe to toe.

  “You wanted an excuse to meet me in person.” He murmurs this in what he assumes is a sexy tone.

  It’s not. It’s the voice of a devil’s worker. Satan’s sidekick.

  He reaches out to grasp the end of one braid, and I nearly recoil at his touch. The very demon laying his hands on me has my skin crawling as if millions of fire ants are milling about. The urge to swat his hand away is fierce.