It had been like this from the start. From the very first time he'd attended a case I was working and stole not only my breath away, but the control of the scene as well. We'd argued. He'd insisted HEAT was qualified to lead the investigation. I'd told him to get off his pedestal and enter the real world. He was there under the direction of the Police and no one else. He'd dogged my steps, questioning absolutely every finding I made, occasionally offering valid counterpoints. Initially I'd pulled each one apart, but by the time we'd finished dissecting the scene, we'd miraculous ended up in accord.
And then when I went to leave, he'd asked me out. I was so shocked, I'd said yes. Clearly I'd impressed him, or he'd been excited by the fight. Our first date was much the same, we argued, but by now it was just to feel the fire. When he kissed me goodnight on the doorstep of my home, that fire had flared into something so bright and heated, I'd known then and there that Damon Michaels would be in my life. And he had been, for three glorious, soul shattering, body shaking, heart palpitating months.
Until I walked past a restaurant in Mission Bay, about to question a shop owner who'd been robbed, when I saw him. Sitting, hunched over an intimate table, holding the hand of a frail, young woman. Looking directly into her eyes with absolute adoration.
I'd almost given myself away, my steps faltering, my stomach and heart clenching with a deep, terrible ache. He'd told me he was spending the night in. For some reason the lie hurt more than the betrayal.
If I'd needed a pep talk in keeping things professional inside that club, I'd just found the mother of all reminders of why that was imperative for more reasons than one. For once in my life I didn't push the memory away. I grasped it, pulled it close, let the remembered pain fill me, and walked across that carpark with my head held high.
It had been a monumental mistake letting Damon get close again, but I'd use his connections to this sex club scene to gain the evidence I needed, and then I'd walk away for good.
Damon handed over our invitations, his hand still heating the base of my spine, his chest running down my right arm, warmth spreading out wherever he touched. I almost laughed out loud. Your mind can be thinking one thing, while your body is saying to hell with that. My body wanted what my mind knew I shouldn't crave.
The bouncer welcomed us to the event - his words - asked us to behave cordially, to not remove another's mask, and to not start any fights. And that was that. All the rules the back room of Zero Gravity had. It seemed so simplistic, it was almost beautiful. "Enjoy yourselves," was his parting shot.
We walked through the door and down a dark hallway, pictures of scantily clad men and women adorned the wall. All of the faces in shadow, or hidden behind props and masks. All of them caught in a sexual act. Their faces may have been obscured, but some decidedly private areas were on display. The further we walked, the more explicit the scenes, until we reached the entrance to the room itself and the images were burned on my brain for all eternity. Any porn website would have been proud of the last few, I was sure.
I checked for other doors or areas that would lead further into the club itself, but the hallway was contained, and for the sole purpose of delivering the back door attendees to the back room itself. There was no staff room, no storage room, and no door marked main club. Those no doubt existed, but this part of the building was cut off from the rest. It would also probably be our main exit, so being free of potential hazards was possibly good.
My first thought upon entering the back room at Zero Gravity was that I was definitely overdressed. My second, that the place must have been refurbished since the last time Damon was here, because it wasn't dark and mysterious as such. It was instead bathed in a combination of mauves, oranges, yellows and reds. The lighting graduating up from the plush loop pile carpeted floor where it was a lighter violet, into the middle part of a raised staged area where it became rust and gold, until it darkened again near the ceiling in a deep purple/black.
There were mirrors, but not complete walls of them, just the odd strategically located one, angled, showing the rest of the room from the recline of a leather sofa, or above a padded altar-like bench. Leather restraints dotted the peripheries, some of them occupied already. Whips and paddles hung invitingly, I suppose, at certain spots throughout the room. A strippers pole stood off to the side, a woman lazily entwined around it. Someone was strapped to a rack, my eyes diverted before I could stop them, from the scene of a woman sucking the cock of her prisoner, while a man circled his back with a crop.
The bar was at one end, lit up in the sunset colours of the stage, mirrors adorned the wall behind two barmen, both of which wore masks and no shirts. There was leather and lace, mostly in black, some silk and satin, but all of it short and barely there. And there was music, heady, haunting and I had to admit sensual, filling your ears, complementing the cries of pleasure, counterpoint to the yells of pain.
I stood frozen, several feet inside the room, Damon just as awestruck as me, I think, at my back. The smell of sex and alcohol, and maybe an incense of some sort, wafting on the air.
"We're not in Remuera anymore," I muttered, which must have shaken Damon out of his fugue. His hot hand landed on my waist as he turned us away from the stage, probably thinking of finding a spot less conspicuous to observe from.
We didn't make it. A woman and a man approached. She was wearing underwear; a g-string and a bra that allowed her nipples to show above the black fir trimmed cup. He was wearing what I can only describe as a torture device; a strip of black leather that secured his package, lifting it all up snug between his thighs, emphasising the erection he was sporting as it ran up his stomach, following the path of the material as it covered the centre of his torso, right up to his neck. The strip of leather wrapped around his nape, holding the whole thing in place.
It was eye catching, more so than the furry bra. Or at least it was for me, I'm not so sure about Damon, I was too captivated to look.
"Wanna come and play?" the woman purred, the guy nodded enthusiastically. "We can help you loosen up, enjoy yourselves a bit more."
I opened my mouth to reply, God knows what was on the tip of my tongue, when Damon beat me to it. His arm wrapped around my body, across my stomach and up to my breast, where he proceeded to cup me with his palm. I fell back against his chest, I'm unsure if it was to escape his wanton touch, or because he willed it that way.
"Maybe later," Damon murmured, his voice several octaves deeper than normal, and right by my ear. "This one needs to learn a lesson first."
What?
The woman sniggered, the man licked his lips. "I'm good with the cat," he said a little too eagerly.
"So am I," Damon announced, turning us away from the couple and towards a corner of the room.
We managed to make it unmolested, Damon sitting down on a sofa, directly beneath a mirror on the wall. Despite the surreal introduction, I was pleased he was thinking clearly and had chosen a place where I could straddle him and watch the room at large. It was perfect. We'd appear busy, but I'd be able to see everything.
Until he forced me to the floor between his legs, face set, hand firm on my wrist. The air left my lungs as my knees found the surprisingly soft carpet, and then he purposely placed my hands on his thighs and held them there. His eyes were dark, intense, and looking directly at me and not the rest of the room.
"We're being watched," he said, barely moving his lips. "For this to work, you need to let me be the one in charge."
I frowned, opened my mouth to argue, when he leaned down towards me, cupped my chin with his hand and ordered, "Stroke my thighs like you mean it."
Then kissed me hard.
Chapter Nineteen
"Don't fuck this up!"
I may have stroked a little too forcefully. Damon just bit my bottom lip.
"Hey!" I managed in a muffled voice, only to feel his hand curve over my butt cheek and use that hold to pull me up on my knees.
He kept kissing me too, not letting me up for ai
r. His fingers kneading my butt, making the material rise up higher and higher until I was sure the curve of my cheek could be seen by the rest of the room. Heat flooded my face, made me suck in a sharp, annoyed breath of air through my nose. My hands lifted from his thighs to his chest, in preparation of pushing him back.
He broke the kiss, leaving the hand on my arse where it was and bringing his free one up into my tousled hair. He gripped the strands tightly, but not too painfully, tipping my head back on my neck.
He ran a hot, wet tongue up the line of skin from my collarbone to my ear, and then whispered, "And now we're not being watched. We've passed the test."
I closed my eyes and fisted my hands in his shirt, then asked, "Is my arse on display?"
His head rose slightly to look over my shoulder, a small amused glint flashing in amongst the dark brown. He stared at a spot some distance across the room, I was picking it was a mirror, and then started to stroke the skin of my exposed butt cheek, a rough sound rumbling up from his chest.
"Damon," I chastised.
"Sorry." He didn't sound too sorry. "Got carried away. Why don't you climb on up here and then you can start watching the room in the mirror at my back."
He had chosen the spot with care, it alleviated some of the panic I'd begun to feel. I rose unsteadily to my feet, ashamed that I had reacted at all to his little distraction scene. To my horror, my dress rode up higher on each thigh as I positioned myself above his lap, my knees bracketing his hips.
A vibration started up in his chest, amusement plain to see on his face, as he gripped my waist and hauled me flush against him, then pushed down until I was straddling his groin, g-string to jeans. He was rock hard beneath them.
I didn't move, fearful that it would start a humping session neither of us would be able to stop. Damon seemed a little still as well.
"Can you see the bar?" he asked, voice strained.
Oh, yeah. The bar.
I settled into my position, trying to look relaxed, and glanced over his shoulder, orienting myself to the room in the mirror. I had to shift slightly, change my angle, but eventually I had a fairly clear line of sight from where we sat, across the raised stage, to the brightly lit bar and the two barmen tossing bottles and serving drinks.
Damon started stroking down my back, seemingly lazy circles of his palm over the lace. His hips moved once, followed by a decidedly wretched groan, and then he settled, almost sinking into the seat beneath him, nuzzling his face into the side of my neck, but not actually doing anything more.
I let a slow breath of air out. Felt him do the same. Then tried to ignore the performance on display centre stage and concentrated on the drinks being served.
"The barmen are apparently called Jason Berkhardt and Tane Collins," I whispered, loud enough to be heard over the thud of music and occasional sound of ecstasy, but not so loud as to carry to the closest couple near us. "I can't really tell them apart, though."
The surveillance photos I had seen showed fully clothed men, both with the same dark, short hair, and blue eyes. I couldn't see the colour of their eyes from here, and their haircuts looked identical. The masks hiding the structure of their cheeks, making identification impossible.
"Tane Collins is the one on our right," Damon replied, voice hard.
I went to pull back and get a look at his expression, but he held me firmly in place and softly, almost incongruously, kissed my cheek.
"You know him," I said, instead.
"Well enough." Interesting. And perhaps an indication of how often he frequented this place.
I sat watching, my mind reeling with possible scenarios, all of which weren't helping this case. I cursed myself internally, tried to refocus on the here and now, and not ask the questions blaring inside my head.
After several minutes my heart had slowed enough to allow intelligent thought.
"They're both very quick," I murmured. "Almost putting on a show, but it could be to hide a slight of hand."
The bottles flew, twisting and turning above them, arcing through the air and catching the lights. Rather like that movie Tom Cruise was in.
"We managed to get a sample of the alcohol just before delivery," I added. "All were clear of benzodiazepines." The drug used for date rapes.
Damon continued to stroke my back, alternating his movements with the odd cup of my breast or butt, all of it an act and mechanically carried out. The longer we were here, the easier it was to do this. Both of us falling into a routine while I observed. Slightly detached from the act.
"You said it was most likely carried out pre-shelving," Damon whispered right in my ear. For all intents and purposes, looking like he was nibbling on the lobe.
"I'm wondering if we were wrong," I admitted. "The show masks the administration, otherwise you'd have everyone drugged."
"Good point, they pick their quarry."
"But what's their criteria, and why haven't they acted on it yet?"
He shook his head against my cheek, then returned his face into the curve of my neck and shoulder.
"It's early," I offered, almost thinking aloud now. "The room's not packed."
"It will be soon," Damon countered. "We'll probably lose our clear line of sight."
Good point. I bit my lip in frustration, already scouting for another spot closer to the bar we could use. Several minutes ticked by, the couple on the stage - different from the trio that had been there initially - both finding their release, the crowd appreciative, but not overtly applauding. The man unbuckled the woman from the bench, rubbing his hands up and down her limbs to return circulation, then almost carried her away as she leaned heavily against him, a stupid, satisfied grin on her lips.
Within seconds of vacating the prime spot, yet another couple walked up on the stage.
"I can't believe so many people want to put on a show," I commented, dumbfounded by their lack of modesty.
"They're wearing masks," Damon murmured against my skin. "They can pretend they're someone else."
The question was out before I even consciously thought it.
"Was it like this the last time you were here?"
The hand on my back stilled, the one currently scrunched up in my hair tightened, then abruptly released. A second later, he resumed his movements.
"No," he whispered. "It wasn't a mystique night, there weren't as many on centre stage."
His voice was rough and uneven. I couldn't decide if it was memories making him sound turned on, or if he was just uncomfortable talking about it with me. I ran a hand over my face, clearing my vision, but not my head. This was like a mountain between us, something we should climb over to make it to the other side, but neither of us willing to take the risk. Knowing we'd not reach our goal unscathed.
Weighted silence stretched between us, I was hardly aware of what the barmen were doing, only superficially watching, my vision more inside my head. The music pulsed around us. Sighs and moans escalated on the air. Sweaty, heated bodies rose the temperature in the room, making it seem musky and humid, and a little bit like I'd envision hell.
How could he have enjoyed this? How could he have wanted to be watched, without a mask, while sharing an intimate moment with someone else? Maybe it wasn't intimate. Maybe it was just an act of release. But why? I wasn't concerned why anyone else did it. Each to their own. But Damon? He hadn't once mentioned this lifestyle. Not once in the three months he'd spent in my bed.
"How many times?" I asked, skipping that whole brain/mouth connection.
He let a long sigh out, it sounded frustrated, as though this was the last thing he wanted to discuss.
"Lara," he started, just as I thought I saw the barman currently opening an RTD make a false move.
"Hold on. We might have something," I interrupted. I narrowed my eyes, tried to determine if what I had seen was indeed his wrist twisting above the neck of the bottle, while his back was to the bar. The movement reflected in the mirror behind it, then reflected in the mirror at Damon's back.
The barman had already turned back to the waiting woman. A petite blonde in a leather miniskirt and barely there halter top. She was shapely, and although her face was covered in a mask, she looked pretty. Her smile sexy, but still sweet. Her laugh captivating those around her.
She was also alone.
Accepting the drink, she offered one last smile and word to the barman and then headed off to a vacant seat on the periphery and sat herself down. Tucking her legs up on the sofa under her pert little butt, she took a sip of her Bacardi Breezer. My eyes darted from her to the barman, who didn't seem to be watching his quarry at all. Too busy tossing bottles, making jokes, and smiling at a muscle bound, bare chested male now.
"Maybe I'm wrong," I muttered.
"Has anyone actually filed an official complaint?" Damon asked, back to stroking down my spine and cupping various parts of my anatomy. Any other situation and it would have been sexy and spontaneous, now it just felt a little like it sounded. Perfunctory and calculated.
"One, but she recanted. Most of it has been word of mouth on the street."
"Trusted sources?" Damon queried, and despite the murders of several of mine and Carl's recently I didn't bite his head clear off.
Simply replied, "Eagle." Which said everything I needed to say.
Damon must have agreed, because he murmured an, "Ah." And then added, "So, that's why you're still watching the woman like a hawk."
"Exactly." Eagle didn't often put me wrong, but he could have been played as well. Someone setting him up to offer tainted information to me.
Everything was so convoluted right now. Connections within connections, some thin, some thick, some just from that feeling I get in my gut. I still wasn't sure if this club scene was associated with the deaths. But stranger things had happened, and now I was here. So, I was determined to follow the leads and see where they went.
H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3) Page 18
