What was I doing? Letting him walk away?
My hand shook when I pulled my gun. Ridiculous.
I licked my lips and opened my mouth, but no words came out.
I watched my former police detective partner stroll down my street and out of sight. My knuckles were white when I looked down at my trembling hands as they gripped my service weapon. My breathing was so fast I was starting to get tingles around my lips. I sucked in a breath and held it, the empty street taunting me, accusing me, chastising me. My hands lowered, the gun pointing towards the path, and then my head was down and I was crouching; a silent scream reverberating inside my skull.
I couldn’t do it.
For the second time in just a few short weeks I let a murderer go.
I couldn’t do it.
And if I couldn’t do that, then what could I do?
I was a cop. It was my job. My life. And I couldn’t do it.
“Lara, love,” Damon said beside me. He was crouching too.
“I let him go,” I whispered. “Again.”
What was wrong with me?
“I let him go.”
“I know you did,” Damon said softly. Nothing else, just agreement. Confirmation that I had failed at my job.
Again.
“Put your gun away,” Damon instructed. I struggled to follow the command. “Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist and hauling me to my feet.
The world spun, but not because I was lightheaded. It spun because it was out of control.
Damon used my key to unlock the door. I entered the alarm code automatically, my mind twisting and turning and making no sense at all. If I didn’t know who I was, how could I know who the bad guys were? Clarity seemed a million miles away.
“What are wearing to this thing?” Damon asked, guiding me to my bedroom and depositing me on my bed. “It says black tie, but for a luncheon banquet it’s always a little more relaxed. I mean,” he went on, as though talking about banal dress codes would somehow erase what had just happened out on the small patch of grass in front of my home. “I could have bucked tradition and worn a lounge suit or even a business suit. As opposed to a dinner suit with black tie.”
Sometimes I forgot that Damon came from old money.
“You, on the other hand,” he went on, “could get away with any style of dress you desired. Spice things up a bit.”
“For luncheon?” I asked, eyebrow raised.
“Absolutely,” he shot back, rummaging through my wardrobe. “Of course,” he said after a few minutes of coming up with nothing, “it does help if you actually own a dress.”
I got up off the bed and wandered out into the hall, making my way to my spare bedroom. I could hear Damon’s soft footfalls on my wooden floorboards behind me. I swung open my second, more neglected, wardrobe and scanned the plastic wrapped dresses on offer.
Eenie meenie miney mo. “This one will do,” I announced, reaching forward and grabbing one of six identical white clothing bags.
I turned to find Damon watching me, arms crossed over expensive, made-to-measure dinner suit - with black bow tie - a small smile playing on his mesmerising lips.
“Your father?” he guessed. I nodded. “How long since you unpacked them?”
“They were professionally laundered and packaged.” I shrugged my shoulders, lying the garment bag on the bed and reaching down to unzip it. “It shouldn’t be too moth eaten.”
A chuckle sounded out as Damon leaned back against a set of drawers to watch.
It was the blue one. I’d forgotten about it. Sleeveless fitted bodice, bias cut skirt which flowed around my ankles when I moved. If I’d been a girlie girl it would have been my favourite. It shimmered and shone like a calm lake on a crisp winter’s morning. Instead I frowned at the dress and wondered where I was going to hang my badge and hide my gun.
Damon whistled when I lifted it out of the bag. It looked in excellent order. I’d worn it exactly once. It might not be in the correct fashion colour for the season, but it still looked beautiful. And if I knew my father, it would have dented his retirement fund significantly at the time.
“How old is it?” Damon asked, coming up to stand at my shoulder and peer down at the dress.
“It’s just a dress,” I argued. His head shook.
“I’m trying to figure out when in your relationship your father purchased this for you. I’m trying to understand how you could go from this to nothing for six whole years.”
I dropped the dress, letting it fall unceremoniously into a heap of luxuriant material on the bedspread.
“It’s just a dress,” I repeated, fisted hands on hips as I glared at him.
“Why do you do that?” he asked softly. “Why do you shut down when we talk about your dad?”
“Have you met my dad?”
“No.”
“Then hold that thought until we get there. I’ll introduce you.”
“But Lara…” I held up a hand for him to stop.
And when it looked like he wasn’t going to, I started to undress.
That shut him up pretty fucking fast.
I managed to get down to my cotton underwear when I realised I had a problem. I’d have to go without a bra. The fitted bodice would work quite well on its own, but going bra-less was not something I encouraged. At all. I stared at the bodice and then stared down at my still bra encased breasts.
God, had I grown? How old was this dress?
“Problem?” Damon asked cheerfully.
“I don’t know if it will fit,” I admitted.
Damon smiled. It was deliciously sexy, hinting at so many naughty, devious things.
“Shall we at least try?” he asked. “Time’s marching.” An old Carlism. Time’s marching, you better pick up the pace.
And it was. Not just the banquet, but the whole case. Carole Michaels disappeared over ten days ago. Samantha Hayes was murdered on Friday morning. The Boardman Lane assault had occurred just yesterday. Three seemingly separate crimes. Were they connected? And if so, what was going to come next?
Time was marching. Not because murder cases were usually solved within a few short hours. But because murder, missing persons, and an assault all within a few days of each other signified a larger picture. A larger crime. I had a bad feeling this wasn’t the end.
If they were related. And I needed to line up the dots to figure that out. And to do that, I needed to look at our suspects all in one room. See how they interacted. See who looked at who. Drop in a pertinent question or observation, and watch which one unravelled first.
I handed the dress to Damon and slipped out of my bra. He didn’t do anything as obvious as lick his lips, but his eyes did darken, the lids lowering ever so slightly. And something electrifying settled on the air. I lifted my gaze up to his and held it. I’m not sure why, but I seemed to see challenge there more and more often lately. But unlike the challenge he’d shown me over the past few days, daring me to sweep his missing sister under the rug and ignore the implications of her lifestyle and how it could relate to my case, this was heated.
A challenge we simply did not have time to explore.
I took the dress from his reluctant fingers and stepped into it, willing my hips to not have expanded too much in the past six to eight years. The dress slid over my waist with a rush of silk and relief, but before I could raise it to cover my breasts, Damon was there.
Hands holding me steady above my hips, stopping the dress from rising higher. Hot breath washing over a pebbled nipple, his eyes flicking up to mine as he slipped out his tongue and wrapped his lips around my already hardened peak. He sucked hard, eliciting an unexpected groan. And then my hips were pulled firmly against his own, trapping me with his body and hands, as his mouth devoured my breast, sending shock waves of deliciousness through my body, pooling between my legs.
He moved on to the neglected nipple, offering kisses and nibbles and then that powerful suck that seemed to be tied to the ce
ntre of me. Making my back arch and my hips grind and my breath rush out in little noisy pants. He hummed his pleasure against my skin. Sucking, biting, licking. And then when he was sure he’d brought me closer to the edge than anyone had ever managed with just his tongue and teeth and lips, he stepped back and left me swaying, waiting for me to catch my breath and cover my breasts.
He offered a carefree shrug of his shoulders, then straighted his jacket, and played with his cufflinks, as though he hadn’t just had his lips to my breasts and made me gush.
I pulled the dress up, giving him an amused look, and then turned for him to zip me up.
His fingers were hot and I could feel their rough tips as he dragged the zipper up slowly, drawing the moment out, sealing me away from his touch and sight, leaving me somewhat suitably presentable for a black tie event.
I still needed to redo my make-up, maybe throw a brush through my hair. But right then, looking presentable was the last thing on my mind.
The zip finished its torturous journey up my back. The dress felt too restrictive. I had filled out a little since I was in my early twenties. To be expected. I had a hell of a lot more muscle mass now days. I made a move to turn around and face him. Considering a kiss. A nip. Hell, I would have taken one more look from those dark and hungry eyes, I was so desperate for him.
But I didn’t make it. Damon’s hard hand landed in the middle of my back and he pushed me forward the few steps it took until I faced the wall by the wardrobe door. Excitement unfurled inside my stomach, my heart sped up, my breaths shallowed. I felt a fine sheen of sweat grace my skin.
“Hands shoulder width apart,” he whispered in my ear. “Spread your legs.”
I laughed. How could I not? Was he about to strip search me?
“I’m not being funny,” he murmured, running a hand down my side, following the contours of the dress, letting me know the outfit left nothing to the imagination. It fit like a second skin. It might have been in the most brilliant shade of crystalline blue, made of luxurious and decadent silk material, but its shape was all me.
“Beautiful,” he rasped behind me, after I’d placed my hands on the wall and spread my legs like he’d demanded. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the dress, to my figure as he stroked it through the material, or to my position.
“Not a word,” he murmured, his lips trailing over my exposed shoulder. “Not a sound. Can you do that?”
“Why?”
“Can you do it?” Of course I could, so I just nodded my head.
This was the new Damon. The one I hadn’t met when we’d dated all those months ago. The one I was introduced to in the past few weeks.
The one I feared I’d lost just this morning.
The edges of my dress were brought up slowly, both his hands fisting the material, bunching it up, heedless of creases, as he drew his knuckles across the outside of my legs. My underwear clad rear was exposed in short measure, and then he moved the fabric of the dress to one hand and slid his fingertip down the edge of my knickers.
He’d never complained about the perfunctory underwear I wore. But in this dress I suddenly felt exposed. I was not raised in the same world as Damon and his sister. I was not used to fine things or expensive tastes. He had them. I knew. But he managed to hide them behind his HEAT job and his love of fire engines and big SUVs.
Damon was male through and through, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste.
“It would be a shame,” he said as I heard the sound of his belt coming undone. “Not to celebrate you in a spectacular dress.”
“Damon, we don’t have time.”
His zip came down, then a firm hand gripped my waist, pulling my butt back towards him. He ground his erection against my rear, making me suck in a ragged breath.
“Quiet,” he growled. “I’ll talk. You listen.”
I nodded, falling into the sensation of his cock as it slid between my thighs, right in the cotton covered groove of my sex. I could feel the material getting damper. I could feel every ridge through the flimsy fabric that seemed too much right then.
“First,” Damon whispered, pulling my underwear aside, not bothering to remove it, “I’m going to finger you, coat my hand in your juices. Make you come from my touch alone.”
I nodded my head, letting it fall forward, hanging between my shoulders as I leaned my hands against the wall. In that strange release of all control I’d found myself doing lately whilst in bed with Damon, I simply followed his directives eagerly. I wondered briefly, if that made me submissive. If Mrs Gordon behaved like this with her husband behind closed doors. Shoes off, of course.
I suppressed a smile as Damon’s broad finger slipped down the wet crease between my legs. And then groaned loud as he dipped two digits inside, using his thumb to rub tiny circles over my clit.
Submissive or not, Damon knew how to get me to forget. To live in just his touch, the deep rumble of his voice in my ear. To cut off work, life, Carl, and just feel. Damon knew how to set me free and all it took was handing over a part of me I’d never given to another soul before.
“Then,” he went on, fingers pumping, thumb swirling, orgasm quickly approaching, “I’m going to make you suck my fingers as I slide my dick inside where they’ve just been.”
I jolted, surprised at his hungry tone, at his crude words. But not surprised at the response they elicited from me. My lips parted, my back bowed, my hands fisted on the wall, and with eyes closed I came around his fingers, riding the hard thrusts and firm sweep of his thumb, moaning load and long into the heated air of the room.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my shoulder. Then laid a kiss on my skin and slipped his hand out from between my legs.
Then fingers were at my lips, wet and tasting of me, and before I could close my mouth, catch my breath, the broad tip of his erection was entering me from behind, at the exact same time as his fingers claimed my mouth.
Fuck! I exploded. The sound coming from my mouth, lips wrapped firmly around his fingers, was animalistic. He rocked into me with such force my breasts hit the wall. One hand held my hip steady, hard fingers bruising skin, the other hooked over my lower jaw, turning my head to the side, fingers still between my lips.
His eyes met mine as he rocked and pumped and fucked me in my spare bedroom. He didn’t look away once. In that second, he owned me. Completely. In that second, I wasn’t a police detective. I wasn’t the daughter of a cop. I wasn’t the woman who pulled a gun on a suspect and read him his rights.
I wasn’t the girl who pined after her mentor and then let him walk away from justice because she was weak.
I was his. And I was free. Powerful. Full. Feeling, loving, living.
And not thinking of another fucking thing than just this.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“You can deny anything to anyone, Sport. But you can’t deny the truth to yourself.”
We were late. The banquet would have already started. Wheeling and dealing and political ladder climbing all over a five course luncheon, with light entertainment on the side, had to be well underway. Cheques were no doubt being written, handshakes given, deals struck. In the end it would be debatable who would benefit the most from an event like this. It raised awareness, sure, but it was stuck in the quagmire of someone else’s cogs.
And we were late.
“I’m not going to apologise,” Damon announced, as he manoeuvred the car into the Civic multi-storied parking garage. “That’s the best midday fuck we’ve had yet.” As though he had every intention of repeating it and bettering it.
I doubted he could. I still had tingles between my thighs from that last orgasm, when he’d moved his fingers from between my lips and dragged them wet and hot and slippery down my throat to cup a breast. His breath had been ragged, exertion and arousal making it difficult to consume enough air. He’d groaned into my shoulder as his hips rocked and his cock pounded and his release felt hard and hot and everywhere.
In short, he’d been magnific
ent. And then he’d pulled out, replaced my pathetic underwear and slightly crumpled skirt, and spun me around to kiss the ever loving crap out of me. The kiss had lasted as long as the sex. And had been almost as orgasmic.
But now we were here. To work. And all thoughts of hot, powerful, take-no-prisoners fucking was out. We had to focus.
“Arriving late isn’t such a bad thing,” I said, as I put my cellphone to my ear, having seen I had a waiting voice-mail message. I’d forgotten about it. Like I’d forgotten about Carl and what I had done. Again. Which had been Damon’s intention, I was sure. Well, that and fucking me while I was in a dress. “It’ll give the appearance of relaxation, which is hardly what you’d associate with police business.”
Damon parked the car and as the voice-mail played the engine quieted enough for me to hear my caller’s breaths.
Female. Definitely. And she was scared. The breaths short and shallow. The hitched gasps high and desperate. I know fear. I’ve felt it, seen it, witnessed it in others. I know it as well as I know myself. This woman, this silent caller, was petrified.
And I suddenly wished I’d pushed her, pressed for more. Because if this was who I now suspected it to be, I might be too late to help.
“What is it?” Damon asked, as I played the message a second time, trying to determine background noises and anything that might tell me where she was calling from.
No words. Not even a voice to be sure. But my stomach twisted and my heart thumped and a sick feeling settled inside my gut.
Damn it. Why hadn’t I put two and two together?
There wasn’t enough to go on. Barely a sound coming from her lips. I shut the phone off and stared at it in my hand, as it rested on my pale blue dress skirt.
“Lara?”
How did I tell him? How did I tell him I’d been receiving anonymous phone calls from his missing sister for over a week? How did I admit to my lover that I had let him down? Drastically.
“Lara, love. You’re worrying me.”
“It’s nothing,” I said in a fit of understated treachery that he would surely see through in a second flat. “Just Cawfield being a dick.”
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