And Alex did not give a damn. All she cared about was Frank’s cock. So deep. So good . . .
* * *
Frank watched Alex come, crying out, her beautiful face wearing an expression of blind pleasure he found every bit as arousing as the tight grip of her cunt. Which was saying a lot, because her pussy felt so good, he was hanging on to his self-control by his ragged fingernails. He’d managed to roll her into a ball that made her feel even tighter than she normally was. And delicious little sub that she was, she loved being so thoroughly helpless—held down and fucked.
God knew he loved doing it to her. Watching those pretty breasts bounce with his deep thrusts, red hair flying around her face as she tossed her head in helpless reaction. The way she pulled the hand that pinned both her wrists to the sleeping bag, as if trying to escape.
And failing.
Oh, Jesus God, it was hot.
Screaming, she used her strong thighs to lift her contorted body and grind against him. That kicked him right over. Fire streamed out of his tormented balls and up the length of his cock in hot pulses. That snug little pussy clamped around his cock, her silken body grinding against his with such surprising strength . . .
Lust and pleasure beating at his brain, he came and came and came.
When the storm was finally over, they were both sweat-slick and shaking. His heart banged furiously in his chest as he hung his head, gasping as he tried to gather enough strength to pull away. Managing it at last, Frank groaned as he drew his cock carefully out of her pussy so as not to lose the condom. “You’ll be the death of me yet, woman.” He sat back on his heels and pulled his toy bag closer, so he could slide the used condom into a Ziploc bag he carried for that purpose. Grinning up at her, he added, “But it’ll take the mortuary three days to get the grin off my face.”
Alex wrinkled her nose at him. “Eeeew.”
“Yeah, deal with it. You okay?” He studied her as he remembered the merciless way he’d fucked her. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“God, no.” She sat up on the blanket, using one hand to sweep her hair out of her face. “Though I didn’t see that many stars the last time I got hit in the head with a beer bottle.” Noticing his lifted brows, she added, “Typical haul-the-drunks-to-jail Saturday night.”
“Ah,” he said, though the idea of somebody slamming a bottle upside that pretty face made him want to kick some ass. “Hope you Tasered the son of a bitch.”
“I didn’t, but Ted did. God, he was pissed.” Pain at the memory flashed in her lovely eyes. Her grief made something hot twist in Frank’s chest.
They got dressed, though they had to search for one of her boots—he’d thrown it harder than he’d thought. Finally, decently attired in boots and camies, and still feeling deliciously wrung out, they started back toward the house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bruce lay in his sniper’s nest, utterly still as Daddy had taught him. His face pressed against the cool stock of the rifle, gazing through the scope with all the patience of a lion at a water hole. He’d wanted to get close enough to watch Alex and her lover fuck, but he didn’t trust his ability to move silently in all those dead leaves. Murphy was a big bastard; if things went sideways, Bruce wasn’t confident he could take him out. Too many things could go wrong. He had no interest in the humiliation of an arrest.
He frowned, reminded just how close he’d come to getting caught a couple of hours ago. He’d broken in to Ted’s house to get his camera. He’d just pulled it off the wall when he heard a car pull up. He’d had to leap out the bedroom window and run like hell. Luckily he’d parked his personal car a couple of streets over, or Tracy would have spotted it and had him then.
But he hadn’t been caught. He was safe, which meant he still had a chance to kill Alex. She was the one who’d betrayed him, had lied and laughed at him. She was as guilty of tarnishing her badge as Arlington.
But more important, her death would kill the Coach and his wife. Bruce vividly remembered sitting with the Rogers family in the Harrison High stands nine years ago, watching Alex run in a track meet. When she’d won, Ken’s face had glowed with pride. He hadn’t looked that delighted when Tim, his eldest son, made the winning touchdown in the state championship.
When Bruce killed her, his father would finally be avenged.
* * *
Leaves crunched underfoot as Alex and Frank walked through the woods, headed toward his house. A pleasant breeze hissed through the trees, cooling their sweating skin. Alex used the wipe he’d handed her to scrub off the camouflage paint he left on her skin in fingerprints and smears, a dappled trail of their erotic play. “That was a really good scene.” She shot him a smile. “I can’t remember the last time I got so turned on.” She paused, and let her smile grow sly. “With the possible exception of the last time we played.”
He grinned down at her, scrubbing at his own face with the wipe he held. “We do have pretty good chemistry. There’s something about these little wrestling matches that gets me turned on every time.”
“I noticed.” She flicked a glance below his belt and leered playfully.
As they stepped onto the house’s broad lawn, Frank grinned down at her. “What do you want to do for our next—” His head snapped around, shooting a glance over his shoulder before he grabbed her and dove behind a massive oak that shaded the backyard. The bruising impact knocked the breath out of her. Frank wrapped himself around her like a human blanket, his arms encircling her head, his own head tucked against her neck. Before she could demand what the hell he thought he was doing, a shot cracked over their heads. Alex yelped as he cursed, curling tighter around her.
Someone’s shooting at us, Alex realized with a blood-chilling rush of fear. Frank’s shielding me. “Is it the same asshole who killed Ted?”
“Don’t know. I think I’ll shoot the fucker and ask his corpse.” He reached into the toy bag he still had hooked over an arm and pulled out his Glock as another shot whined past.
Who carries a weapon in his toy bag? She grimaced. Somebody a hell of a lot better prepared than me.
Frank ducked around the tree to fire. The gun boomed over her head once, twice, three times. In the distance, a man cursed, and brush and leaves rustled, limbs crackling and snapping as someone raced away. Frank’s weight vanished from atop her as he catapulted himself after the shooter, legs eating up ground. His gun thundered again.
“Dammit, Frank!” Alex lunged to her feet, but before she could sprint after him, she remembered she didn’t have her gun. Whirling, she sprinted toward her car and the Glock in the Honda’s glove compartment. It was a damned good thing she never went anywhere without her weapon. It just hadn’t occurred to her she’d need it when she was actually sceneing.
Goddammit.
Now if only Frank doesn’t get himself shot before I can back him up. As she ran for the car, Alex thrust a hand into her pants pocket and dragged out her smartphone to dial 911. “Dispatch, Charlie 21! Officers under fire! Requesting backup at 362 Lighthorse Street.” She juggled the phone into her left hand and used the right to dig her keys out of her pants pocket. The Honda chirped at her as she thumbed the key fob. Jerking the car door open, Alex dove inside, popped open the glove compartment, and grabbed her gun. “We’re pursuing an armed suspect into the woods behind the house.” She slammed the door and whirled to pound in the direction Frank had taken into the trees.
“Description?” dispatch demanded.
“Haven’t gotten a look at him yet,” she panted as she flew across the lawn. “Fired at us twice . . . as we walked . . . out of the woods. Didn’t see the . . . weapon . . . sounded like a deer rifle.” She’d gone hunting often enough to recognize the weapon’s distinctive sound.
“Nearest unit is ten minutes out.”
“10-4, dispatch.” Alex stuffed the phone into a pocket without turning it off, which would allow dispatch to make an audio recording of whatever was happening. She poured on the speed until she was bounding ove
r the ground faster than she ever had during those long-ago track meets, leaping bramble bushes and shoving through tree branches as she went.
There were no more shots. God, what if Frank’s been hurt? Sick fear iced her veins as she increased her speed even more, sucking air desperately as she flung herself through the trees without even noticing the lash of branches and or the brush tearing at her hair and clothes.
Somewhere ahead of her she heard the roar of a car accelerating away, followed by Frank’s vicious cursing. Her heart lifted in sheer relief. He wasn’t dead.
But he might still be hurt.
Alex leaped out of the woods to find Frank standing in the middle of a narrow road, his weapon pointed skyward, staring in impotent fury up the road as a car’s engine roared away. He did not appear to be injured. He was, however, really, really pissed. “I’m going to get you, motherfucker,” Frank yelled. “I swear to God, I’m going to skullfuck you to death!”
“Did you get the tag number?” Alex asked, hoping desperately there was something, anything, that might let them catch Ted’s killer.
“No, goddammit. The fucking tag was so covered with mud I couldn’t see shit.” He thumbed the safety on and jammed his Glock into his waistband at the small of his back.
Alex did the same and fished her cell phone out of her pants pocket. She hadn’t hung up. “I have 911 on the line. Do you have a description?”
“He was wearing camo pants and a long-sleeve shirt, plus a baklava and gloves. I couldn’t get hair or skin color. I know one thing, bastard runs like a jackrabbit. Drove a late-model sedan, dark blue or black, so mud-splattered he must off-road in it.”
Alex relayed the description to dispatch, then broke off to ask, “What street is this?”
“Francis Marion Drive. He was headed east.” Frank turned and stalked back into the woods. Alex could almost see the fury boiling off him like heat on summer pavement.
Again she relayed the information. Satisfied that they were no longer in immediate danger, she ended the call and followed him.
“You and Ted pissed anybody off lately?” He caught a branch and held it aside it so it wouldn’t smack her in the face.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve told Ben Tracy every time he asked that question. We’re the PoPo, Frank. We piss people off all the time.” She shot him a searching look. “So you think the same guy who killed Ted just shot at us? I’d thought it might be, but . . .”
“It’s possible. We won’t know for sure unless we can find that bullet for comparison to the one that killed Ted.” He lengthened his stride until she had to hurry to keep up.
* * *
Failed.
He’d failed utterly. His father would have put him through a wall.
Angrily, Bruce swiped away tears of anguish, shame, and rage as he drove. He’d had Alex in his sights. All he’d had to do was squeeze the trigger. But he’d pussied out.
He’d looked at her bright head in the crosshairs, and he’d remembered the taste of her mouth, the feel of her young body moving under his as they’d made love. Even though she’d said he hurt her that first time, it had been magic to him. She’d been so fucking tight, so perfect. He’d never felt so close to another human being. And then he’d seen the tears and realized the expression on her face was pain. Hurt, he’d said something stupid, and she’d bloodied his nose for him.
Their entire fucking relationship in a nutshell.
Maybe he could have shot her if that had been the only thing he’d remembered. But then there’d been the warm strength of her arms around him, holding him as she’d cried for his mother—and for him. He had hated everyone else’s expressions of sympathy, but not Alex’s. Alex hadn’t made him feel ashamed. No other woman in almost a decade had been able to touch him the way she had.
Remembering that moment, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to pull the trigger. His head had dropped forward in frustration and self-disgust. Not much. Maybe an inch. Her fucking SEAL had still spotted the motion. The bastard had knocked her flat and covered her with his body. He hadn’t even hesitated.
They’ll call him a hero, Bruce had thought. She’ll see him as her hero. Him, not me.
The idea had pissed him off so much, he’d fired twice. Unfortunately, he’d been so shaken, he’d missed both times. By then, Murphy was up and running, and he’d realized he’d better haul ass or Frank would put a bullet in him. Not that he didn’t deserve it after the day’s multiple fuckups.
The next time he had Alex in his sights, he’d by God fire. He wouldn’t pussy out again.
Alex is dead. She just doesn’t know it yet.
* * *
Frank found the sniper nest at the edge of the woods bordering the house, more or less where he expected to. The signs were faint, but he knew what he was looking for, and he found it: broken plant stems and crushed leaves where the shooter had lain. The area was screened from the yard by ferns, beech redbay, and great rhododendron. He pointed them out to Alex. “He moved and the plants here rustled. Otherwise I’d have had no warning.”
Alex stared at the nest, her expression grim. “You saved my ass, Frank. I didn’t hear a damn thing.” Visibly shaking off the fear, she gave him a narrow, searching look. “You must have ears like a bat.”
He shrugged. “This isn’t the first time a sniper’s shot at me.”
“The thing that bothers me is, if it’s the same guy who shot Ted, how did he know we were going to be here?” Alex looked at him, her green gaze fierce. “I didn’t even know until we . . .” Her eyes widened. “The car. He bugged the car! That’s where we talked about this.” She turned and started toward the house.
Frank frowned and followed. “You mean your patrol car?”
“Yeah. I’m going to have to go back home and search it.”
He caught her arm before she could take another step. “Not without backup, you don’t. Besides, that’s the crime scene investigator’s job. You don’t mess with a potential crime scene.”
She threw him a look over her shoulder, a hint of rebellion in her gaze. Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t argue. “Yeah, all right. Good point.”
He glanced back at the sniper’s nest, eyes narrowing. “In the meantime, we need to locate the bullet he fired at me.”
“Isn’t that CSI’s job?” She smirked.
“I’m not going to dig the bullet out, Alex. I’m just going to locate it.”
“Because the CSI, clearly, can’t.”
He gave her a narrow look. “Because the CSI is not the one who got shot at, and therefore isn’t as aware of shot angles as the guy with the bull’s-eye on his ass.”
“Yet another good point.”
“I have a lot of those—at least one of ’em on the end of my dick.”
“I am fond of that one.”
But Frank was staring along the path the bullet must have followed, based on the sniper’s nest and where they’d been standing when the bastard fired at them. Sure enough, he thought he could see a tiny dark something on the outer wall of the house. He started in that direction warily, sweeping his gaze over the lawn and surrounding woods, acutely aware that Alex followed him.
There was no guarantee the sniper wouldn’t return and take another shot at one or both of them. Even if he didn’t come back today, Frank thought it was likely they’d get targeted sooner or later; they’d humiliated the bastard. Not only had they survived, they’d driven him off. The prick who’d murdered Ted and painted bigoted slurs all over his car wasn’t the type to take that kind of thing lying down.
The first patrol vehicles rolled up just as he located the first bullet hole. Other units followed, deputies spilling out wearing grim expressions, eyes wary. The idea someone might be actively hunting cops had obviously put everybody on high alert.
Sergeant Diane Gaffney arrived and organized the mob of cops to search for evidence and interview the neighbors. After the teams dispersed, she joined Frank and Alex as he pointed out the bullet holes for
the CSI.
“Damn, Rogers, you just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” she asked Alex.
“It’s my sunny personality,” Alex said dryly. “Inspires love from all who know me.”
“Nah, that’s the tits,” Frank said. The CSI snickered.
Gaffney shot him a menacing look. “What was that, Murphy?”
He blinked in exaggerated innocence. “What was what, Sergeant?”
“The blatant sexual harassment, noob.”
He turned to Alex. “Was that sexual harassment, Rogers?”
“Nope,” she said serenely, “just a statement of fact.”
The CSI, cackling, almost lost his balance and fell against the wall he was trying to dig the bullet from.
Gaffney glared him into silence before turning back to Frank and Alex. “So what the hell happened?”
They filled her in—except for the sex—finishing with Alex’s suspicion that her car had been bugged.
“So go get the car and let’s find out,” Gaffney told her.
“I could follow her over there,” the CSI volunteered. Jerry Mathews was a round little man just short of forty, with sandy blond hair and intelligent hazel eyes. He wore green fatigues with CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATOR in white block letters across the back.
“No, I want you here to bag any evidence we manage to find. Besides, she’ll be back with the car before you finish the scene anyway.”
“I’d like to go with her in case she needs backup,” Frank said. “He might decide to take another shot at her.”
“God, I hope not.” Grimacing, Gaffney waved a hand. “Okay, go on. Faster you get back, faster we can get the hell out of here. My shoulder blades are starting to itch.” When Frank raised an eyebrow, she added sourly, “Ted wasn’t the only Morgan County deputy flying the rainbow flag. I’d just as soon not hang around until somebody tries to force-feed me a bullet.”
Frank, Alex, and Mathews all winced.
* * *
Alex and Frank drove to her house and picked up the patrol car without incident, though her shoulder blades were itching as hard as the sergeant’s by the time they headed back.
Without Restraint Page 16
