by Trisha Wolfe
Caught off guard, she directs a lethal glare my way. “That’s unethical.”
I slide my chair forward and, sitting back down, kick her ankles apart. “Wide.”
Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breathing labored. With more reserve than I feel, London casually inches her skirt up and parts her knees.
“Wider,” I say, voice thick.
She spreads her thighs until her knees nearly touch the armrests.
I lick my lips as I take in every inch of her exposed skin, feeling no shame. “I want to talk to Lydia only.”
A tense tremor of lust crackles the air. Just her exposed position makes every word I say suggestive, erotic. Evoking the emotions London is trying to suppress.
“Recently,” I say, “I conducted an important meeting with a man who’s working the crime scenes in Rockland.”
Her eyes widen. “Grayson, what—?”
“Listen,” I cut her off. “I’m talking to Lydia right now. She would never interrupt me, would she?”
I like this would never game. It’s useful.
The column of her throat drags upward in a hard swallow. “No manipulation,” she says.
“I would never harm you.” I admire London’s intelligence too much to try to twist her in that way. “I just want to get to know Lydia. Understand this side of you. It’s important to me.”
She concedes with a nod.
“Take off your suit jacket.”
This time, she complies without resistance. She removes her jacket and drapes it across the back of her chair.
“The second murder in Rockland has helped narrow the suspect pool,” I say.
She blinks rapidly. “How did you select the victim?”
“I didn’t. The copycat did.”
She narrows her gaze, uncertain.
“You thought it was me,” I say, reverent. Her guarded behavior makes sense now.
London lifts her chin. “I wasn’t sure, to be honest. The time between murders seemed too quick. The method was easily enough mimicked, more simplistic—” she licks her lips “—but it was also more impulsive, personalized. I thought the copycat would need more time to be sure it was you before making a move.”
I tilt my head. “If you thought it was me, then you must’ve been worried. Nervous that I’d give us away.”
“Your compulsion to torture and take life will always dominate you,” she says coldly.
“Regardless of us,” I add.
“Regardless of anyone or anything, but yes.”
I study her closer. Look for her tells. “And if I was devolving, what lengths would you go to in order to protect yourself? To protect Lydia?”
“That’s an unfair question,” she says. “Since you clearly kept me in the dark about the suspect that you’d already discovered beforehand, I have to assume you did so on purpose to test me.”
I smile. “We’re a team, London. You already passed my tests.”
She closes her legs. “This is not a team dynamic. I don’t know what this is but…it’s not anything I can classify.”
“There’s no alpha,” I say, agreeing with her assessment. “There always has to be a dominant in a duo.”
“Precisely.”
“But whose rule is that?”
She reflexively rubs at the inked key along her hand. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve already proven that it’s important. We’ll unravel, otherwise. Trust doesn’t come easily between two people who have suffered an early life trauma.” She sucks in a breath. “Someone has to take charge.”
Having a partner is a new experience for me, and for London. It’s like dancing, figuring out who will lead.
“It should be you,” I decide.
She looks up from toying with her string. “Why?”
“Because you’re able to reside in public. You have a reputable career. You’re above reproach. And, because I do trust you, London. As long as Lydia doesn’t call the shots.”
She considers this a moment, then: “A submissive partner typically employs manipulative tactics to sway and control the dominant. I suppose that describes us quite accurately.” Her light laugh dances over my skin.
“Let’s consider it foreplay,” I say.
“Wait—” Her amused expression drops. “Who is the suspect? I need to know so I can get an understanding of their motive. A copycat isn’t that different from a typical serial offender, but there are marked variances. They have a reason as to why they’re motivated to kill. Is it an obsessed fan? No.” She dismisses that right away. “Not all the details were revealed to the public. That means—”
“The copycat has inside knowledge.” Had she not been sidetracked with the Mize investigation, London would’ve figured this out sooner. Makes me wonder if the derailment was done to her on purpose.
After a moment of thought, she shakes her head. “No. That is a huge reach, Grayson. You’re trying to take the game to a level that—besides risking you, me, everything—will end badly.”
“This isn’t a theory, London. It’s a fact. Only two men fit the copycat profile. Which means either Detective Foster or Agent Nelson has been moonlighting as the Angel of Maine.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She swipes her bangs from her forehead, dismissing the theory. “How do the Rockland crime scenes confirm this?”
“This person has done his own study on me, adopting my MO. He’s good. Good enough to fool most, but as you know, method is ritual. Signature excites. The compulsion to experience the kill…the temptation to make it his own… Every man falls victim to pride. We’re simple beasts.” I shrug, indifferent. “It’s where we fail.”
“How did you collect this information?”
“I took a chance,” I admit. “Which I may regret later, but we needed the intel.” She raises an eyebrow, not impressed. “One of the CSU techs has a weakness for call girls.”
She sighs heavily. “You left him alive.”
“My affections for you apparently make me soft.” I smile. “How would Lydia feel about this topic of conversation?”
She inches her legs open as she relaxes into the chair. “Intrigued.”
Good. “I gathered enough to know that my suspicion on the signature is accurate. He mimics everything, like a perfect echo, except for one flaw: He indulges himself at the end. My kills are about technique, the design. He enjoys feeling the life he’s taking leave the body. He can’t help himself.
“Every trap he crafted allowed for contusions around the victims’ necks. Easily disguised behind the design itself, but if you look closely, you understand why he rigged it this way. So he—not the trap—could kill them.” Disgust roils through me. “It’s an insult to my craft, really.”
London slips her fingers over her thigh. This part always excited her—the details.
“That’s why Larry’s death had to be different; a shift in MO,” I continue. “Allowing the killer to get closer to the victim, delivering a more personalized death. We had to test the theory.”
Her hand stills. “We? I wasn’t a part of your scheme. You kept me in the dark.”
I push my hands along the armrests. “You were too close to both Foster and Nelson. Any indication that you were aware of either one of them could put you in danger.”
“I don’t buy that, Grayson. I think it comes back to trust. You’re still operating solo. I have the perfect position to evaluate their behavior.”
My reflexive instinct is to deny her allegation, but I stop myself. We’re governed by our fears, and I’ve feared losing London since the moment I found her. Despite my intelligence level, I’m no different than the average man, fearing rejection, loss.
“You’re right,” I admit. Her eyebrows hike at my admission. “There was a giant, unknown variable around your past and how you’d respond to all the emerging details.”
She touches her tattoo key again, thoughtful. “As you can see, it’s been difficult.”
Something akin to guilt slices through me. “I’m here
now,” I say. “You don’t have to work through your dissociation alone.” I plan to work Lydia right out of her system.
Her gaze narrows; always assessing. “I don’t like the distance I’ve felt between us for the past two weeks. Even while you were in prison, even with the weeks of separation after you escaped, I didn’t feel the disconnect the way I do now.” She releases a breath. “Partly my doing, I admit. Outside pressures are causing us both strain.”
“You’re risking everything,” I tell her.
Her eyes find and hold mine. “It’s my choice.”
I believe her. I bury the doubt. “I won’t let it happen again.”
And like that, London and I are in sync, an effortless team.
“Agreed.” She gifts me a sultry smile. “So let’s think about this logically and logistically. No matter who the copycat is, we’re still ending it here.”
“That’s an inevitability. The chase and running becomes tiring. Neither side can go on forever. Better to end it on our terms.”
She considers this a while, and adds, “We need both of them.”
I nod. “They each have a distinct role.”
“Detective Foster is a brute. He’d be capable, and he hardly exhibits enough patience in his own investigations. There’s a lot of similarity.”
My skin hums as she breaks it down. Her mind excites me. “I’ve been considering as much. But Agent Nelson suffered a setback at work over the past year. That’s a…what is it called?”
“Stressor,” she supplies.
“Stressor. His FBI career is his life. Something threatening that, like not closing enough cases, could send a perfectionist like him over the edge.”
Her fingers halt their ascent along her leg, and the sudden dimness covering her expression dampens my libido. “Nelson had another setback recently,” she says. “I rejected his advances.”
A slow curling fire licks the back of my neck. “Interesting,” I say, my voice grinding out like gravel. The primal Neanderthal inside me rears up, London in danger of a brutal fucking where I stake my claim like the carnal animal she makes me.
“Do you think he suspects us?” she asks.
It’s an intelligent estimate. If Nelson believes, like Foster, that London is in fact my accomplice, then pushing his way into my territory is the natural order for beasts like us.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “Regardless of his motivations, I have no doubt that he wants you.” And that realization sears what’s left of my control.
As if she senses my waning restraint, London arches her back, slipping her hand higher and dragging her fitted skirt up her thighs.
“It would be even more interesting if there was a partnership at hand. Two unlikely allies, teaming up to hunt killers. Who in turn become killers themselves.” What are the odds?
But something has shifted in her demeanor. This discussion is over. “How did you work the information from the tech?” Her voice is breathy.
“Who wants to know? London or Lydia?”
“Both.”
Finding a way to unify the conflicting shores at war within her is key. I can’t have any part of London as my enemy.
“I Zip Tied his cock to his wrists and rigged it so if he moved, even a millimeter, the tie would cinch closed. I can only imagine how painful it was for him every time he struggled. How does that make Lydia feel?”
“Aroused.”
I sink my teeth into my lip, fingers gripping the armrest.
“And you think he won’t report this?” she asks.
“I think that he doesn’t want anyone to know how he ended up in such a compromising—not to mention humiliating—situation. Especially his wife.”
“Still, you took a risk.”
I stand and, reaching behind my head, tug off my shirt. I walk forward to stand before her. She’s trembling. Lust glazes her eyes.
I palm the arms of the chair and lean over her. “Everything I do, every single day, is a risk for you.” Then I kneel, cupping the back of her knee. With a forceful tug, I bring her farther down, her ass positioned at the edge of the seat.
Her sharp inhale sends a thrill right to my cock as I plant a tender kiss to her inner thigh. I travel up her skin, tongue dragging across the rising gooseflesh, kissing and sucking with gentle touches.
“Is this a new form of torture?” she says, chest heaving against her blouse.
I smile against her leg, and reach up to start working the bottom button of her top. I guide my hand beneath her skirt, settling at the apex between her thighs, as I drop a heated kiss to her exposed belly.
“I can be romantic,” I say, hooking a finger beneath the seat of her panties. She’s hot, wet, drenching them. “I can make love to Lydia and fuck London at the same time.” I haul the thin material down to her knees, causing her to quake with a hard shiver.
Her hands go to my hair, fingers, nails seeking purchase. Then I’m undoing each button, reverently opening her up to me as I kiss a path toward her chest. Her light-pink satin bra is trimmed in black lace. That does something to me—the sight so innocent and sexy all at once.
A heavy groan tears free. I’m straining against the zipper of my pants. Every roll of her hips and arch of her back drives me wild; Lydia doesn’t stand a chance. I sink both hands under her ass and prop her pelvis up, getting unfettered access as I bury my head between her thighs.
I suck her soft lips into my mouth, eliciting the sweetest moan as a tremor riots through her body.
Pulling back just enough, I say, “Whenever Lydia fights for control, think of me touching you. Just like this.”
“God, if we start, we’ll never stop. You have to let me go.”
“Never. I got you right where I want you.”
A ringtone sounds from the office. London’s cellphone. She opens her eyes, the spell broken. “It’s him.”
12
Duet
London
The ringing chime crashes into our sacred space, and I tense, reality seeping in through the cracks. I let the call go to voicemail, but the ringing starts again.
“Ignore it,” Grayson says, and he’s doing everything in his power to convince me to do just that. He licks the seam of my lips, fondles my clit, deepening the ache in my core.
“I can’t. I know it’s him.” I don’t have to say his name. The sudden rigidness coiling Grayson’s shoulders denotes he knows that I’m referring to Agent Nelson. “If I don’t answer, he’ll send agents to my apartment and here, or he’ll come himself.”
With a grunt, Grayson releases me and moves back.
This is difficult for him. Grayson doesn’t yield to intimidation, but he’s intelligent; he knows when to rein in his defiant nature.
I stand and hurriedly situate my clothes before I pad to the office. My purse is on the desk where I left it. I dig out my phone. Nelson’s contact flashes on the screen.
I brace myself. “Agent Nelson,” I address him formally. No need for pretense at this point. We’ve moved past the games.
“London, how are you?” His voice sounds edgy, strained.
“Fine.” I’m as tempered as bulletproof glass—unbreakable. Until I feel the current of Grayson’s nearness from behind. “Has there been a development?”
“What? No. Nothing like that. I hadn’t heard from you since you got back to Bangor.” An expectant pause hangs between us, what he’s leaving unsaid. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right. I had to pull Silks and Mahoney from your detail due to low funding at the crime scenes in Rockland.”
“That’s all right. I understand. I really am okay. There’s no need to waste agency resources on me.” Grayson’s chest presses against my back, his hands tentatively settle at my hips. His deliberate eavesdropping is distracting.
“You are not a waste of resources. I want you to know that I’m dedicated to your safety—that it doesn’t come second to the agency, despite the politics.” When I don’t respond immediately, he adds, “Are you at home
?”
“No,” Grayson whispers in my ear as his hands rove to the backside clasp of my skirt.
“I’m not,” I say, talking over the sound of Grayson lowering the zipper. The rough pads of his fingers trail in its cool wake, nearly stealing my voice. “I’ve stayed late at the office. I have a lot of things to catch up on.”
When telling a convincing lie, make sure that it’s partly the truth. I glance at the Dali painting and, while my skirt slithers down my legs, feel more than exposed. My research into Grayson’s past preoccupies more than my daytime career.
Nelson assembles my statement into his own understanding. “You’ll bring your sister home,” he assures me. “You’ve sacrificed too much time fighting the system. Let it run its course.”
I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions and the feel of Grayson sweeping my hair over my shoulder. He lowers himself to press his lips to the nape of my neck as his hand snakes around to my belly, fingers dipping beneath the lace trim of my panties.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I do appreciate all your help in this matter, Agent Nelson.”
A lengthy beat, where I’m hyperaware of Grayson’s mouth, his heated skin, his touch, then: “About what happened in—”
“It was nothing,” I say, startled back into the conversation.
“No, it was inappropriate. My ego was too bruised at the time to admit it, but…London, this isn’t my MO. I want you to know that. This never happens, especially on the job.” I hear his weighted sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Grayson pushes closer, his mouth at my ear. “Tomorrow.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I understand. In fact, it’s my job to understand. I think we should meet tomorrow. If you’re available.”
“I’d like that.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “When I get back, I have a number of things to wrap up in Rockland, then I’ll call you.”
“Perfect. Talk to you then.” I end the call before Grayson maneuvers me right into the crime scenes. I set my phone on the desk. “Why am I meeting him?”
I grip the edge of the desk as he sinks to the floor, his hands mapping my body along his descent. The abrasive rub of his callused fingers over the silk of my bra and panties snags the fine material. “Because he’s your target,” he says, his hand sliding back up the curve of my thigh. “And because the agent is obsessed with you. He’ll find a way to see you, regardless. Better to make it on your terms.”
