Deadly Desires

by Ann Christopher

  Chapter 27

  The bitch got him.

  How do you like those rotten apples?

  Kareem had had the last word in the end—he always had the last word—but that didn’t lessen the pain any. So much for all his strategizing about plastic sheeting, a swift, clean execution (with a little torture thrown in, of course, but mostly swift and clean), and expeditious disposal of the body.

  It’d never occurred to him that he’d be injured and that his blood would mingle with Kerry’s. He’d never thought—not for one fucking second—that he’d be forced to leave behind all that evidence.

  Hell, it was worse than that. Nothing had gone his way since he came back to Cincinnati, and it was going to be harder, if not impossible, for him to escape unscathed again. How was he supposed to carry out the rest of his plans when his ass was so hurt he could barely put one foot in front of the other?

  What was the world coming to?

  It was time for him to face the fact that the stakes were higher than they’d ever been before and he might go down with the ship rather than torpedoing it and watching it sink from a safe distance.

  Maybe he was losing his touch. Maybe God had turned his face away from him again, the way he had when Kareem was convicted of money laundering a few years back.

  Maybe Kareem was on his own.

  Ah, but he still had his mama, he reminded himself. A man could always count on his mama.

  If only he could get to her.

  Loosening his grip on the railing long enough to swipe some of the burning sweat out of his eyes, he counted the remaining steps in this piss-smelling back staircase. Four steps to go ... Three steps. Shaking with exhaustion, he willed himself to keep going, propelled only by the thought of collapsing on the bed when he reached Mama’s apartment.

  Two steps.

  Last step.

  It took him several seconds of panting and resting before he gathered the strength to tackle the heavy steel fire door, which squealed open like the entrance to a crypt in some old Vincent Price movie. More strength was wasted keeping it from banging shut and waking the dead, and then he was standing outside Mama’s apartment.

  He hadn’t been seen and could almost believe he would make it back out of the building without being seen, but then he glanced over his shoulder and saw something that stopped his heart cold:

  A connect-the-dots trail of bright red drops of blood ran back down the hallway and disappeared on the other side of that fire door.

  They could be wiped up—the floor was a pitted and stained black-and-white linoleum tile—but he had been here and there was the proof. He could almost feel the scratch of a noose tightening around his neck, and he was beginning to think about Bonnie and Clyde and the benefits of going out in a blaze of glory.

  It wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.

  He knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked harder, praying that only his mother woke and came to investigate, but he’d seen paper towels thicker than the walls in this dump and didn’t hold out much hope.

  A third round of knocking produced a muffled thump and shuffling footsteps inside the apartment, and then he heard the click of a lamp and saw a strip of light under the door right before the chain lock jangled and the door swung open.

  Mama stared at him, her sleepy eyes uncomprehending.

  She looked exactly the same, with the familiar powder blue housecoat, matching foam slippers, and black netting holding her bobby-pinned curls in place. But she was stooped and frail now, with lines and wrinkles mapping the skin that had been so smooth the last time he saw her up close. For the first time he questioned the wisdom of coming here for help. What could this old woman do for him now? he wondered, the sour taste of disappointment filling his mouth. But he had nowhere else to go and no one who cared about him like she did.

  He waited, knowing what was coming.

  Her jaw dropped. Her face paled. She looked away. Blinked. Looked back again. Raised shaking hands to his face. Touched him like a blind woman trying to see with her hands. Swayed on the spot and gripped his arms to keep from collapsing to the floor in a heap.

  Then it came—the Oh, Jesus chorus she’d been wailing at his funeral, in full stereo effect. He swooped inside, shutting the door and helping her into a chair before she could really get started.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she sobbed, rocking back and forth with one hand on Kareem and the other raised to the ceiling in gratitude. “Thank you for bringing my son back to me, Jesus, thank you, thank you—”

  “Mama,” he tried. “You’ve got to be quiet. I don’t want the whole world to know I’m here. Shh, Mama, please—”

  There was no point. The chanting continued, louder than ever, interrupted only by her wet kisses, rained all over his face and hands. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said, over and over until he wanted to scream with the irritation, which was almost as strong as the frustration and pain. “I knew you’d bring my precious son back to me. Thank you, Lord. Thank you—”

  If she had any questions about his sudden resurrection, she didn’t ask—at least not yet—which was one of the things he’d always liked best about Mama: she didn’t ask. She was like one of his high-priced defense lawyers in that way, instinctively understanding that some doors were best left closed and double-bolted.

  But he didn’t have time for this hysteria shit.

  He had work to do before it was too late.

  Grabbing her by the shoulder, he gave her a good shake. “Mama. Pull yourself together. I need your help.”

  Those hands of hers went right back to his face, stroking and caressing, but her streaming eyes narrowed down for a critical look at him for the first time. Judging by the sharp intake of breath, she didn’t like what she saw.

  “What’s happened to you, boy? What’s happened to your face? What—Oh, Jesus, so much blood! What’s happened to you? We need to get you to the hospital—”

  “No.” He shook her again and kept a hard grip on her arm so she’d shut the fuck up and focus on listening rather than babbling. “I’m not going to any hospital. No one can know that I’m still alive. Do you understand me?”

  “But—” she floundered, jaws still flapping. “But you’ll bleed to death—”

  “No, I won’t. That’s why I’m here. You’re going to stitch me up.”

  “Stitch you up?”

  For God’s sake—had she turned into a parrot while he was gone?

  “Stitch. Me. Up. Let’s get this over with.”

  Her eyes went round and wide. “With what? I’m not a doctor!”

  “Get your sewing kit,” he said grimly.

  They stared at each other while more of his blood flowed, and the situation would have been funny if it wasn’t so fucking serious. He hadn’t worked, planned, and suffered for all these months, finding a way to be free from Johnny Law, only to come back to Cincy at his moment of triumph and bleed out on his mother’s flowered sofa.

  There was no goddamn way.

  “Mama,” he roared, shaking her a final time.

  That snapped her to attention. She nodded, once, becoming the hardheaded and focused woman that he needed her to be. Some of the rising panic eased back from his chest, letting him breathe.

  “Let me see,” she said, going to work on his clothes.

  He submitted, biting the inside of his cheek while she peeled back his shirt and revealed the tiny hole in the front and the mangled and raw meat from the exit wound in the back, all that remained of his ruined left shoulder.

  Dexter propped his head on his elbow and watched her sleep.

  Ridiculous? Yeah.

  Sappy? You betcha.

  Was he a pussy-whipped punk? The world’s biggest.

  None of that kept him from yawning back the sleep and keeping his tired eyes open so he wouldn’t miss anything about this remarkable night.

  She slept on her belly, nowhere near a pillow, with her head turned toward him and her fin
gers curled into a loose fist beneath her chin. Her breathing was deep and easy, her brow smooth and untroubled, her lips swollen from his kisses. Already he could see marks appearing across her shoulder and down the side of her neck, remnants of his stubbly face, which he now rubbed with regret.

  Actually, no. He didn’t regret it. She was his woman now, and he was just caveman enough to appreciate the visible proof.

  His woman.

  There was no end to his delight in her. The smell of lilies on her skin, the way her hair curled around her ears, her small but amazing breasts, the junk in her perfect round trunk, the smooth silkiness of her long legs. Her tears, her warmth, her passion. All of it astounded and humbled him, swelling his heart until it threatened to crack open like the first overripe watermelon of summer.

  He should cover her with the sheet before she got cold; she was his responsibility now—his treasure—and he planned to take excellent care of her. Except that then he wouldn’t be able to admire the tantalizing side of one bare breast, the slope of her toned back or the swell of that ass.

  Anyway, if she got cold, he planned to warm her right back up.

  As though she felt the weight of his gaze, her lids flickered and then slowly opened, revealing those sparkling brown eyes, and her mouth curved into the sexiest smile he’d ever seen. Color flooded her cheeks and he felt a responsive kick low in his belly as he, too, remembered everything they’d said and done.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  She studied his face, running her gentle fingers over his brow. “You’re very serious.”

  “I’m a couple of quarts low on fluids.”

  That made her laugh as she rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand, and he was pleased to see that there was no shyness in her, no scurrying for cover as they watched each other by the light of the nightstand lamp, which he’d turned on a minute ago.

  She was so freaking incredible, there was no room in his mind to absorb it all. Sweet happiness glowed in her face; had he had anything to do with that? Lower down, meanwhile, her perky breasts were still swollen, her nipples dark brown with engorgement, and lower than that, the ruddy folds of her lips were slick and fragrant with arousal.

  She tied him up in knots, this one did.

  “You wore me out,” she told him.

  There was that caveman tendency again, making him want to thump his chest and swing from the rooftops. Instead, he contented himself with reaching out and dragging her closer, so he could settle his stiffening penis into that nest of hair between her legs and his hand on her very fine ass.

  “Yeah? You look okay to me.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t okay,” she said.

  He grinned with pure male satisfaction.

  Screw it. He was a caveman. Just call him Krong.

  “We didn’t eat your dinner,” she said, slipping her hand between them to grip him tight, peeking up into his face to see if he’d stop her this time.

  He didn’t.

  “You were my dinner,” he told her.

  Making a distinctly feline sound—somewhere between a mewl and a purr, she eased closer, running her tongue across his lower lip and then slipping it deep inside his oh-so-willing mouth. He went from zero to sixty, hardening inside her milking hand as though it had been ten years rather than ten minutes since his last orgasm.

  With a lingering suck and a nip, she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye while her hand worked its magic. “You were right,” she said, her thumb now running around his swollen head—around and around until need spiked in his belly. “It was way too soon for us to make love. The relationship is ruined now, isn’t it?”

  Jesus, she was going to make him come, right now, and she was asking questions like that?

  “Maybe if we ... try really hard we can ... put it back together.”

  “You think?” she asked sweetly, giving her wrist a little twist that nearly shot him to the ceiling. That was it. Game over. With a primal growl he was all over her, snatching her to her back and kissing her with frantic, openmouthed urgency—basically eating her face.

  She kissed him back, laughing, and then, suddenly, nothing was funny. He saw the sudden flare of panic in her eyes and it touched his heart. “What is it, baby?”

  “I’m so happy. I can’t even—I don’t have the words for it.”

  Christ. She was going to make him bawl like a baby if she kept this up.

  “Being with you is so easy. That’s a sign that something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  He stared at her, thinking about where she’d started from and where she was now. As far as he was concerned, tonight was only the beginning of a lifetime of happiness that he fully intended to give her.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Cupping her face, he leaned in to press a reassuring kiss to her forehead. “I told you before: it’s supposed to be exactly this easy.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Now I have a question for you.” Down below, he covered her hand with his, tightening her grip until his breath caught in his throat. “Where’s Max? Do you have to get home and check on him or anything?”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention? He’s at the kennel tonight.”

  “Thank the good Lord,” he said, hooking an elbow behind her knee to spread her wide as he settled between her thighs. “I never made my way down to your feet, did I? Remind me to do that.”

  Chapter 28

  The dream continued.

  Kira’s warmth was in his bed. Her scent was in his nostrils. Beneath the fluffy softness of the comforter, her sleek curls trailed across his belly, tickling him. Arousing him. He sighed and rolled onto his back, his movements as easy and languorous as a soak in a spa after a massage. She came with him, settling the silky smoothness of her body between his legs. Stroking her hair, he waited, his breath suspended in this exquisite moment.

  Her hands slid up the inside of his thighs, and lingered, teasing. He shifted his hips, the hot rush of blood to his groin making him impatient. Urgent. When she laughed in response—a triumphant, purely female sound of delight—her breath’s humidity nearly sent him through the roof.

  With an indistinct murmur, she took his rigid length between her hands and licked him. Her slick tongue traced a slow circle around the sensitive head of his penis, hitting nerve endings he hadn’t known he’d possessed. His fingers tightened convulsively, tunneling down to her scalp to bring her closer. He caught himself and loosened his grip, afraid he’d hurt her before this was all over with, but her need seemed to match his.

  Easing that clever mouth to one side, she swirled that tongue around the meaty part of his inner thigh, sucked it deep into her mouth, and scraped it with her teeth—just enough—as she released it, the same thing he’d done to her earlier.

  He cried out, every muscle in his body tightening to piano wire, and held her head in a death grip.

  She didn’t complain.

  After another easy nuzzle, she stuck out her tongue, ran it slowly ... slowly ... up his entire length and then, without warning, took him so far inside the wet suction of her mouth it felt as if she was swallowing him whole.

  Something snapped inside his head, breaking through the restraints that kept him human and turning him into an animal driven by his basest urges, pure and simple.

  Nearly mindless now, he thrust as deep as she could take him. Maybe it was too much, but, Jesus, she had to know she was driving him out of his freaking skin. Another smug female laugh answered him, and the corresponding vibrations heightened the sensations until his breath stalled and passing out seem like a real possibility.

  “Kira.” It took the last molecule of his control to tug gently on her hair and issue a gasped warning. There had to be a special place in heaven waiting for him for stopping at this crucial juncture. “Baby. If we’re going to stop, we need to stop now.”

  The covers shifted and then she appeared in the muted light of the lamp. Rumpled hair, flushed cheeks, gleaming eyes
—she was exactly the way she’d appeared in all of his dreams: heart-stopping.

  Looking up, she let him see the wet pink glisten of her tongue as she circled it around his head again, while her hands, meanwhile, milked him with a relentless rhythm.

  “Now why would I stop?” she wondered.

  There was one arrested moment when she held his gaze, and then she put that mouth on him again, finishing her work and making him come with a hoarse shout that could probably be heard for miles up and down the river. When she was done, she crept back up the bed, taking her place at his side and smoothing his chest as his lungs heaved for air, as though it hadn’t been her damn fault that the top of his head nearly blew off.

  He gathered her up and held her tight, relishing the tight buds of her nipples against his side and her legs wrapped around his.

  Sudden panic flared, robbing him of words.

  Never before had he had so much to lose, and all of it was right here in his arms.

  Before Kira, his life had been fine.

  A little boring, a little lonely, but fine.

  There would be no after Kira for him. It was that simple. To live, he needed food and water, shelter and clothing, air to breath, and Kira. Without any of that, he could not go on.

  He stared down at her, tracing her features. Raising her heavy lids, she blessed him with a drowsy smile that claimed the last little bit of his heart that wasn’t already hers.

  “Are you trying to ruin me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said simply, but, when she looked at him like that, he realized that being ruined was the best thing that could ever happen to him.

  So the question was: what should she cook for dinner?

  Kira wove her way through the crowd at Findlay Market the next morning, awake and alive in a way she’d never been before, her senses open to the sights, smells, and sounds that the world had to offer her in such blessed abundance.

  Yeah.

  She’d done a spectacular swan dive into the sappy pool and was doing a few laps.