by Trisha Wolfe
“All right. But give me a minute.” He blows out a heavy breath, and that’s when I notice he’s still pressed too closely against me—his hand resting along my thigh.
“God, you’re such a man,” I say, trying to break some of the tension gathering around us.
He chuckles. “Hey. You wore that damn dress to my crime scene.” He slips his finger beneath the seam of my skirt and gives it a tug. The material smacks my skin. “It’s pretty damn sexy, Bonds. You really can’t blame a guy.”
“Oh? So you’re blaming me?” I’m trying to keep the banter going, needing to distance myself from the intensity of his body so near mine. I’m already starting to quake with fear and a confusing mix of need. Desire and the demand to flee battling in sync.
“You know better than that,” he says, his hand lightly wandering over my thigh, toying with the dress. “I know better than that. It’s my damn job. But, where were you tonight? Who gets the privilege of seeing you wearing this? And why does this dress—?”
His playful movements halt with his words. My body stills. “What is it?”
“I’m good now. Stand up.” He gets to his feet, then reaches down to grasp my hand, pulling me up beside him. His gaze travels inquisitively over me, his hand reaching out to touch the red material along my hip. “I mean, all women’s clothing kind of looks the same to guys…but, Bonds. Your dress looks a hell of a lot like the one on the bed.”
I turn to face the dress, looking it over closely for the first time. Similar shade of red. Same simple, elegant design. Not an exact match, but close enough to squeeze the last bit of air from my lungs.
“A coincidence,” I say, but my words sound false even to my own ears.
Quinn bends over to pick his coat up off the floor, then moves to stand beside me. “Didn’t you once tell me you didn’t believe in coincidences?”
Hell.
Quinn’s cell phone rings, breaking the awkward moment further. As he talks quickly with the person on the other end, my mind races, trying to make sense out of something that has no meaning. At least, not to me.
“Avery needs us with the vic,” he says. I look at him and nod. “She’s found something she says we need to see.”
I sigh. “All right.” Taking off for the living room, I leave behind the chill that settled over me in the bedroom, and the confusion that Quinn’s touch upset within me.
Answers are what we need to move this case forward and to get an accurate profile. I have more questions than answers. I need some answers.
But I know one thing: what happened in that bedroom…the UNSUB isn’t the only one escalating. I’m on edge. And as much as I fear the unknown, fear myself…Colton Reed may be my own, personal answer.
8
Hush-hush
UNSUB
All great love stories have an element of fear.
Fear of change. Fear of forgetting. Fear of loss.
Our fear just reaches astounding heights—because we’re above the rest. We’re extraordinary. Unique.
And all great loves take work. Hard work. The right preparation, conviction, and the determination to triumph over all obstacles.
I know she appreciates that—appreciates the sweat, blood (oh, the lovely blood), and tears I’ve put into her gifts. With every token she presents to me, I’m encouraged that much more to gift the perfect offering to her.
Only that fucking cunt wouldn’t do as told. She nearly ruined it. Still, my offering to my love was exquisite. She’ll appreciate the extra work and all that divine red.
Mmm. Her scent envelops me now. She wears it just for me. Leaves it lingering in our special places. The touch of her hand to her neck, when her breath is stolen. Then the discrete placement of her palm to the cloth napkin. Leaving me a secret token.
Secrets.
It’s what fuels the fire of forbidden love.
And our secrets are holy. She tells me hers in riddles. Wanting me to piece together the puzzle and set her free. Only then will we truly be together. Black and earth, decomposing, twining.
No barriers in the forever.
Soon.
9
Wreck Me
Sadie
“You need to see this.” Avery stands over the body. She tweaks open a plastic bag and digs out a new pair of tweezers.
“Tell me you found some trace evidence for us,” Quinn says.
I position myself closer as Avery lowers herself to kneel over the victim. “I haven’t found any yet,” she says, bracing her hand on the vic’s jaw. “But there’s always the hope that he made a mistake.” Forcing the vic’s mouth open, she inserts the tweezers and pulls out a brownish, blackish material.
I lean in closer. “What is that?”
Avery shrugs a shoulder. “Not sure. But whatever it is, the assailant put it there on purpose.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine. “A message, maybe.”
A quick shiver races up my back. “He left behind one of his tools, too,” I say, nodding toward the back bedroom. “How quickly can you get that to forensics?”
She drops the dark clue into an open evidence bag. “How about right now. Your wish is my command.”
“Thanks, Avery,” I say, getting to my feet. “Anything else of note? Her fingers?”
Her features pull together, conveying worry. “Not the fingers, no. They’re undamaged. Probably the only place on her body that wasn’t touched.”
Quinn speaks up. “His MO is all over the place.” He sighs. “Does this mean she was in fact sexually assaulted?”
Avery nods. “With this one, I can clearly discern sexual trauma. I’ll have a more thorough look and give you my full evaluation tomorrow. But”—she glances between me and Quinn—“I can tell you right now, if you’re wondering, that this is the same offender. The lacerations on her body were cut with an identical blade. The pattern matches.”
Quinn groans. “Fuck. One more body and we’ll have a serial killer on our hands.”
I stay quiet, allowing this revelation to sink in. I was already close to believing this was the same killer. Unlike Quinn, I don’t need the required number of bodies to claim this as a serial—I already know, whoever the killer is, isn’t going to stop.
It’s just a matter of time before the next body turns up.
“At the rate he’s escalating,” I say, pulling off my gloves and stuffing them in Quinn’s coat pocket, “that won’t take long.”
I need his profile. I need it now.
Which means I have to get my head clear, and stop obsessing over my own issues.
* * *
Twelve o’clock in the morning midnight, and I find myself parked in front of The Lair.
My hands grip the steering wheel as the engine idles, waiting for me to make a decision.
I tried to go home. I even circled my neighborhood—twice—talking myself into pulling into my complex, just to see how my nerves faired. But I’m too high-strung. Needing some kind of…release.
And the only thing I can envision, see clearly, is Colton and those ropes.
Not the killer I should be hunting. The sadist I should be compiling a profile of. The psychopath I should be relating to instead of fearing—who’s probably stalking the streets right now for his next victim.
All these thoughts swell into an overwhelming surge of anxiety, coating my chest with a prickly sensation that claws at me from the inside. A nagging cloud of doubt smothering me, tickling my ear, whispering that I’m too close to this to think logically.
Blinded by bias.
I push my car door open and slam it closed behind me, flinching at the loud bang that echoes mockingly in the still night air.
Low and steady thumps of bass bleed out of the three-story building. The heavy bass-filled music beckons each of my steps closer to The Lair. I don’t bother with my wig; Colton has already seen the real me. And the patrons here at this hour have as much to hide from me as I do from them.
I’m not even sure Colton is still here…but my body
won’t let me rest until I’ve at least tried to see him. My brain won’t stop churning the past and present, over and over, grinding my two lives into an unrecognizable, distorted collage.
If I can just grasp one second of peace, where my mind stops—just shuts off—that’s all I need. One break from reality. One escape.
And then he’s there, offering me just that.
I’ve wandered into the rope room, somehow not really seeing anything or anyone until the moment I’m standing right before Colton. Everything around me comes into focus. Sight. Sound. And scent.
I need touch.
Sitting at the table where I left him earlier this evening, his wide, blue gaze hard on me, it’s as if he’s trying to keep as still as possible. Like the next move is mine.
“I want it,” I say. “Now.”
He’s pushing off the seat and moving toward me as soon as the last, desperate word leaves my mouth. A fleeting sense of panic races through me as he stalks closer. He stops before me, his body crowding the small span of air keeping us separated. My feet feel too heavy to pick up, to step away. To flee.
That heaviness travels slowly over the rest of me, until it reaches my eyelids, and I close my eyes. Giving myself over to him.
“Look at me.” His husky words are laced with restraint and lust.
I force my eyes open and stare into his. Don’t blink. My breath staggers past my lips, uneven.
“I won’t regret anything.” He raises his hand out to the side, palm open, a waiting invitation for me to accept. “And if we do this, neither will you.”
The conviction of his promise whirls around me in a haze of apprehension. The offer to the next step, my own discovery, resting in his outstretched hand. Not a handshake among business partners; an agreement between lovers. One touch to seal the deal.
I slip my hand into his.
And watch as his eyes squeeze closed, his face contorting as if he’s in pain—but that’s not quite it. It’s more…pure. Relief. He yearns for me as badly as I crave him.
His fingers fasten around my hand, anchoring me to him, a short, revealing moment where I can almost turn back, before he’s marching through the room, pulling me behind him. The strength of his grip and his urgent steps force all doubt from my mind. And when we stop before a door, I’m filled with need. The anticipation drowning out any alarm.
He keeps ahold of my hand as he reaches into his pocket with the other and brings out a set of keys. I stay quiet as he unlocks the door, not asking why there are locked rooms in the club. Why he has the keys. Who uses the rooms…
I follow him inside.
The air vacates my lungs in a chest-crushing exhale.
Gleaming silver fetish toys line the wall. Clamps. Chains. Leather. A red cane is prized and center. Ropes of all shades, widths, sizes coil against the black, dangle from above. At the far end, a St. Andrew’s cross.
A torture chamber.
Colton must sense my unease, because his hand tightens around mine as he leads me deeper into the room. “This is my personal…space.” He turns to face me, his mouth a hard line, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m more of a collector than a Dom, Sadie. My passion is bondage, ropework in particular. So don’t let the decoration intimidate you. Or scare you.”
Intimidate? No…that’s the wrong word. Scare? Not powerful enough to express the sickening fear invading my soul. This is a dungeon—too similar to the one where I was sealed away in for days…lost. Helpless. Stripped of my self.
And though it’s frustrating to be so confused, so torn over the lure I feel toward bondage, there is no mistake that I will never be a victim again.
I control this. I have to.
“Sadie,” Colton says, his voice raw, aching.
I suck in a steadying breath and look up to meet his intense gaze. “A monster shouldn’t fear her element,” I say. “I’m just so fucked up.”
He moves so quickly, my breath catches, my body frozen. His hand releases me only to grasp my face, his palm firm against my cheek, thumb braced over my chin. “What happened tonight?” His icy gaze traces the contours of my face, analyzing my tells. “What’s the trigger that pushed you here, into my arms, Sadie?”
Holding his stare, I give nothing away. I’m trained to know how to control my features, but my head is screaming just to let go. “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just time that I—”
“Bullshit,” he bites out, and I flinch against his hold.
Licking my lips, I savor the coarse feel of his palm on my skin. “The crime scene,” I start. “It should disgust me. Cord banding the victim’s wrists…ankles. Limbs stretched and aching…the tightening of the binding until your will evaporates. The feel of hands touching, taking…pressure—” I break off and attempt to look away, but Colton holds me firmly in place. “I should hate it. Loathe it. But I don’t. I desire it so deeply…it hurts. And I like the pain.”
A low growl rumbles from deep within Colton’s chest. His hand clamps harder to my face as he moves in closer, no more separation between us. “There’s nothing wrong with you, goddess. Just the absolute tragedy that I didn’t make you mine first.”
Then I’m free of his touch before his words can sear me, and his hands are latched around my wrists, guiding them above my head.
“We’re not doing a Shibari session tonight.” At my confused expression, he says, “You’re too piqued…bound too tightly already. Trust me. Right now, you simply need release.”
Sliding his rope-calloused palms down my arms, stirring a familiar but restricted heat deep inside me, he whispers, “Keep your arms raised,” then he snakes an arm around my back and hoists me against his hard chest.
My whole body stiffens, every muscle rigid. But I keep my hands lifted, trying to relax against him. Trying to do just as he said; trust him. “This much contact was not part of our…agreement,” I say, noting the tremble in my voice.
“We have yet to discuss the terms.” As he walks us to the middle of the room, my feet drag over the cold tile floor, my shoes lost. He lifts me higher and places me on a bench. The leather cushion slicks against my heated skin.
“And those are?”
His eyes meet mine. “I help free you, and you allow me to worship you.”
My heart batters my chest. “I’m not the goddess you think I am.”
A slanted smile tilts the corner of his mouth up. “I’m about to prove differently. Now, don’t lower your arms,” he instructs. Then he grasps my wrists and brings them to his mouth, tenderly placing a kiss to each before dragging his hands down my arms, ribs, waist, shooting a thrumming need right to my core. When he reaches my hips, his teeth sink into his bottom lip. He grips the material of my red dress and yanks it up past my thighs.
I hold back a gasp as his palms slip between my thighs and push them apart.
His blue irises lit with hunger, he runs the pad of his finger over the thin satin of my underwear. A harsh exhale bursts from between his lips as his fingers expertly slide the fabric aside, his skin grazing mine, before he pulls them down my legs.
“The second you get this wet….” he says, his voice dark, “you find me. Wherever you are, it doesn’t matter. Do not wait. There’s no reason why you should ever want for release, Sadie.” He reaches up to take hold of my scarf, but I pull back.
“You can have me laying here completely bare, Colton… All but that. The scarf stays.”
With an evident mask of frustration worrying his face, he says, “We hide nothing from each other. This won’t work if we don’t have complete openness and trust. That’s a requirement.”
When I don’t pull away this time as he touches the black scarf, he begins to slowly unravel it from around my neck. Before he has me exposed, I say, “No knifes. No sharp objects. One of my rules.”
He nods, then pulls the scarf, revealing the ugly scar marring my collarbone.
My arms tremble, the need to lower them and cover myself almost unbearable. But I keep them raised, my eyes averted, as
he tentatively traces the rough pads of his fingers across the white scar.
“No sharp objects,” he repeats as a reassurance. Then he threads the scarf around his fingers once before he brings it up to bind my wrists. “You’ll need one thing of yours touching you, centering you. We’ll move slowly, always. But right now, I just need you to come for me.”
He doesn’t give me time to respond, though. His words bind me tighter than the scarf wrapping my wrists. He reaches farther above us and tugs down a suspended rope. Like the one I saw in the rope room, this too has a silver ring where he threads the scarf through, then ties it off.
“This,” he says, pushing away and taking out a length of rope from his pocket. “Is as much for me as it is for you. I want you to tell me what you feel as the rope touches your skin.”
Kneeling before me, he cups my calf and slides his hand down until he reaches my ankle, where he begins to wrap the thin rope—once, twice, three times. As he performs this action, my body tenses. But the tightening pulling at my every muscle, the ache pulsing through me, overwhelms the anxiety.
“It tickles,” I say, and he looks up, his eyes lit with surprise. “Tighter. It needs to be tighter.”
And he doesn’t deny me. His fingers curl around the ends of the rope and he pulls; the bands tighten with a pleasurable rub of friction against my heated skin. “It feels…coarse but soft. Like a hard, demanding kiss meant to chase away the darkness.”
At this, he groans and yanks the rope taut, stretching my leg outward. A small sound escapes my mouth, and I watch as he ties my ankle down to an extension of the bench. With noticeably less patience, he does the same to my other leg, leaving me open to him. Exposed and in total submission.
Bringing himself up to stand, he towers over me, his breaths expanding his chest against the black fabric of his shirt. Staring down at me, he says, “Tell me to taste you.”
