Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Again: what does that have to do with my ability to focus on two things at once, Maverick?”
One drink wasn’t enough to deal with this added shit. “You’re sitting here, and instead of bringing me a lead on the case, you’re here to discuss who Nathaniel associates with on his time off. Because he is off today, isn’t he?”
Ruby slaps the surface of the table. “Why would a high-ranking detective like him be out with people like—”
“My father was a petty criminal. An alcoholic with no impulse control. Was like that until his death five-years ago. Now tell me again how who we associate with on our time off warrants immediate suspicion.” I hate having to confess something that personal to her, but fuck. Nathaniel definitely holds top place on my shit list, yet a fellow officer deserves more consideration than she’s giving him.
Expression apologetic, she whispers, “I’m sorry, Mav. I didn’t know.”
“I’m not telling you this to incite sympathy.” Fucking hate it actually. It’s one of the many reasons I never speak about my father—that and the fact that it seems he passed down his alcoholic tendencies to me through his DNA. “I’m just saying, leave Nathaniel be. Unless you get actual evidence he might be onto something, this case needs all your attention and energy.”
“I’ve been looking further into the victim’s backgrounds,” she grits out. “I’m on it, damn it. Just wish you’d stop being so stubborn and listen to me about this.”
I’m the one being stubborn? Holy shit. “Ruby, I don’t have time for this. I was actually deep into research for the case, planning our next moves. I’m not going to spend precious time we don’t have arguing about Blackstone with you. For all we know, the killer could be preparing to murder yet another man.” I jam my finger into the cover of the newspaper. “I do not give a flying fuck who Nathaniel is hanging out with on his off day and I’m sorry if that offends you.”
She stares out the window to her left, shaking her head. “Can’t believe you’re being like this.”
Before I say something I’ll regret, I snatch the newspaper away from her, gather my files, and stand to leave. “I’ll contact you with more info on what angle we should pursue next. Let me know if you find anything useful pertaining to this case.”
I’m out the door of the restaurant and out onto the streets, purposely leaving her behind.
Do I feel bad about the way I treat her sometimes? Kind of. Doesn’t mean she isn’t difficult to work alongside, especially on sensitive cases like this.
Especially on cases that are fucking with me on every mental and emotional level possible.
I remember the explosion in that hotel bathroom between Kiera and I, the misplaced but turbulent fuckmess of feelings that seemed to envelope us both.
Then, I remember what the ledger in my grip stated, that this second victim also holds a connection to her family, and the sense of urgency mutates into something akin to desperation.
Definitely not the time to focus on Nathaniel-fucking-Blackstone’s personal life.
As the saying goes, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
“Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry.” - Colossians 3:5
Another long night of tedious research, and yet, I’m up the following morning with the rising sun. Nothing new really—I haven’t gotten a solid eight hours in what feels like a century. My brain simply refuses to shut down, running wild with ideas and wicked flashbacks.
I’m worn out and thoroughly exhausted, but I refuse to let it slow me down.
Though, truthfully, I’m already further behind than I care—or can afford—to be.
On a frustrated groan, I roll onto my back and rub the fatigue from my heavy-lidded eyes. Stretch my limbs out until my toes curl and palm down the insatiable asshole beneath my briefs. The simple touch immediately flashes Kiera and our bathroom rendezvous to the forefront of my mind . . .
“I fucking missed you,” she whimpers, eyes big, and earnest, and sucking the very fucking soul out of me right now.
A tortured sound is torn from me. Don’t even know how I start fucking her faster, only that suddenly I do, clutching the woman to me in a rough hug. “Oh holy shit, God, I missed you, too, baby.”
Still fucking do.
Miss her touch, her moans, those inebriating kisses.
Everything.
Doesn’t make any fucking sense, I know. Why would she say those things to a man she barely knows?
Why would I reciprocate it?
Because we both feel it. We feel it although it defies all logic.
My dick jerks as if agreeing, silently urging me to close my eyes and indulge in another red-light special. I will myself not to, but once again, Kiera is all I can see in that haze. Same moment, same bathroom, same deranged connection—only in a vivid crimson.
Her pussy floods at my admission, and like a mindless slave, I start repeating it to her with each thrust.
Crying out, she kisses me. Small kisses, deep kisses. Mind-numbing ones that leave me twitching against her. “I—I—fuck! Yes, Maverick! Give me that big cock . . . I fucked myself so many times thinking about it . . .”
The sun-bathed surroundings of my room come back into full focus. I’m rock-fucking-hard, teeth gritted, barely restraining myself from rubbing one out. Throbbing, aching—I’m aching for her like a prepubescent teenager who just wet his dick for the first time.
“Tell me,” I demand, trying to distract myself from busting right then and there. “Tell me all the dirty little things you did to yourself.”
“I—I can’t. Feels too good. Don’t stop.”
“Trust me, I’m not. I can’t,” I admit, emphasizing it with a punishing thrust. “Can’t stop this, can’t stop thinking about you, obsessing over you. What are you doing to me, Kiera?”
She moans, loudly, so freely as if we’re not in public where anyone could hear us. “I don’t know—I don’t know what this is.”
Hand trailing up her figure, I encase it around her jaw, forcing her to look me in the eye. “It’s insanity. This”—thrust—“Us”—thrust—“It’s fucking insanity. But I want it . . . I want you.”
Still. Fucking. Want. Her.
Still need her.
Need her to find me like she promised so I can have my damned Kiera DuBois fix.
My brain fully understands how ridiculous and asinine this whole fixation is, but my body, that burning in my chest, the way it consumed me . . .
I can’t do without it.
Another manic, frustrated groan rips free from my chest as I jet out of bed and barrel into the bathroom for a shower. Not that it’s any better beneath the scalding spray. I can practically see Kiera thrown up against the white tiles as she takes every inch.
Her nails clawing down my back.
Moans bouncing off the walls.
That sweet little voice of hers telling me she wants me to defile her every godforsaken day.
Fuck.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I clasp the crucifix around my neck and pray—for strength, for clarity, for fucking sanity . . .
Half hour later, I find myself a block away from my church. Despite what happened with Father Lacerra the last time I was here, my entire being begs for confession. I don’t know how I’m going to manage actually confessing all that’s lead me here again so soon, but I’ll make it work.
If you lie, you’re not truly confessing, you idiot.
I know, I fucking know, I war with myself as I cross the street, scrubbing a hand down my face.
Not paying attention to shit, which is why I don’t see the body that slams into me until we collide.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so—”
That voice.
Snapping my head up in double time, I met by those luminous, silvery irises.
Then that blood rushing smirk.
My eyes bulge.
“Kiera?”
I couldn’t sound more astounded if I tried. “What are you doing here?”
That smirk spreads into one hell of a gorgeous smile. “Just finishing up my morning run. What about you?”
I heard the question, I swear it, but my gaze has fallen down the curve of her figure in a sensual sweep.
Pink sports bra jutting up her full tits.
Pink leggings molded to every dip and swell.
Even in sneakers and workout gear with her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, this woman looks like a fucking goddess.
A flushed, sweaty goddess that I’d like to turn inside out while I wrap that fucking ponytail around my fist.
“Maverick?” Her sweet little voice grapples my attention once more.
I drag my stare up to hers, noting that plump lower lip now caught between her teeth.
Goddamn.
The urge to scoop her up in my arms and kiss the living shit out of her is nearly impossible to subdue. Especially when she’s looking at me like that—like she wants me to, coaxing me to do so as she steps into my bubble and gazes up at me beneath long lashes.
“This is my church,” I blurt in distraction, motioning toward St. Peter’s that sits across the street.
Kiera cuts her eyes to the sacred building for a brief moment before pinning them back on me. “You’re Catholic?”
Yeah, a shit one, my brain screams but I nod nonetheless. “Born and raised.”
“Interesting,” she coos, glancing toward the building once more.
“How so?”
“I don’t really believe in a higher power.”
The comment rings almost false to my ears. Yet why would it? I know next-to-nothing about the woman in front of me.
Other than this distracting, virulent need to lick every glistening inch of her.
Thinking like this right before the church. Then again, I was guaranteed to be thinking about her like this inside it and that was before bumping into her.
Kiera’s head turns back in my direction, studying my chest, as if she can see the crucifix hidden by my shirt. “A good Catholic boy, then? Interesting . . .”
Why I find myself offended by that comment is beyond me. “I think we both know I’m far from being a ‘good boy’.”
She likes that, the curve of her lips makes it obvious, and my dick really likes that she does. “But you try to be.”
It’s an observation that takes me by surprise. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well . . .” She twists side-to-side a bit, every inch of her oozing flirtation, and I find myself gravitating closer against my will—against my common sense. “You are a cop, after all.”
“Detective,” I correct softly, eyes on her lips.
“Detective,” she breathes in a sultry tone.
I’m going to fucking eat her alive the next time I get my hands on her. The resolution sits heavy in my gut.
In my stupid chest.
Before, my heart raced at the sight of her due to pure lust. Now, something else is going on, and it makes no freaking sense.
Although, we can’t control who our emotions attach themselves to, regardless of circumstances or lack of knowledge about them.
“Do you usually jog around here?” I’ve never seen her in this neighborhood before. Has nothing to do with just meeting her. A woman this sexy? I would’ve honed in on her instantly had she ever passed by at the same time as me.
“Actually, the gym I go to is nearby.”
“I would think that monster-home of yours has its own gym.”
Her lips part in a laugh. My entire life I’ve rushed after those small moments of glory provided to me by the church—the hymns echoing off the cavernous ceiling, the sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass, proving to me that awe is very real—but this is the first time I experience it through another person.
Provided by another person.
Her smile transforms everything, not just her expression but the atmosphere surrounding us.
“Oh, Maverick. Of course it does. But that’s just weight-lifting, regular cardio. Besides, who wants to be cooped up at home all the time?”
“Guess I can see that,” I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets. My mind is running away from me, eyes trailing her in manic, starving sweeps.
Fuck. Just to have her again. To get my lips on her pussy for the first time . . .
My gaze trails to the stone steps leading to the entrance of the church, and suddenly I’m lost to the fantasy.
Leading her toward them.
Lips locked in those wild, messy kisses.
It’s also daylight in this fantasy and every ray makes the curves, the angles of her skin, glow with that sexy sheen of sweat.
I urge her to lean back on the stairs, licking up that delicious, salty moisture, taking her taste into me, hands frantic as I yank her pants down her hips. My tongue is coated in her, yet it isn’t the part of her I’m dying to lap up.
Not yet.
Simply imagining my tongue lost in her wet heat leaves the tip of my dick slick with pre-come. She’s whimpering for me, rocking urgently, helping me get those pink tights off.
As if she knows where I’m heading.
As if she’s as impatient for me to be there.
Her pants are thrown over my shoulder, right onto the sidewalk, and I force her thighs wide for my tongue.
She leans back, chest racing, moaning my name . . .
“Maverick—Maverick.”
I’m torn back to reality in a wild rush, my breaths choked, my expression probably savage.
Kiera nibbles on the corner of her lip and steps all the way into me, soft curves nearly pressed to my rabid hardness. Mesmerizing eyes suck me in, straight into the insane vortex that is her, and I practically jump out of my skin when she runs her index finger down my chest.
First, over the bulge of the crucifix beneath my shirt.
Then, lower, over quivering abs.
Standing on her tiptoes, she presses the corner of her lips to my own in a whisper of a kiss.
It’s like hellfire rushing beneath my skin, igniting the fantasies on full blast. Her scent barrels into me on an even more scorching wave. My stare flickers up to the church, mind in ashes. Why Jesus? Why?
Kiera bounces back to her feet, smile gleeful, eyes playful. “See you around, baby.”
I turn as she walks around me, choking on my own saliva at the view of her ass in those tights. “Wait. When am I seeing you again?”
Half-turning, she aims that mind-scrambling grin at me. “How about next time you find me?” A kiss is blown over her shoulder, then she faces away, crossing the street faster than I can call for her.
I want to. Lord help me, I want to.
Watching her go, yet again, brings out my inner brat. The one that wants to chase her, rail at her to stay.
There’s still some common sense in me, though. Enough to ground me to the spot. Heaving a breath, I rub the spot where her lips just were, fighting the urge to lick it for a hint of her taste.
Shit. Gotta go into confession like this now. With a dick so hard it’s about to tent my pants.
Fucking great. Kiera DuBois strikes again.
I should be used to it by now, no?
“Honor your father and mother, ‘that it may go well with you and that you may live long in the land.” - Ephesians 6:2-3
Yet again, Father Lacerra had fuck all to say to me.
I mean, I had fuck all to say to him, too, what with the hail of crap I’m keeping under wraps, but still. To say I was angry with the priest would only be putting it lightly, and yet, in the same hand, I don’t understand why the hell I was expecting a different answer.
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
Regardless, even in my foul mood, I finally make the time to go see my mom.
Not the smartest decision considering how easily she can set me off, but to avoid another indignant, blame-riddled phone call, I throw on one of my best suits and ride out to her home with the settin
g sun.
The drive there is silent and I’m all but suffocating from the sheer amount of anxiety clogging the air, death-gripping the steering wheel. I’m nervous to see her again. The last time I visited, we got into a huge disagreement that resulted in me storming out after exchanging some words, and I almost turned to the drink after the fact.
But I was stronger then, had more awareness and self-control. Was nowhere near the precipice of lunacy as I am now.
Should we disagree again, though, I know I won’t be able to resist the numbing temptation of my vice. Well, one of my vices anyway—because Kiera is definitely another one, and since I can’t have her either . . .
Fuck, this is going to be a goddamn disaster.
Pulling up in Mom’s driveway, I say a silent prayer as I stare at the front door and throw the car into park. Takes an actual minute or two before I’m following the walkway to the small porch, idly noting the cobblestones really need a good pressure wash. I make a mental reminder to call someone about that this week and hustle up the steps. Toe-to-toe with the door, I reach out for the doorbell, only to hesitate a mere millimeter away.
Do I really want to do this right now?
Evidently, I don’t have a choice, because the door swings wide open before I have even a moment to mull it over.
“How did you know I was—”
“I know everything, Maverick. I’m your mother,” she interjects, looking as prim and proper as always.
“Right.” I nod, gingerly stepping inside as she motions for me to enter.
Angling her head, she waits patiently for a proper greeting, regarding me from the corner of her green eyes. I make quick work of stamping a kiss on her cheek and adjust my tie. God forbid it’s even slightly off-center.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of getting to see your handsome face today?” she asks, clicking the locks in place.
“I told you I’d come visit last time you called, didn’t I?”
“No need for the haughty attitude, Maverick. I was simply asking a perfectly acceptable question considering how seldom you visit.”
And as I step further into her home, the why I seldomly make my rounds here is still clear as day. Just seeing images of him still plastered on the walls, traces of his vile presence scattered about, singes my blood to a scorching degree.
Corrupted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Two Page 6
