Conor squeezed the bridge of his nose and willed away the slight headache building behind his eyes. “So what about the cards themselves? Do any of them have particularly malevolent indications?”
“An individual card has many potential meanings. It’s not until it is dealt alongside other cards that you can begin to interpret. You might think Death was a bad card to see but it is simply about endings, though that can include the ending of a life. What everyone seems to forget, however, is that the Death card is not exclusively about the end of a human life. In fact, it’s far more likely that the card is telling you that a goldfish or a houseplant will die. Death can mean the ‘end’ of anything—the end of an era, the end of a trip, the closing of a restaurant, the conclusion of a very rough week. Any and all of these—as well as a million more possible interpretations—can be applied to the Death card. So it is foolish to fear it for the fact that, once in a great while, it will let you know that some sick, elderly relative might not be long for this world.”
Conor sat quietly for a moment. He was increasingly convinced that the cards were, at best, a minor clue and, at worst, a deliberate distraction.
“Well, Ruby, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help.” He stood up and made to leave.
“Just a moment. Indulge an old lady.” Ruby produced a faded tarot deck and handed him the cards. “Shuffle them and cut them.”
Conor did as he’d been asked with a smile. “I’ll let myself out, Ruby. I don’t want to know what the cards say about me.”
“Okay, love. Good luck with your case. Come back any time.” She began to place cards on the table and turn them over.
Conor paused in the hall to dig the car keys from his pocket.
“My goodness! All kinds of trouble ahead for you, my dear.”
Ruby’s words were loud enough to reach Conor as he opened the front door. He resisted the urge to turn back and ask for an explanation. Letting a card reading affect him was not going to help the investigation one little bit.
Darkness had descended and firmly established itself as Conor walked to his car. He scanned the quiet street and though he saw nothing suspicious, his senses itched with uncertainty. The drive home was uneventful and initially there was enough traffic that it was impossible to tell if anyone was following him. When he reached the quieter roads close to home, he noticed lights behind him. The car kept a steady distance but followed him all the way to the turning into Alex’s road. Conor drove past the turning and took a circuitous route around the block. The car behind him pulled over and the lights disappeared. Either his suspicions had been unfounded or whoever was on his tail was careful. When he got home, the house was in darkness, but as Conor slid his key into the lock, the security lights in the neighbor’s garden flashed on. He turned, half expecting to be attacked, then chuckled at his own paranoia as next door’s cat glared at him and slipped away between the bushes.
He still locked the door behind him then wandered through the house to check all the windows and the rear doors for any signs of tampering. There were no indications of anything amiss and he relaxed a little, but the house felt empty without Alex and so did he. He made hot chocolate, lit the fire to ward off the chilly evening then settled in front of the television to wait for Alex to call. When the phone did ring, he was shocked out of a light doze. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was only ten o’clock but his grainy eyes felt like they had been open for days. He grabbed the remote and turned off the television then picked up the phone.
“Hello?” His voice was a little groggy.
“Someone needs an early night.”
“Alex! How’s Scotland?”
“You’re not here. How do you think it is?”
Conor smiled to himself. “Lonely, if you feel the way I do. I miss you.”
They talked for a while about the case. Conor carefully avoided mentioning his suspicions about being followed or his name on the anonymous letter. That could wait until Alex was home.
“Enough talk about work.” Alex’s voice sounded a little rough around the edges. “Take the phone upstairs and put it on loudspeaker.”
“Why?”
“Don’t argue with me, Conor. Do as you’re told.”
Conor’s cock twitched and began to harden at Alex’s tone. He climbed the stairs and laid the phone on the dresser in their bedroom.
“Ok, I’m here. What’s going on?”
“Stop asking questions and focus on obeying me. Take your clothes off. Slowly. Describe what you are doing.”
Conor hesitated, and Alex’s voice cut through the silence like a whip, “Do it!”
“Okay, I’m barefoot already so I’ll start with the tie. Sliding it off now.” As Conor undressed he described, in a faltering voice, exactly what he was doing.
“I wish I was there to wrap it around your eyes. Shirt next.”
How is it that he can exert so much control just through the tone of his voice? Why do I want to please him so badly? In fact, he had to. The need was so deeply established it was part of the fiber of his being. It didn’t stop Conor feeling just a little annoyed at his own compliance.
“I’ve unbuttoned my shirt. I’m taking it off now.” A hint of resistance must have been reflected in his voice as he described the brush of fabric against his skin.
“Make your tone more respectful,” Alex snapped. “And stop rolling those pretty eyes.”
Conor flushed like a naughty schoolboy. “Bloody hell. Alex, do you have a camera hidden in the bedroom?”
There was a snort down the line. “I just know you too well, brat. Now drop your trousers.”
“Fine. I’m unbuckling my belt and drawing it though the loops. These trousers are a little loose. They’re slipping down onto my hips.” He snicked the button open. “I’ve dropped them to the floor, no wriggling required.”
“Stand with your legs apart and clasp your hands behind your back. Now tell me, what underwear do you have on? How hard are you?”
“You know what I have on, Alex. You watched me dress this morning,” Conor responded, before his mind could catch up.
“You seem to have a problem doing what I ask tonight, Conor. Show some respect or your punishment will be severe.”
Conor swallowed and stood a little straighter.
“Midnight blue silk, Sir. They feel light and soft against my skin.” The ‘Sir’ had slipped out of its own volition, and Conor could imagine the smug grin that would be pasted on Alex’s face. “I’m painfully hard, burning hot, dripping pre-cum. I want to touch myself… My balls ache…” He was taking short, shallow breaths. The planes of his stomach trembled with the effort of keeping his body in check.
Alex spoke in a low murmur. “I’m lying on my bed, naked. I’m stroking myself—your face, your body, in my mind. I wish your hands were on me, your lips pressed around my cock. My skin feels warm and velvety…” He gave an evil chuckle as Conor moaned his frustration. “Remove your underwear and resume your position.”
The silk made no sound as it hit the floor.
“I can see your cock…pale and smooth, twitching with need. Do you want to touch it, Conor?”
“Yes. Please, Sir…”
“No! Not yet.” The command was sharp. “Go to the top drawer of the dresser. I’ve left something there for you.”
Conor padded across the room and slid open the drawer. Glass glinted in the lamplight and for a moment he didn’t realize what he was looking at.
“Take it and go and stand next to the bed. Don’t forget the lube.”
Alex’s voice jolted Conor into movement. The dildo in his hand was fat and long, fashioned beautifully from a seamless piece of solid glass. It was cool but warmed rapidly at his touch.
“Assume whatever position is comfortable and slide it inside you. Tell me how it feels.” Alex’s voice was abrupt, as if he was having difficulty focusing on his words.
Conor snapped open the lube and applied it to the glass. “It�
�s so big, heavy. It glistens in the light now it’s coated with lube.”
“Take your time. Relax. Let your body accept it.”
Conor couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him as he pushed the tip of the dildo into his channel.
“Christ, it feels huge. I wish you were here, putting it in me.” He had to stop talking as the slick glass inched into him more easily than he’d expected. He panted softly as his hole stretched to accommodate such an inflexible invader. He shuddered as the flat circle of glass at the back end of the implement settled against his flesh. There was no chance of the thing slipping out. That was certain.
“It’s in me, Sir. So deep…”
“Sit on the edge of the bed, clasp your hands behind your back and rock backwards and forwards.” Alex sounded tense, as if he was holding himself back physically.
Conor swore as his swaying motion pushed the glass inside him against his gland. It wasn’t the same as the friction he got from Alex’s cock, more like an insistent pressure that was inescapable.
“Fuck!” He spread his legs wider and moaned. “Please, Alex, I need to touch myself. This is torture.” He bit down hard on his lower lip, hoping the pain would distract him from the fire building inside his body.
“I wish I could see you now, flustered, desperate, begging. I’m so fucking hard just thinking about that thing inside you. I’d love to have you in my mouth, suck you hard and slow, while you feel it stretching you.”
“Sir, please!” Conor was close to tears, muscles quivering.
“Very well, my love. Go ahead.”
Two sharp tugs were all it took. Conor screamed his release as liquid heat spattered his thighs and stomach. He collapsed back on the bed, body limp, heart pounding.
A cry of relief sounded from the phone.
“Thank God! I couldn’t have held on much longer!”
“You? Bloody hell, Alex, you aren’t the one sitting on a fucking glass pole!”
“It sounded like such exquisite agony. I can’t wait to see you do that again when I am actually in the room.”
“You’ll be lucky!” Conor relaxed and removed the toy, still shocked at how big it really was. He felt sore, in a good way—thoroughly fucked, in fact.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Sleep well, my love. I’m sure your dreams tonight will be special.” Alex sounded smug.
“Love you. See you tomorrow.”
Conor ended the call then collapsed back onto the bed. His skin felt overheated and sensitive. His arse ached. He had to move, had to get to the bathroom and get rid of the stickiness that seemed to have gotten everywhere.
He ran a bath and poured in a big dollop of bubble bath. The foam expanded into little mountains of shiny bubbles, tiny rainbows reflecting in every surface. He lit a couple of candles then stepped into the water. Sinking into the heat had him sighing in contentment. The only thing that would have made the experience better was if Alex had been there with him. He liked nothing more than to lie in warm, scented water with Alex’s firm body supporting him.
Conor washed with a soft sponge then shampooed his hair. He let his mind drift back to his meeting with Ruby. He had little time for superstition or anything that played on the weakness of vulnerable people. Ruby was an exception. He liked the old biddy. The con artists who abused the cards were a whole different breed but the skills they employed as they plied their dirty trade could easily be extended to a killer—distraction, manipulation, cunning… All traits that the Tarot Killer seemed to have in spades.
“Distraction is the key here. We’re being led down a path of the killer’s choosing—I can feel it.” He rinsed his hair and it felt strangely symbolic. He needed to flush away the fog that the tarot cards were generating and look past the distraction. When it came down to it, killers were ordinary people with ordinary motivations—greed, jealousy, revenge. These were much more likely to be at the root of the crimes than some psychotic maniac with a penchant for archaic symbolism.
Conor toweled off and resolved to take a fresh look at the case notes first thing in the morning. If he put aside all the hints and suggestions that came with the tarot cards, maybe he’d get a more realistic picture of the situation. He clambered into bed, feeling content in body and mind. The empty side of the bed reminded him of Alex’s absence but the sheets smelled of his lover. He grabbed one of Alex’s pillows and hugged it close, breathing in his scent. It was only one night. With any luck, his dreams would feature Alex rather than the Tarot Killer.
Chapter Six
Conor got to work early the next morning and buried himself in research. Alex was catching a flight which, delays allowing, would get him back to the station by ten-thirty at the latest. An invisible force seemed to hold back the hands of the clock. Conor found himself glancing up at it more and more, wondering if he needed to check the battery. His excited anticipation of seeing his lover again was tempered by the knowledge that the first thing Alex would likely look at was Sarge’s full report from the previous day. He fidgeted in his seat.
What can he do? Yell a lot. That I can deal with… It’s kind of sexy.
His phone rang and he jumped. He caught Sergeant Higgs’ eye as he picked up the receiver. Higgs began to mime some kind of elaborate death scene, and Conor had to choke back a laugh as he answered the call.
“Get your arse up here. Now.”
Conor winced as the call abruptly cut off before he had the chance to respond.
“Was that the boss?” Higgs called across the office.
“Yes, Sarge. I think your mime might be about to come true. His first words were not ‘I missed you’.” Conor crossed to the kitchen. He made a large mug of strong coffee as a peace offering then headed for the stairs.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit out ready,” Higgs called after him.
Conor hurried up three flights of stairs as fast as he could without spilling coffee everywhere. Alex’s door stood open. As Conor hovered in the opening, he could see Alex’s overnight bag dumped in a corner of the small room. Alex stood in front of his desk with what looked like Higgs’ report in his hands. He wore charcoal gray trousers, a light blue shirt and a conservative navy tie. His blond hair was attractively tousled, and Conor hardened at the sight of him. He edged into the room and placed the mug of coffee on the corner of the desk. Alex watched, his pale blue eyes cold as ice.
“Do you seriously think that will help you?” Alex gestured at the coffee.
“It was worth a try.” Conor stood straight with his hands clasped behind him while Alex closed the door with a soft, somehow disturbing, click.
Alex perched on the edge of his desk and glared daggers.
“I’m absolutely fascinated to hear what possible reason you could have for not telling me that my boyfriend is the new best friend of a sadistic, murdering creep.” His voice was soft. Too soft.
Conor swallowed. “That’s why, sir. Because I’m your boyfriend.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It was just a letter, Alex. Sorry…sir. It could have been addressed to any one of us. It’s just another piece of the puzzle.”
Alex growled deep in his throat. “It wasn’t addressed to just anyone. It was addressed to you, and Higgs reports that you also think you may have been followed.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that. It was just a feeling. I didn’t see anyone. It shouldn’t make a difference. What would it have looked like if you’d come running back from Scotland because your boyfriend received a strange letter?”
“Who says I would have?”
Conor managed a small smile. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck. Of course I would.” Alex began to pace backward and forward across the office. It was a small room and it didn’t take him more than four strides in each direction. “I couldn’t give a shit what people think.”
“Well, I could. This is your career we’re talking about.”
Conor’s back hit the wall with a thud as Alex slammed him against it. His l
ips were crushed by a kiss that was all about Alex reasserting control. Conor didn’t fight him. He ignored the scrape of stubble across his face, the sharp pain of teeth nipping his bottom lip and focused on not coming in his underwear.
Alex pulled away, gasping. “You are confined to the office, Detective, until I say otherwise. Now get your arse back to work before I give you the spanking you deserve.”
Conor bolted. Alex had never touched him at work before but he had no doubt that the threat would be carried through if he didn’t do exactly as he was told. More worrying was that the whole idea turned him on.
Alex sat behind his desk and tried to calm down. He reached for the mug of coffee that Conor had left behind and gave himself a mental slap. He knew he wasn’t being rational—Conor was absolutely right—but his over-protectiveness did not have an off-switch. Even a hint that Conor’s safety was threatened turned him into a one hundred percent dominant alpha male. Most days he hovered around the eighty percent mark. He hoped.
He sipped his drink. “Mmm. Not bad. Not good enough to avoid punishment, but not bad.”
He sifted through the files on his desk and pulled out the autopsy report on the murder victim. Cause of death was recorded as a single stab-wound to the heart—the multiple other wounds had been inflicted post mortem. There was no indication of a struggle, other than some bruising around the mouth. Chemical evidence suggested chloroform had been used to render Sam Teller unconscious prior to his murder.
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