Intense: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  He leaned forward, putting a hand over my mouth.

  “Quiet,” he said in my ear. I could hear the laugher in his voice. “Don’t want our parents to hear, do we?”

  “Easton, fuck me,” I groaned.

  He began to work his hips, his hand over my mouth. I reached up above my head and grabbed the arm of the couch, holding on as he fucked me.

  I rolled my hips, grinding myself against him as his cock thrust deep inside me. He looked me in the eyes as he fucked me, his hand over my mouth. I moaned into his hand with wild abandon, losing myself completely in his smell, his body.

  I could feel my orgasm coming on heavy and hard. I bit down on his finger and he grunted with pain.

  “Be nice,” he growled as he fucked me harder, rougher.

  “I’m close,” I said.

  “Come on this fat cock then,” he grunted. He began to fuck me rough, deep, and hard, and I tipped my head back, letting the pleasure wash over me.

  And then the orgasm hit, convulsive and incredible. Each new thrust of his sent shocks down my spine, making my muscles contract. My mind went blank with total pleasure, entirely and completely free.

  Slowly it ebbed and began to slide away. He smiled down at me. “That’s good,” he said. “And now it’s my turn.”

  I nodded, breathing deeply, my heart pounding. He moved back onto his knees and held my legs up, slamming his cock even deeper inside me.

  “Oh fuck, Easton,” I gasped.

  He fucked me rough and without mercy. I loved it, loved the sweat dripping down our bodies, loved the serious look on his face as he looked at my tits, my lips, my face.

  “Come on,” I moaned. “Fill my pussy. Fuck me deep.”

  “You want me to fill you up?”

  “Fill me, Easton. Fuck my pussy.”

  “I want you to swallow this load. I want you to swallow my cum.”

  “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Fuck, girl,” he groaned. “I love hearing those words.”

  “Come whenever you want. I’m yours.”

  “Shit,” he gasped. He kept slamming into me, thrusting deep and hard, his whole muscular body taught with anticipation.

  And then he pulled out, tearing off the condom. I moved toward him as he brought his cock into my mouth.

  He thrust once, twice, and then his hot cum filled my throat.

  “Oh my god,” he groaned, orgasming hard. I sucked him, working him as he came in my mouth.

  I swallowed every single drop.

  Slowly, his orgasm subsided, and he collapsed onto the floor.

  I slid off the couch and curled up next to him. I loved the feeling of our naked, sweat-drenched bodies together.

  There was nothing else in that moment but me and him. I forgot all about the murders, the danger, the anger, and the pain.

  There was just us.

  I didn’t know what we were, but I knew I wanted more of it.

  20

  Easton

  The woods were lovely, dark, and deep as I wound my way up along the same dirt road from the day before. Visions of Laney’s delicious body danced in my head as I pulled up to the clearing where I first saw the body of Luisa Suarez.

  I’d spent the day getting in touch with Sheriff Sloan, which was a surprisingly difficult thing to do. Then again, he was a small town sheriff with some huge murder cases on his docket, and he was probably busier than he’d ever been in his whole life.

  Meanwhile, I was in and out of bed with Laney. Since our parents both had to go to work, we were free to roam the house, to explore each other as much as we wanted. Twenty-four hours of fucking pleasure and sweaty sex meant I was cleaned out and clear-headed in a way I hadn’t expected.

  I thought she was a distraction. I thought she was something I needed to get beyond, to get past, if I was going to do my job. But I was beginning to see that Laney was so much more than that.

  I parked my car and climbed out. Sloan’s truck was a few feet away, and as soon as I got out, he opened his door.

  “Easton,” he said.

  “Sloan.”

  We shook hands.

  “Why the fuck am I out here?” he asked.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Luisa Suarez.”

  “I figured.” He gave me a serious look. “It’s dark and I’ve had a long day, so let’s make this fast.”

  “Did you bring what I asked?”

  He nodded. “All the pictures you could possibly want.” He held out a manila folder.

  I took it from him. “Come on.”

  I walked off toward the tree where Luisa was found, Sloan in tow. We stopped in front of the spot and stared in silence together. Without the body, it was just another tree standing in a small clearing. There was nothing significant about it, not since the scene had been cleared by forensics.

  But we both knew that only two days earlier, it had been the spot of a grisly, gruesome murder. It still held weight, almost as if the residue of the horrible crime still hung thick in the air.

  I opened the folder and began to page through the pictures. I stopped when I found what I was looking for.

  “Remember this?” I asked Sloan, holding up the photo.

  “Of course. We still have no clue what ‘TON’ means, though we have some theories.”

  I nodded. “I know what it means.”

  He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “You could have told me over the phone instead of bringing me out here, son.”

  “No. I needed you to see. Otherwise I’m not sure you’d believe me.”

  “Okay then. Go on.”

  I took a deep breath, not sure if I was doing the right thing or not. “Which way was Luisa’s body facing?” I asked him.

  He pointed. “That way. Her back was up against this tree.”

  “Right. And which direction is that?”

  He thought for a second. “East, more or less.”

  “Right. Luisa was facing east, and this sign said ‘TON.’ Sheriff, I think this was a message for me.”

  He looked at me silently for a minute, maybe more. “So you think the killer was spelling your name.”

  I nodded. “It was just obvious enough for me to find it, but not too obvious for someone else to notice.”

  “I have to admit, it’s a tempting theory.”

  “You know about my involvement with the original case.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you know how close to all this I am. I think whoever is doing this is coming after me.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.” I paused and paged through the photographs. “There’s one more thing.”

  “You’ve been busy,” he muttered.

  “This one wasn’t me, actually.” I stopped when I found what I was looking for and pulled the picture out. One glance confirmed my suspicions. “How much of the original case file did you see?”

  “Some. Not much. What the FBI sent had a lot of redactions.”

  “That’s because I still have the original.” I held up a hand when I saw the look on his face. “Sorry, Sloan. I didn’t know who to trust.”

  “Jesus, Easton. You said you were going to share that with us. I figured you didn’t have it.”

  “I’m sharing it now. I didn’t know who to trust with this. But look.” I pointed at the picture. “See this? Her left hand. The pinky finger is cut all the way to the bottom.” I fished in my pocket and pulled out a photocopied picture. “This is from one of the original killings. Left hand, pinky finger cut only to the second knuckle.”

  Sloan studied the pictures. “So what does this prove?”

  “We never released the detail about the pinky. It was meant to prove whoever we caught was the real killer.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “So whoever is doing this killing is very intimate with the case, but not an insider.”

  “Right. I think it rules out someone that worked with Seed originally, or Seed himself.”


  Sloan shook his head, handing the pictures back to me. “This is a lot to take in, Easton. And you holding back information from us is a big deal.”

  “I’m aware. But I think I can narrow down the number of suspects to just a few.”

  “And are these people you’ll let me investigate?”

  I nodded. “No more secrets, Sheriff. I want to catch this mother fucker.”

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “So do I.”

  We stood there in silence for another minute, surveying the scene together. Anger rushed through me again, anger at the killer, and a profound sadness for all the lives lost.

  Back during the original Seed case, I hadn’t meant to kill him. That was self-defense. But if I got another chance, I’d go ahead and do it all again. I’d pull that trigger without a second thought.

  I handed Sloan his file back, turned, and walked back to my car.

  “Send me those names,” he called after me.

  I just waved, climbing into my car.

  My mind was still on Laney as I drove home, despite my conversation with Sloan.

  I knew I should be working the case harder, but I also knew that I couldn’t do it alone. Laney had made me realize that. I had seen something in her from the start, saw that she was smart as hell and braver than I could have guessed. But it wasn’t until she’d noticed a detail that I had completely overlooked that I realized just how close to the case I was, and just how much I needed her help.

  Part of me wished she were just the normal college girl that she seemed. I wished she was boring, regular, nothing special. That way I wouldn’t be spiraling into something with her, spiraling into the deep-seeded want for her body.

  As I drove, it became clearer and clearer to me that I needed to come clean to her.

  For as long as I could remember since the case, I had been holding in a secret. It was something that I swore I’d never tell anyone, something I swore I’d take to my grave. But I knew that it was an important detail, and something that Laney should probably know. She may even make a connection that I was overlooking.

  Still, I wasn’t going to tell Sloan. I’d have to make her promise to keep it to herself; otherwise, everything I’d gone through would be for nothing. Whether I could trust her or not wasn’t totally clear, but I knew I had to take the chance.

  If I was going to catch the bastard, I had to do everything I could.

  Now, I had Sloan working with me. He knew just about as much as I did, and he would likely have more resources. Once he had the full case file, maybe he’d even be able to crack the fucking thing.

  Ultimately, I didn’t care who caught the guy, so long as he was caught and the killings stopped.

  I hated asking for help. I hated needing help. But I knew I needed Laney and the police department. I wasn’t in the FBI anymore. I didn’t have a partner or the resources that I had once been used to.

  I turned into the driveway to our house. The lights were mostly off, and our parents still weren’t home. I knew Laney was upstairs somewhere, and she had better have the security system set.

  I climbed out of my car and walked up toward the front door.

  I almost overlooked it. I almost walked right past it. But luckily, as I glanced down to pick out the door key from my keychain, I noticed the small brown envelope on the ground right next to the doormat.

  It didn’t have any writing or postage. I bent over and gingerly picked it up.

  It felt light, but there was something clearly inside it.

  Curious, I tore open the top and reached inside.

  It was square and plastic-feeling. I pulled it out.

  My fucking heart almost stopped.

  I dropped it instantly, my eyes wide, shock ringing through my core.

  On the ground, staring up at me, was my dead partner’s face immortalized in his FBI badge.

  Martin’s FBI badge.

  My old partner’s badge sat alone on my front door step, staring back at me from the past.

  21

  Laney

  I heard the door open downstairs and the alarm go off. Fear shot through me briefly until the system was disabled a second later.

  “Dad?” I called out. “Easton?”

  I walked down the stairs and saw him. He looked haggard, and the look in his eyes sent shivers down my spine.

  “Easton, what’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I . . . fuck,” he mumbled, trailing off. He held out a brown envelope.

  I took it and looked inside. Worry flooded my mind. I’d never seen Easton speechless before, much less not trying to hide it. Inside the envelope, I found a plastic badge and pulled it out.

  “Martin Rodriguez? Is this your partner?”

  He nodded slowly. “That’s his badge.”

  “How could his badge end up here?”

  “I don’t know, Laney. I found it outside on the steps.”

  It hit me immediately. “The killer?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. The killer.”

  Chills ran down my spine. “He was here.”

  “Right outside.”

  “Easton.” My eyes went wide. “What does this mean?”

  The fear in his expression was slowly being replaced by anger and exhaustion. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Come on.” He led me away from the door and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed himself a beer, cracking it open. I shook my head when he offered me one. “It’s a long story,” he said, sitting down across from me.

  “I read about what happened. In the files.”

  “The files are wrong.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Aren’t they based on what you said happened?”

  “Laney,” he said slowly, “I lied about what happened that night.”

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  He sighed. “Most of what I said happened, but one key detail is different. Just . . . listen.”

  I sat back, afraid and mystified, as he began to talk. I could see it all, every detail, almost like a movie in my head.

  Martin was older, in his fifties, and was on his way out, which was part of why they matched him up with Easton to begin with. Easton figured they wanted to try to teach him something, maybe give him some wisdom from the old guard.

  The only thing Easton had learned so far was that Martin hated the rain.

  “It’s always like this when we’re on a stakeout,” he grumbled.

  “Nah,” Easton said. “It’s just that you only ever notice when it is.”

  Martin gave him a look. “I know the psychology behind it, kid.”

  Easton just shrugged and leaned back in his seat. He’d been on edge, heavily on edge, ever since they’d pulled up outside the totally boring suburban house. They’d been sitting there for a few hours,

  “Where the hell are they?” Martin said after a long stretch of silence.

  “They’re coming,” Easton replied.

  “We called over an hour ago. There’s no reason they’re not here yet.”

  “We did say that it wasn’t important,” Easton said.

  “So? We’re the fucking FBI. When we call, you come running.”

  “Could be something else happening. It’s a small town, after all.”

  Martin just cursed and crossed his arms.

  Easton knew what that look meant, and he had a bad feeling. The years had not tempered Martin’s impatience or his hatred of murderers. In fact, as far as Easton could tell, Martin was one of the most intense and passionate agents in his section.

  Still, it was his case. Easton had tracked this scumbag, had gotten so obsessed that he began to think like that guy. He had found the new body, had found the extra evidence. It was his operation.

  But that never mattered to Martin.

  “We have to wait,” Easton said. “We need backup before we talk with this guy.”

  “Come on, kid, haven�
�t I taught you anything?” Martin said. “This is just some old, fat fucking guy. We’re not even here to arrest him.”

  “Still,” Easton said, “he’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe. We’re not sure he’s the killer.”

  “He is. DNA doesn’t lie.”

  “Okay,” Martin said, “maybe he is. How do you think he’ll react when a cop car pulls up outside his house?”

  Easton sighed, shaking his head. “Come on, Mart. Forget it.”

  “Fuck it,” Martin said, opening the door. “I’m going.”

  “Martin, fuck you. Wait!”

  But Martin had already climbed out of the car.

  Easton had no other choice. He followed quickly, his nerves flaring. They were about to come face to face with a killer, and Martin barely seemed to care.

  He caught up with Martin, and they ascended the front steps together. Martin opened the screen door and knocked a few times on the thick, green wooden door.

  They waited, Easton leaning back on his heels. He subtly checked his gun, heart pounding.

  The door opened a crack. “Yes?”

  That voice. Those eyes. Easton’s heart was hammering like crazy. It was him. It had to be him. It was the killer Easton had been tracking for so damn long, had put so much energy into capturing.

  “Lester Seed?” Martin asked.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Seed, my name is Special Agent Rodriguez, and this here is—”

  The door slammed shut and Easton heard running inside the house.

  “Shit,” Martin said. “Probable cause?”

  Easton didn’t have a chance to reply, because Martin was already shoving open the door. Seed hadn’t locked it in his rush.

  The rain started coming down heavier.

  They moved into the house.

  The first thing that struck Easton was how normal it looked. The man that lived there, Lester Seed, was a long-time serial killer. He was one of the most successful and sickest killers out there, and yet his home looked like any other middle class, white collar worker’s.

  Clean living room. Clean kitchen. Pictures on the walls. There was a sound toward the back of the house.