Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2]

by Felicia Forella

  "No, I'm just trying to make sure you don't change your mind."

  "Not a chance in hell that'll happen. Especially not now."

  He stretched out beside her, the heat from his body warming hers. She wanted him naked and next to her. “I showed you mine. Now it's time for you to show me yours. Aren't you going to take your shorts off?” She dipped her finger into the waistband and tugged.

  "No, or I'll jump you here and now.” His fingers circled her wrist, allowing her to feel the coiled tension.

  "That's the general idea."

  "Slow down, relax.” He brushed the hair off of her face, causing her skin to tingle from the gentle touch. “We've got all night."

  She didn't get it. She'd hoped he'd be all over her once he learned she'd been celibate for so many years. Time to try a new tactic. Rising up, she looped her arms around his neck, the action bringing bare skin to bare skin. The light dusting of dark brown hair on his pecs roughed up her nipples in a delicious way. She bit down on his chin, delving her tongue into the sexy cleft. Moving up, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and scraped it with her teeth. He rewarded her with a growl. Her hand went to his lap, squeezing his erection. She wanted to see it up close and personal. With an acrobatic shimmy, she spun her body around. She tugged the zipper down tooth by tooth. Once she succeeded in not maiming him, she wrestled his shorts and boxers to his knees.

  Oh sweet mother of mercy, she'd never seen a finer specimen of the male anatomy. The view from a distance hadn't done it justice. She trailed her index finger from the base of his penis to just shy of the bulbous head. His pulse pumped, visible in the large vein that ran the complete length of his nine or ten inch erection. It jumped and throbbed with her every touch. Wrapping her hand around him as best she could, she skimmed the surface, still avoiding the sensitive head. His grip on her waist tightened with each near contact.

  "Katrina.” He gave a low growl.

  She heard the pleading in his voice. “Yes, Braedon?"

  "I'm about to burst."

  Good. She'd driven him as insane as he'd driven her. Fisting her hand against his rough pubic hair, she lifted his erection. A drop of fluid beaded at the tip, a testament to his desire. Her tongue flicked out to taste him. A groan that sounded more pain-filled than pleasure-filled echoed in the tent. His hips jerked up, butting his tip to her lips. She wanted to take him in her mouth, to pleasure him, but he was so large. She'd probably only manage to swallow an inch or two. Would that be enough to bring him any satisfaction?

  There was one way to find out.

  She attacked the flared head, licking all around as if he were the most scrumptious ice cream cone she'd ever sampled. Except that ice cream cooled and soothed her while this treat sent shock waves along her already hypersensitive nerve endings and tasted even better than chocolate chocolate chip. When his body trembled beneath hers, she took as much of him as possible within her mouth, continuing to swirl her tongue. His moans and whimpers told her of his enjoyment.

  Her concentration was shaken when he grabbed her thigh and swung it over his body until she straddled his face, all her intimate parts on display to him. A finger traced the delicate folds, the line of the dragon's body, drawing more moisture from her body. His hands came up to clutch at her bottom, pushing her down until she was exactly where he wanted her, where she wanted to be. She started when his tongue flicked at her clitoris, a moan rumbling in her throat.

  He must have liked the sensation, throbbing in her mouth and repeating the action down below. How was she supposed to concentrate on him when he devoured her with such skill?

  "Katrina, I want to fuck you.” His hot breath teased her sensitized skin.

  "Oh, yeah,” she managed to mumble around her full mouth.

  "If you'll just grab a condom—"

  Oh, no. She freed herself with a pop. “I don't have any condoms. I never expected this to happen. I assumed you'd have some stashed somewhere. Don't you Special Forces guys keep them on hand for emergencies?"

  "I didn't pack any. Couldn't think of a scenario where I'd need them."

  The groan that filled the tent this time was one of abject misery. His? Hers? Did it really matter?

  "Ya know,” his finger traced delicious patterns that stoked the fire still simmering in her veins, “just because we can't go at it like bunnies, that doesn't mean we can't make each other feel very good."

  He had a point. Except for the minor fact that she'd never given a guy a blow job. A sweeping stroke of his tongue scattered all rational thought, worried included. Every fiber of her being focused in on the sensation between her legs.

  "Just relax and enjoy your turn first."

  Enjoy? Oh, yeah. Relax? Not as long as his mouth worked her over. And work her over he did. His tongue stroked back and forth, taking flicks at her clitoris and jabs at the skin between her openings; he nibbled at her labia, sucked at her until she felt drenched in her own arousal, afraid she'd drown him. He knew precisely what to do to send her soaring. Her arms unable to support her weight, she collapsed with her nose buried in his pubic hair. The musky scent of his arousal fueled hers. Hanging on to his erection was the only thing that kept her from flying free of Earth.

  She squealed when he sucked her clitoris between his teeth and nibbled. Dear God. The man knew what to do with his mouth no matter where he plied his talents. Just when she thought she'd crawl out of her skin for want of more, he rubbed the flat of his tongue along the tightly strung bundle of nerves guaranteed to give her the orgasm her body craved. He lashed at it, driving her pleasure upward. Her inner muscles clenched, empty, longing for something. As if he knew her need, he slid a finger deep. He pressed on a spot that seemed connected to her clitoris—the pressure intensified the sensations drawn forth by his mouth.

  The tension tightened, a rubber band wound past the safety point, until she almost hurt. She rubbed her breasts along his abs in an attempt to lessen the tingling sensations. She wanted to rock her hips, to force him to give her more, but she feared she'd disturb the delicate balance he'd created. Her hand squeezed his erection as she waited. Every pass of his tongue, every twitch of his finger intensified her pleasure.

  Without warning, she flew apart with the overwhelming sensation of a spectacular orgasm. Tropical heat flooded her body, starting between her legs and spreading out to the tips of her fingers and toes. She jerked, tiny spasms of pleasure coursed through her system. She struggled to regain her breath, her sanity. Braedon continued to lavish attention on her until she relaxed, melting against him, struggling to catch her breath. Either that was the best oral sex she'd ever been treated to or she'd been with BOB for too long.

  The walls of the tent came back into focus along with the realization that she lay half draped on top of Braedon. Very comfortable for her, probably not so for him, especially considering the fact that he hadn't gotten off. Yet.

  Braedon's hands stroked her back, the touch gentle, soothing. “You okay?"

  She smiled even though he couldn't see her face. “I'm more than fine. You were ... amazing."

  "I am to please.” He had every right to the conceit she heard in his voice.

  "Your aim was right on target.” Now it was her turn to satisfy him. She only hoped she'd be able to do half as good a job. Her fingers trailed along the sensitive skin where thigh met torso, continuing until she reached his balls. He shivered as she fondled him, his sac pulling up tight.

  After getting comfortable stretched out by Braedon's side, Katrina tightened her grip on his penis. Lowering her head, she engulfed as much of him as possible without gagging. His flared tip battered the back of her throat. She moved her hand and mouth in tandem, using her tongue to swirl around the tip. The taste of him excited her, salty, musky, wholly Braedon. When his body began to quiver, she shifted to more of a sucking motion combined with strokes along the ultra sensitive ridge.

  His breathing grew more and more ragged, his moans louder. His hand cupped the back of her head,
helping her maintain a pleasurable rhythm. Every movement that drew him closer to orgasm increased her own desire, forcing her to clench her thighs together in a futile effort to control it.

  "Oh, God, Katrina."

  The tension in his voice meant only one thing. She doubled her efforts for a heartbeat or two then pulled away. As her hand slid up, a thick white rope landed on the upper swell of her breasts and his shouted expletive echoed in the small confines of the tent and probably scared any wild animals outside. She continued to pump him, waiting for the shivers to start on each upward swipe before she stopped.

  No sooner did she let go then he yanked her up so that her head rested on his shoulder. His hand settled possessively on her hip, anchoring her in place.

  "Damn, woman, where'd you learn to do that?"

  But as soon as he asked, he didn't want to know. He'd never before cared about the past of his sexual partners. It's just because she's more than a fuck buddy, he rationalized. She's a colleague as well.

  They shouldn't have done what they just did. But now that the horse was running free in the pasture, he had no inclination to shut the stable door. No way, no how. In fact, once he managed to get his hands on a jumbo pack of condoms, he planned to take this to the next level. Until then, they'd just have to get creative.

  Speaking of creative...

  "You don't have to answer that last question. It was crude. But I would like to hear the story behind that fucking amazing tattoo."

  Katrina squirmed, a sorry ass attempt to move away from him. He tightened his grip, determined to keep her by his side. A first for him.

  She stayed silent for so long, he feared she wouldn't answer.

  "I had a rebellious side in college. My parents were strict Midwest Baptists. I didn't even get to go to football games in high school, never mind dates to school dances. When it came time for college, I went to an ultra-feminist school, just going co-ed. My father thought I was safe since it was still predominately female. He didn't know about the feminist part or I wouldn't have been allowed to go."

  Sheesh, what an asshole. But he kept his opinions to himself.

  "My junior year, my best friend and I made a bet to see who could get the most outrageous tattoo. I won."

  "How long did it take?"

  "Not as long as you think. I had it finished by the time I went home for Christmas break."

  "I bet those young studs got off on it.” Now why did that thought turn him green?

  "They never saw it. I had some health problems when I went back for the spring semester and ended up taking a leave of absence. When I was strong enough to go back, I didn't have time to do anything but study. Then came grad school. By the time I was ready to get back into dating, I was with the FBI and had a reputation for being straight-laced. So I kept the lights out with the couple of guys I did date."

  "You mean I'm the first guy to see it?"

  "Since the tattoo artist finished it."

  He didn't want to ask why she let him see it when it would have been so easy to keep the tent dark. And he sure as hell didn't want to think too hard about why it made him want to kick up his heels that he'd been the first. And how hard it made him thinking about seeing it again. Of its own volition, Braedon's hand reached to stroke between her breasts.

  "Can I interest you in another round?"

  Her laughter unsettled him. “You're such a sweet talker.” Her fingers toyed with the hairs south of his belly button.

  "I can be when I want to.” He flipped her to her back and pressed a kiss to her lips. “But right now I want you more."

  * * * *

  Through his binoculars, he watched the couple in the tent paw at each other. Why did people feel the need to come out here, so close to him, to rut like fuckin’ dogs. His mama always said when you lay down with the dogs you get fleas.

  All these people had to go. They kept gettin’ too close. Too close to discoverin’ him, to discoverin’ his treasure. That couldn't happen. It couldn't.

  Why were there so many fuckin’ pigs so close to him? Were they tryin’ to find him? This was the sixth set of stinkin’ pigs he'd seen in a month. Or was it more than a month? He didn't know anymore, didn't care. All that matter was keepin’ his treasure safe, no matter what it took.

  He patted his hip. Yes, his knife was still there. Time for action.

  He picked his way toward the tent backward, erasing signs of his path as he went. They weren't as smart as him, never would be. Even if he missed a print, the flip flops from the local Wal-Mart would be hard to trace. He watched all them cop shows with his satellite TV. He knew exactly what he needed to do to outsmart them. They'd never find him, no matter how hard they tried.

  He'd just keep pickin’ off the lousy pigs until they got tired of looking for him. Until they stayed far away from his house.

  Gross. The giggles and groans grew louder the closer he got to the tent. They'd never hear him, not until it was too late. Crouched outside the entrance flap, he waited for the perfect moment. When the noise stopped, he made his move.

  Workin’ with battle-honed efficiency, and make no mistake, this was a battle for his life and livelihood, he gutted the pigs like the animals they were.

  It was such a messy process, gettin’ in and out without touchin’ anything. Them cop shows taught him all about leavin’ fingerprints. A quick swipe of his huntin’ knife across his shirt cleared away much of the evidence. He stripped off his clothes and threw them on the fire left burnin’ outside the tent, which flared to life with the new fuel. Backin’ away from the area, he cleared his tracks, or at least enough of them to make tailin’ him impossible.

  Sooner or later, the fuckin’ pigs were gonna learn that messin’ with him was a mistake.

  Chapter 6

  Braedon woke up with a start. And without a morning erection that threatened to cause irreparable damage. The woman responsible for both was curled up at his side in her own sleeping bag, her arm draped across his chest, the contact torturous in a new way. Now he knew the charms she hid beneath her prim and proper exterior. He'd explored them twice the night before and hoped to continue with a more in depth exploration soon. Very soon.

  What if she turns out to be just like Greta?

  Damn Greta and the niggling doubts she caused. Katrina was nothing like her.

  Katrina might not run to her daddy, but she might run to Jack.

  She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. The suits looking at her for the “profiler” opening were digging for the tiniest bit of dirt to knock her out of the running. They'd even gone so far as to ask him to help him sweep for it. Doing the nasty with him, right here and right now, could cause more of a career risk for her than for him.

  Now his stupid doubts just needed to shut the hell up and allow him to enjoy the sexual interlude he'd started.

  Braedon pushed the button on his watch, illuminating the dial. Oh-five-thirty. The sun would rise soon. He really should get up, stoke the fire, and get breakfast ready so they could get moving once it was light enough. They had about five miles to hike to the scene of the second murders. Then they wanted to hike to the next shelter to see if there were any clues to be found there.

  His body refused to leave the warmth of his sleeping bag. And Katrina.

  Watch it, dude, she's just a convenient piece of ass.

  If it wouldn't have hurt, he'd have punched his own lights out.

  Clasping his hand over her arm, he settled in, relaxed and content. His breathing matched hers, slow and steady in sleep. The faint hint of sex hung in the air, a pleasant reminder of the time they'd shared. Except he shouldn't be thinking about that, he should be going over the crime scenes, the photos, everything in an effort to discover new evidence. That's why they were out in the woods, sleeping in a tent. Eight young people had been brutally murdered and they were no closer to finding the UNSUB than they were at the beginning of the week, sitting in a Center City Philadelphia high-rise. Not that buildings in Philadelphia
were very high since they couldn't be taller than William Penn's statue on City Hall, or something like that. But that was beside the point.

  The crime scenes were cold and calculated. No footprints, no fingerprints, no nothing. At the same time, they were scattered with no discernible pattern. It didn't make any sense. It was almost like it was the work of two people or one person on drugs.

  As he lay there, Katrina fidgeted, scooting closer to him, and causing him to fling aside all coherent thought. Damn, he wanted to feel her, not the lining of his sleeping bag.

  "Good morning.” Her sleep-roughened voice stroked his cock to full alert.

  "Morning."

  "What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes. With her tousled hair and heavy-lidded eyes, she looked like the sex goddess she was.

  "Not even oh-six hundred."

  "Oh, then we have time.” Her hand snaked underneath the covering, straight for his dick.

  The woman was insatiable. Oh yeah. Insatiable was a good thing. Too bad he had to discourage it. “I wish. We need to get moving if we want to accomplish everything today."

  She sighed, but didn't pout. “I suppose you're right.” That didn't stop her from stroking him from tip to balls before she removed her hand.

  With a sexy shimmy, she pushed her way out of her sleeping bag. Naked. Shit. This doing the right thing was getting harder by the minute and it wasn't the only thing. Her ass wiggled in his face when she leaned over to retrieve her clothes.

  "I'm going to run down to the stream and wash up. Care to join me?"

  No. “Yes, since it's not quite light out yet, it's better if you're not alone."

  "Such a gentleman.” She shot him a not-on-your-life look.