Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(109)

She arched against him, clutching his shoulders. Totally into it.

Holy f*ck. He’d started out just trying to make a point. Now he was pinning her to the wall so she straddled his erection. Her fingernails dug into his neck, her fingers gripped his hair, and her tongue twined with his. Her mouth was so sweet. So were those sounds she made. Her legs clenched him, her cheeks a hot crimson.

He could feel her racing heart, with his face pressed to her tits. Her sweater was shoved up high, puckered nipples poking through the cups of her sheer bra as he nuzzled and kissed— She arched, making a shocked, low wailing sound. Coming.

He felt it against his cock, right through their clothes.

Oh, yes. Oh, sweet.

He held her afterwards, his nose still buried between her tits. Nuzzling the soft curves, the jut of her nipple, waiting for the echoes to fade. Wow. This was going to be hotter than he’d ever dreamed. And he’d dreamed it very, very hot. For years, now.

He lifted his mouth. Her eyes were closed. Two glittering tears quivered on her lower eyelashes. They detached, and flashed down.

She licked her trembling lips. Her eyes fluttered open, looking down, to the side, anywhere but at him. “Put me down, please.”

His grip tightened possessively. He rubbed his cheek against the tender swell of her tit. So very unwilling to do as she asked. “We could take this somewhere, and finish it,” he suggested. Hell, anyplace would do for him. A bathroom, a basement. A broom closet.

“It already is finished,” she said. “Please, Petrie.”

Irrational anger kindled in him. He stared at her, his face stony.

“Call me Sam,” he said.

She licked her lips again, leaving a sheen of moisture that made his cock jump. “Please, Sam,” she said.

He set her down on her feet, and she backed away, hastily rearranging her sweater, her hair, her face. “I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she faltered. “I—”

“I could explain it to you sometime,” he said. “Over dinner.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Things are so strange now, and I—”

“Later, then. When the weirdness is fixed. Dinner, with me?”

She backed away, lips trembling. “I can’t.

“You’re seeing someone else?” he asked.

She shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

“Then why?” Frustration sharpened his voice.

“I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t be with you.”

A swift lunge, and he had her in his grasp again. He bent her back, off balance, so she had to cling or fall. Her mouth was so soft.

He had to keep it busy. Better that she kiss him again than tell him to piss off. That was a much better use for her mouth.

The door opened, and Lily let out a squeak. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” She snapped the door shut again.

But the moment was killed. Sveti freed herself, wiping her mouth, running her hands over her cheeks like she could wipe that blush away.

“You want me,” he said harshly.

Her face tightened. “Don’t, Sam.”

“Why?” He was fighting not to yell. “Just tell me, already! What is your f*cking problem?”

Sveti yanked the door open and ran away. Marco woke up, and began to squall. Lily came back in, pale and nervous, to pick Marco up out of his crib, shooting him sidelong glances.

Petrie’s cell phone started to buzz. He went out into the kitchen to answer it. Sveti by now was nowhere to be seen. The display on his phone indicated that it was Barlow, probably calling to scold him again about how Miles Davenport wasn’t answering his phone.

“Petrie here,” he said.

“We’ve got to bring him in, Sam,” Barlow said. “He’s been keeping someone sequestered in his cabin in the woods. We have reason to think that he’s been holding Lara Kirk there.”

Petrie gaped for a moment, speechless. “That’s not possible.”

“No? Why would you say that, Sam? Do you know something about this guy? Something you’re not telling me?”

“I know Miles Davenport,” Petrie said. “Seven months ago, when she disappeared, he didn’t know that Lara Kirk even existed.”

“We’ll see how he explains his cabin, then. We’ve been there since six AM. Windows boarded over, mattress on the floor, cum-stained sheet, long, dark hairs on a wool blanket. A leg shackle, with blood on it. Food wrappings, MREs, protein bars, a chemical toilet. A little hellhole, Sam. And then there’s the grave, in the back. Three men, throats slit, bled out, duct tape. The criminologists are working it over. It doen’t look good for your boy. And you know what? It doesn’t look too great for you, either. This whole thing is going to suck for you.”

“How did you find the place?”

“We were tipped off. Thaddeus Greaves had paid a team to investigate. They’d tracked her down to that cabin in the woods. They contacted their employer, and then he didn’t hear anything more from them. That was yesterday. So he called us. They’re the ones who are in the grave, Sam. Your boy’s a killer. Among other things.”

“It’s not possible,” Petrie said again. “It’s a set-up.”

Barlow was silent for a long moment. “Don’t protect him,” he said heavily. “This is going to mess you up, Sam. It’s a career killer.”