My Hunger (Inside Out #3.4)(6)

When finally she shudders and relaxes, I remove my fingers, give her one last lick, and then stand up. Leaning into her, I slide my fingers into her hair and stare down at her. “That was what we call ‘just an orgasm,’ and yes, it really did happen.”

I push off the sink and leave, paying the bill on my way out. Pushing through the exit door, I get the hell away from Crystal before I forget that control is what I have now and what I need—not her in my hotel room.





Part Two



Denial





San Francisco

“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”

“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my steel seat in the tiny room that makes the airplane I’d left an hour before seem downright roomy.

“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”

Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me Master.”

“Having such a beautiful young girl call you Master must have been a real power rush.”

“What’s the point?”

“I’ll get to the point when I’m ready. See, I’m the Master of this conversation. I’m in control. Now, what exactly did being her Master mean to you?”

“The dynamics of a Master and submissive relationship are defined by each couple, but the basics are the same. It’s the Master’s job to protect the submissive, and put his or her pleasure and safety before all else.”

He snorts. “Clearly you failed on the protection end of things.”

The words successfully hit the open, bleeding wound that no doubt he intends them to. Anger that I would normally contain prickles easily. “Mocking her death does not become a man in your role,” I say tightly.

“I’m not mocking her death. I’m mocking you.”

“Which makes me concerned about your competence to get this job done.” As does his wrinkled shirt and suit jacket that he’s accented with bloodshot eyes and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard that match his thick? rumpled hair.

He arches a brow. “How is my mocking you any indication of how I do my job?”

“A Master in any role, which I would assume a homicide detective should be of his, does not disrespect those who have put faith and trust in him based on that role.”

“I think you’ll discover, Mr. Compton, that we have more in common than either of us would like. Nothing I do is an accident, as I suspect is the case with yourself.”

I narrow my gaze on his, seeing the calculation behind his look. “Whatever head game you’re trying to play with me, I choose not to play. I came down here to assure that you deliver the justice Rebecca deserves. If you want my help, it’s freely offered, but from this point forward, through my attorney.”

“Why, Mr. Compton, would you need an attorney?”

“I don’t, but apparently you do. People who get off task need those of us who know how to get them back on task, to help them remain effective. I’ve been in town all of an hour. If there’s some point to all of this, get to it now.”

“Ava claims her confession was protecting you, the man she loves, because she found out that you and Sara McMillan killed Rebecca.”

“This again?” I ask, irritated by the illogical claim that anyone with two bits of sense could dismiss. “Aside from it being untrue, Sara never even met Rebecca, nor did she become involved with the gallery until Rebecca had resigned. So clearly that claim is impossible.”

“I’m just relaying what Ava’s defense will say.”

“Ava’s defense, or you?”

“Anything that could present as a reasonable doubt has to be dealt with. What do you know about Rebecca’s father?”

I blink at the sudden change of topic. “What does her father have to do with this?”

“Just being a Master of my job, Mr. Compton. Every possible suspect other than Ava has to be wiped off the list.”

“Rebecca didn’t know her father.” I push to my feet. “I’m done. I came back from New York early, with my mother barely out of cancer surgery, expecting this was going to be productive. So far, it hasn’t been. If you want to ask about Ava or anything actually related to the case, I’m available. For nonsense, I’m not.”

“Before you go,” he says, pulling a red journal I know is Rebecca’s from an accordion file, “I want to read you something.” He flips to a marked page. “The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared . . .” He glances up at me and shuts the journal. “Who do you think a jury would think killed Rebecca?” He leans back in his seat. “Ava? Or one, or both, of the two men mentioned in this journal entry?” He taps the desk. “Her writing is about her Master, which you’ve already told me was you. Who’s the other man?”

I see how Rebecca’s words sound damning and could be easily twisted against me. “I want justice, and I will do everything in my power to help you see it delivered. You have my full cooperation, but I’m smart enough to have an attorney present when I do it.”