Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(68)

She nodded, not sure how her body would react, and slowly he slid into her. She held her breath for a moment, accepting him and praying her body didn’t betray her now. Instead of pain, she felt pure pleasure.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“Really damn good.” She traced her hands over his buttocks. “Amazing.”

He began to move inside of her, slowly at first, waiting for her body to fully relax. As she grew accustomed to him, she began to move her body against his and whispered, “More,” in his ear. He moved faster and harder.

His touch sent heat coursing through her body. She cupped her breasts and arched toward him, and when he pressed his fingers to her center and rubbed small circles, it was akin to tossing a match onto gasoline. Passion exploded through her and built so quickly she couldn’t temper it.

“Let it go,” he said.

Macy wanted to wait for him, but the orgasm exploded in her, crashing through every nerve and muscle in her body.

When the sensation eased and she looked up at him, he seemed pleased with himself.

His eyes were dark with desire. He thrust faster inside her, and this time she pressed her body to his and touched him in the places she remembered he liked. He groaned her name and ground hard into her as his own release cut through him.

When he was spent, he lay on top of her. Both were covered in perspiration, and his racing heart matched the pace of her own.

“You’re still the best. Just as I remember,” he whispered against her ear.

“Out of practice,” she said, a little breathless.

He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Maybe we can work on that.”

“Maybe.”



Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Macy dreamed of Cindy Shaw calling her name, begging for help. The young girl’s cries were so vivid they startled her out of a sound sleep. She sat up in the bed, her heart racing and sweat beading between her naked breasts. She searched the unfamiliar room and had no idea where she’d been sleeping.

A strong hand rubbed her lower back, up her spine, and cupped the back of her shoulders. She turned quickly, ready to bolt, before she realized it was Nevada. He stared at her with keen, alert eyes as his fingers massaged some of the tightness away.

He sat up and looked into her eyes. “You were dreaming. Was it the hit-and-run?”

His hand slid down her back, the soft and steady pressure of his callused palm against her bare skin easing the fight-or-flight response.

“I never dream about the accident anymore,” she said.

“But something was bothering you.”

She pulled her fingers through her hair. “It’s nothing.”

“You were screaming, Macy.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Ever known me to exaggerate?”

Telling him about the dream would blow her credibility. He might be able to deal with the physical scars, but to learn she could be off her nut was another matter.

“Macy, you can tell me,” he said.

A sad smile curved her lips. “You know, people always say that until they hear the truth.”

“I mean it.” His hand felt like a steady, constant support.

She sat in silence, weighing the pros and cons. The cons were shouting at her to keep her mouth shut. “I really don’t understand the dreams myself.”

He didn’t speak, letting silence coax out more of her secrets. The trick hadn’t worked when Ramsey had tried it on her, but with Nevada, she knew she could trust him. “The dreams always start with a scratching sound.”

“Explain.”

“Like someone is digging in dirt.”

“Digging a hole.”

“This is where it gets weird. I’ll be honest. You’ll be supercool about it, and then in the light of day, you’ll wonder who the hell I am.”

“Spill it.” He sharpened his tone like a fine blade.

“Whoever is making the scratching sound isn’t digging into the ground but out of it. I can’t explain it other than it’s like a buried-alive vibe and whoever is trapped is trying to escape.”

His silence wedged between them.

“I know. I know. Insane. Or worse, some kind of weird brain damage.” She tried to scoot away.

He gently held her by the wrist. “I didn’t say that.”

When she finally found the courage to look at him, she saw a curiosity in his gaze that reminded her of him when he was piecing together a case. That gave her some courage to say, “I don’t understand it.”

“When did it start?”

“I thought I heard sounds when I was still in the hospital in Texas. I chalked that up to the pain meds. But it persisted through rehab, and whatever it was followed me back to Virginia.”

“It?”

“I know. I talk about it like it’s something other than me, but it must be coming from my brain. All I can think is that my hardwiring has changed.”

“Who’s doing the scratching?” And when she only looked at him, he cocked a brow. “You know, don’t you?”

She closed her eyes. Weird. And weirder. “I’ve been dreaming about Cindy Shaw. She’s been asking me for my help.”

“How long has Cindy been communicating with you?”

“The scratching sounds became more persistent the day Tobi Turner’s body was found. Cindy’s name finally came up Sunday night while I was researching the Turner case. Once I read her name, it’s like a floodgate opened and my brain wouldn’t let her go.”