“What happened, Sophie?”
At least that she could tell him. Now that he’d seen them, it didn’t matter how they’d come about. No shame there, thankfully.
“I was doing a story on a man who thought he was the next Jack the Ripper. He’d killed three women in Missouri. The police had a suspect but no proof and not enough evidence to get a warrant to get into his house. I figured I could help out. Rather than stay on the sidelines, I got a little cocky. If I could get inside and find something I could call the cops and then they’d have a reason to enter the premises. I waited for the man to leave and snuck in to look around for evidence. He came back a few minutes later. I guess he’d forgotten something. He found me…We…er…fought. He was pretty good with a hunting knife.”
She shut her eyes. The memory of that encounter had lost much of its horror over time. In truth, she’d been far less scared of him than she was of the man who’d taken Rachel. By the time she’d tangled with the serial killer she was well aware how full of evil the world was, and she’d expected it around every corner.
Chapter 13
ONE MISSINGLOCKWOOD BOY FOUND ALIVE!ONSEPTEMBER 29, LOCAL POLICE OFFICERSEANO’MALLEYWAS DRIVING ON THE BACKSTREETS OF A NEIGHBORHOOD APPROXIMATELY SEVEN MILES FROM THELOCKWOOD ESTATE WHEN A SMALL BOY STUMBLED OUT OF THE WOODS AND INTO THE PATH OF HIS VEHICLE.
—New York Times, September 30, 1990
What happened?” Emery was still stroking Sophie. Each touch made her less ashamed of the scars and more aware of his body and his hands on her, and the way he made her feel beautiful, desirable. His fingers traced the knotted flesh and she reached up to cover his hand with hers. He turned his palm away from her chest to catch her hand, linking their fingers. He squeezed gently, a tender reassurance from compassion rather than pity. It made her eyes burn and she blinked back tears.
“I got him back for the scars with three shots to the chest from my .22.”
For the first time since earlier that day, Emery laughed.
“There’s my girl.” He cupped her chin with one palm, his gaze stealing hers.
She was startled at the warmth, rather than heat there. It was different. Sensuality surrounded her with his fully clothed body so close to hers, but that look—it was million miles away from lust. It was softer, sweeter and it made a storm of butterflies flutter wildly in her stomach.
He was seeing her, not the scars. His gaze was a promise of so much more than pity, more than even compassion. Rather she saw an understanding. His scars weren’t on the outside, but they were there all the same. It reminded her of an old poem by John Donne about two loves being so alike that they could not die. The hairs along her forearms stirred and her body and heart moved as one toward him.
He dropped his hand and tenderly grasped one of her breasts, kneading it. His fingertips strummed over the nipple, bring it to an erect peak before he plucked the bud. Delicious pain shot straight to her womb and she arched up on her toes. She had only moments to enjoy the teasing of her breast before he doubled her need by pressing his hand against her mound and squeezing softly. The pressure on her mound made her suck in a breath as desire slammed into her.
“Does any of this hurt?” he whispered as he continued to play with her breast, tweaking her nipple again and again.
“No, Master.” The word ‘Master’ came instinctively, and she barely had time to laugh inside at her own desire to call him that. To give him control even in that single syllable.
“You please me, Sophie. I didn’t even have to remind you. If anything I do hurts in a bad way, say your safe word immediately.”
“Yes, Master.” Since the attack, her breasts had not been sensitive, but beneath his touch they seemed to come awake.
Her lashes lowered and she simply focused on the feel of his hands. It had been so long since she’d been touched there. The contact between them was physical, yet with each stroke, each caress, he was entering her mind and heart. There was fire and carnality in him, barely restrained beneath his tense muscles. He abandoned all decorum and indulged in every animal urge: rubbing his cheek against her aching breasts, licking the tender tips before suckling them. Emery shed every shred of restraint and she couldn’t help but want to join him and become a creature focused solely on sensual discovery. Sophie fought the urge to shift restlessly beneath his stroking.
Emery pulled her flush against him, the smooth fabric of his expensive suit sliding erotically against her bare skin, making her tingle wherever it touched her. The sense of utter wickedness, the sinful bliss of being exposed and naked while he remained fully clothed, was decadent. She was vulnerable and he was in charge. He smiled against her lips as he held her face between his hands and kissed her. It was a slow leisurely exploration of her mouth that left her hot and aching. She curled her fingers into his lapels, dragging him close so she could kiss him back.
Their connection seemed to last for hours, and he broke away from her all too soon. What she saw in his eyes terrified her. Gentleness. Desire. Hunger. Excitement. The blur of emotions was too overpowering. He couldn’t possibly feel all those things at once, not for her. Sophie struggled to stay on the surface of her own emotions. She couldn’t let herself fall too deep, too hard, into him. She’d never be able to stop from drowning in him.
“You still don’t believe I desire you?” A slight frown wrinkled his brow.
How could he? She wasn’t thin, wasn’t beautiful. She was a plain, dumpy girl from the Midwest. Men like him dated models from Milan or Paris.
“Whatever you’re thinking? Stop,” he ordered sharply. When she didn’t immediately meet his gaze, he fisted a hand in her hair and jerked her head back. “Do you want me to prove it to you, little sub? I know exactly how I would. Tie you down to my bed and show you just how hard you’ve made me. I’d punish you with climax after climax until you’d screamed yourself hoarse, and you wouldn’t be able to sit down for at least two days.” That wildness was there, lurking in his eyes, and coloring his tone. He was angry with her, because she didn’t believe he desired her.
Her mouth dry, she gasped. “It doesn’t make sense for you to want me.”
“It makes perfect sense, and if you argue with me I will redden your ass with my hand until we’re both hurting. Do you understand? I won’t accept those thoughts, not from my sub. Do not disappoint me, Sophie.” He waited for her to protest, but she didn’t dare. Only when she kept silent did he continue. “I love your luscious figure. You have full breasts, perfect to fill my palms, hips made for the span of my hands to grip. And don’t get me started on your ass. I have very wicked thoughts about that particular body part.” He shot her a crooked grin.
A breathless laugh escaped her. “What about my ass?”
He dropped his hands to the body part in question, clenching the soft flesh, which caused her hips to jerk into his reflexively.
“It’s the perfect cushion for me to pound against when I take you from behind. It’s just the right size for me to hold when I lift you up to take you against the wall.” He pulled her impossibly tighter against him, his pants-clad erection rubbing over her throbbing core. If he kept talking like this she wasn’t going to last the rest of the night, and his slow seduction suggested he planned to play for the next several hours.
“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” She tugged at his coat but he caught her hands.
