It was like she had unleashed a tiger.
Patrick breathed out hard against her skin, moving his lips up her back, kissing her shoulder blades. Now he was licking the base of her neck, and she loosed a deep moan. Emboldened by her response, he slid his hands from her spine to the front of her stomach, beneath the thin fabric of the costume. She arched into his touch, the delicious heat of him filling her, and her head fell backward. His mouth moved slyly from her neck toward her ear as one hand moved just below her navel. The other started tracing tiny circles just underneath her breasts, firing her nerve endings, making her yearn and moan.
“Patrick,” she gasped. His mouth had moved to the side of her neck, where he kissed, licked, nibbled the soft spaces. “Oh my God, Patrick.”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?”
She felt him smile against the base of her jaw, and she reached a hand up behind her to run her fingers through his hair. She just wanted to tangle herself in the soft, curly plush.
He turned his head to kiss her palm and then took the proffered hand, spun her, and pressed her backward into a deep and luxurious kiss.
The kiss was hot, dark, full of need. She felt blown backward by the force of it, but two could play this game. She would not yield. His tongue darted into her mouth, slid against hers, and she matched him stroke for stroke. She would take what she wanted, if only for tonight. She did not want to exist outside of that kiss that tasted of coffee and chocolate and something spicyand exotic and so utterly him. At least no existence that she wanted.
Anita leaned into the feelings, leaned into Patrick. She wrapped her arms around his neck, releasing her costume to the floor. He scooped her up and carried her over to the bed. She was light, light as an ember floating in the air, but his breath made her catch fire anew.
And then she completely lost the ability to think as he covered her mouth and her body with his.
Chapter Thirty-Three
John Flaherty felt at loose threads. Sheriff Forbes had not yet authorized the search for Mark Templeton, but John couldn’t let it go. His gut would not let him rest. Katie had eventually kicked him out of bed at four in the morning, kissed him lovingly on the cheek, and told him to figure out whatever was making him toss and turn so she could get back to sleep.
John stood in the kitchen, brooding over the coffee maker while it percolated and grumped and dripped.
Melanie had told him, while sobbing thick Chardonnay tears, that she had not heard from her husband in almost three weeks. She thought he had been traveling for work, had been up in Rochester, New York. The last time he called her, they had argued. She had complained that he traveled too much, she was lonely. Mark Templeton had called her some names (Melanie wouldn’t say, but her cheeks had gone bright red), told her he needed some space, and they had hung up. She had tried calling, texting, but no response.
Three weeks was a long time for radio silence.
John poured his coffee into a souvenir mug from the Franklin Institute, added just a splash of almond milk, and sat down at the small kitchen dinette with his notepad and laptop. It was early still, not even six, but at least he could organize his thoughts.
He made a number of bullet points on his notepad.
Mark Templeton disappears 3 weeks ago—Rochester NY
Hotel—Regency Elite
Confirm check in/check out
Need airline info/GPS on car
No SM updates in that time—Patrick
Melanie—whereabouts on night of studio party
Went to party with Kim Smith
Afterward—Kim dropped her back at her house per her report
Confirm—Kim (???)
Studio—3-4 weeks ago, Patrick back from NYC
Dead bird
Patrick SM stalking
Message on mirror
Broken door—night of studio party
