“You’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth as he adds a second finger and curls them both, hitting a spot inside me that has pleasure rolling through me. “I can’t wait to feel this tight cunt milking my cock.”
His words are filthy, the promise of future dalliances making me feel feral. I shouldn’t want him. I don’t want to be a cheater. Yet, the thought of him fucking me for real has me thrusting and writhing against his hand with wild abandon.
Ahead of us, the light flicks yellow. He doesn’t slow.
“I’m not stopping this car until you come for me,” Gabriel growls.
My mouth gapes open. “Gabriel, that’s crazy. The light…” I gesture ahead of us as the light clicks yellow to red.
“Then come for me,” he demands.
Fear and desire rush furiously through my veins as his fingers pump in and out of me. I feel my climax rising. I’m close, so close. With each second, we get closer and closer to the bustling intersection, and I get closer and closer to the edge.
“Gabriel,” I shriek as we approach the light, not slowing at all.
“Come for me!” he roars.
And I do. My scream is primal as my body tightens and shatters. The breaks screech and fracturing pleasure rips through me. I come so hard that I black out and Gabriel works me through it.
“Such a good girl,” he praises as the car comes to a stop. “That’s it, come for me.”
I open my eyes as the light turns green again. My orgasm begins to fade and I’m left feeling weightless. It’s never felt like this before…like freedom. Gabriel removes his hand from between my legs and places it with the other on the steering wheel. My release glistens between his fingers as he steers us through downtown. It should feel dirty. I should be furious.
But all I feel is completely content.
TWELVE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Five Days Since Allison Clarke’s Murder
“So, the evidence suggests she was beaten, murdered, and dumped?” Captain Lundberg asks over my shoulder as I stare at the board in front of me.
I nod. “And there’s a history of healed injuries suggesting she’d spent years dealing with abuse. Most likely domestic violence.”
My eyes flit across the board to a strung up picture of the victim’s husband—Brody Clarke. He looks professional and poised in the picture; nothing like the crappy DMV picturesmost people have on file. He looks like a gentleman, not a wife beating murderer. But you’d be surprised how many Devils wear a suit and tie.
“The husband’s family is rich, connected, right?” Captain asks as he follows my line of sight. His voice is deep and gruff and leaves little room for argument from anyone ever. He was a detective on this same force for years before the previous captain stepped down and he reluctantly took the job. He’s not a bad man, not an unfair man, but he’s a career cop. He has very little patience for bullshit.
“That’s right.” I nod, my hand pointing to the pictures posted below the one of Brody Clarke. They show a large house perched on the cliffs of Lummi Island, looming over the bay like a master surveying its land. It’s authoritative and oppressive. “They own businesses and property all over town.”
“And her background?” Captain Lundberg questions, skipping over what I know should be a warning about treading carefully with wealthy families.
“Still working on that, Captain.” I turn my face toward the side of the board with information about our victim. “It seems like she was born out of town a few hours away and was put in the foster system early on. Records are sealed or missing, so I’m having trouble tracking down most information about her childhood.”
Having trouble is an understatement. I’ve worked cases involving foster kids before, but never one where I needed old records. It seems that they essentially stop caring and destroy records the moment the kids are gone, as if they never existed to begin with. These people are like ghosts whose pasts have all but been erased.
“She was adopted by a great aunt eventually. Moved to Whatcom County in high school.” I bring my eyes to the picture of the white building that held so much of Allison Clarke’s life.“She met her husband in high school. They both went to the local university, she got a teaching degree, and then she started teaching at the same school she graduated from.”
“Townies, then,” Captain states as we trace our eyes across the board.
I nod. All the evidence suggests that Allison Clarke was an average woman living an average life. She got up, went to work, helped kids, and lived with her husband in a nice house. She had friends, a family, a life. There’s nothing to suggest that anything sinister was lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.
“Maybe it was random then,” Lundberg posits as we both stare at the board of pictures and documents strung up in front of us. “Signs of rape?”
“No,” I confirm what Dr. Lee told me. “No evidence of forced sexual intercourse.”
“Damn. Maybe just a crime of displaced rage?” Captain says as he takes a step closer to the board, staring at one of the crime scene photos.
