Chapter twenty-five
Kendrick
Spencer may not feelany different after last night, but I certainly do. I can’t stop looking at him, wanting to touch him. I can still hear his soft cries and the way he felt around my dick. My thoughts are consumed by him, even worse than normal.
I wish I hadn’t agreed when he said he wanted to drive. It means I have nothing but him to focus on and the way he’s casually resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the glove box. His ring finger is bare now, but watching him earlier, trying on different rings before deciding on black titanium bands, did things to me that I can’t properly explain to myself. I hadn’t been sure about the marriage thing, but now I want to get him down the aisle, or the living room floor, or whatever, as soon as possible. I want him to be mine. To have my name. To be completely owned by me in every way. For him to ownmein every way.
He turns and gives me a smile that turns my insides to liquid. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re nice to stare at.” More than. He’s stunning, all boy-next-door vibes with his bright-blond hair and cheeky smile. The dimple that shows up when his smile is full and real. It makes me want to bite and lick and leave marks on him.
“You want to kiss me again,” he teases, his lips twisting flirtatiously.
“I’ll never say no but maybe keep your eyes on the road for now.” I’d rather not get into an accident before we get to our destination. We’ve had enough mishaps with cars to last a lifetime, and I don’t fancy putting my leg to that kind of test again.
The second he pulls into a spot a block away from our destination, he tugs me across the seat into a wet, desperate kiss. With a moan, I get my arms around him and take over, loving the way he trembles and sighs into my mouth. Goddamn, I’ll never get enough of kissing him like this.
“Is this”—Spencer doesn’t finish his sentence, diving in for another kiss first—“Is this good?”
“Perfect, baby.” Threading my fingers through his hair, I lick across his bottom lip before covering him again. “So fucking perfect.” With a thumb under his jaw, I tilt his head up so I can get better access.
I don’t stop until he’s panting, clutching at me with small moans that are an aphrodisiac to my ears. His lips are red and slick, with a gorgeous flush spread over his cheeks. He chases my lips, but I keep them out of reach with a smile. “We need to go before it gets too late to look around.”
People think that it’s the cover of darkness that makes it easier to sneak around. Doing it in broad daylight tends to hide itbetter, in my experience. We act like we belong there, and no one questions it. Getting spotted doing anything in the dark makes anyone around far more suspicious. Of course, there are ways to never get spotted. Sometimes the direct path is just easier. And we want this finished, now.
Jack Ferguson lives in an apartment building that looks like it’s a hundred years old, with creaky floors, impressive skirting and architecture, and an elevator we don’t trust enough to use. He lives on the fifth floor, second door to the right. The building doesn’t have security cameras anywhere, but there’s no telling whether Jack himself has any installed. Doubt we’d find them even if we looked. It’s not like he doesn’t know we’re coming for him.
Spencer casually rests against the wall while I work on the lock. I lean a shoulder against the door and casually pick it, looking like two guys having a chat outside someone’s door. No one passes us, and we’re inside in a matter of minutes.
The apartment is a one-bedroom with an open-plan living area for the dining, kitchen, and living room. It’s a mess of dirty plates across the benches, the coffee table, and the small square dining table pushed against the window beside the door leading onto the balcony.
“For ex-military, he’s a slob.”
“Not all habits follow you into civilian life,” I say absently, pulling on a pair of gloves and handing Spencer some. “After years of discipline, some people just want to break free. And end up completely on the other side.”
“I guess so.” Spencer flicks a Chinese takeout container. “Think he’s sloppy enough to leave us something to use?”
“We can hope.” Even a careful person slips up. If the only motivation he has for the murders is to help his daughter, and there’s nothing more to it, then we may not find anything. But ifthere’s something else to it, something else driving him, then it’s possible.
Other than a rancid smell—how has he not noticed this?—there isn’t anything interesting in the fridge. Or the cupboards—except for his apparent obsession with packet noodles. The clothes in the dryer in his bathroom are still slightly warm to the touch, which means he put it on earlier that day before he went to work.
The bed isn’t made, a clash of green sheets and an orange cover. One pillow on the bed. His military shows more in the wardrobe, everything neatly stacked and hung up, perfectly pressed.
“This guy is even more boring than Colin Trine was,” Spencer remarks, flicking through the jackets hanging up. “He doesn’t know what colour is, and there aren’t even any dirty magazines in the bathroom.”
“You don’t have dirty magazines in your bathroom.” Is that some sort of requirement for being interesting?
“No, but I have you.”
“I’m your dirty magazine?”
“Mmm.” He gives me a slow once-over that heats my blood. “You’re the naked centrefold that I take out to put on my wall so I can see it while I fall asleep.”
“I don’t think that’s what most people do with the centrefold,” I say with a snicker.
