Page 73 of Miserable Marionette

I open my mouth behind his palm to ask about the fingerprint, but it only makes him tighten his grip.

“As pretty as your voice is, puppet, I can’t remove my hand if you’re going to keep ranting.”

Oh, lord, the flutterflies. I nod. Going back on my word immediately, as he knew damn well I would. “Why would you give up your position on the case if you thought you were only going to be gone for a week or so?”

He gives me a knowing look before puffing out an exasperated breath, dragging his hands through his hair. His side profile is all lean, toned, athletic muscle, and hell, when he turns slightly to look down at me, my mind breaks. It takes too long for that look to sink in, to grasp what it means.

“You knew you were never going back.”

“Of course I knew, Audrey. It was hard enough walking away the first time…”

My heart gives a pitiful little thump. “I still… don’t understand why he’s here—"

“He’s pissed and swinging his cock around to share the mood. Nothing more.”

My brow furrows, and he sees that I’m not buying it, but Gideon is who he is, and I was prepared for the concept of his civility not lasting long as I’m plucked from the chair. My head going light as he twists our bodies, taking my seat and settling me in his lap instead. “I’m sick of hearing about Altman, Audrey.”

“Jessica, she thinks you’re the Marionettist.” I laugh. “For a second there she was halfway making sense too.” My laughter and joke fall flat as he just stares.

“Do you think I’m the Marionettist?”

I scoff. “Of course not.”

“Why not? Do you not think I could do it?”

“What?” I breathe. “Rape and string up innocent women in fucked up little traps?”

I flinch as his hand jerks out, gripping my jaw, two fingers pressing deep into my mouth, trapping my tongue there, his voice suddenly harsh. “He never raped them.”

I struggle, trying to force his arms off me when his other hand wrangles my wrists together gently, pinning them behind my back. Panic kicks up in my chest for a moment, the weight of Bryan that night in their shed dragging my fear higher. That is, before my struggling makes me slip forward, my core brushing his tented cock.

He leans forward, his ocean eyes bitter and daring. “And they’re not traps, little puppet… they’re marionettes.”

The moment it clicks in my mind, I jerk back, a disgusted look on my face as I mumble around his fingers. I’m not ready when he releases me, making a gross amount of spit trail his fingers on their way out of my mouth. “You got my nickname from a fucking serial killer. That’s sick, Gideon, even for you.”

He smirks, popping a saliva-covered finger into his mouth, and I balk for a mere second before going squirmy in his lap, my core brushing him again. A hot lash of need building in my sex. “You like it though, when I call you puppet. Cause that’s what you are, Audrey… my perfect girl, perfect little doll. My perfect little puppet.”

“Ugh, don’t make that hot, please. I think I’m spending too much time at the funeral home.”

He tsks, leaning down to lick at my pulse thrumming in my neck, “No, sweet Audrey, I think I should take you over there now. Fuck you beside the rotting—"

“Ew, Gideon, you’re gross,” I groan.

“Yes, but I’m yours. And you’re mine, right, puppet?”

“Gideon, let go,” I moan, his teeth grazing a path down my chest, my shoulders straining from being pinned behind my back.

“Never,” he all but growls. My breath catches in my throat as he looks up at me; his eyes are venom-laced tides. “Ask me again to let you go, Audrey… and I fear I’ll be forced to show you what he taught me.”

“Who?”

He laughs, the sound horrible and resounding deep in my center. Making a needy little sound leave me in response, straining harder on his hold to press my weeping core harder into him, loving the way his cruel eyes flutter at the sensation. “The Marionettist. The boogeyman of Washington. He would love you, you know. You’re just his type.”

“What a horrible thing to say! I know you’d never let him have me, though. Right, Gideon? Because I’m your girl,” I moan, half thrilled to be playing along with his nasty game. Half desperate to show him I can be his type. That I don’t have to be babied all the time, like when we were kids. I’ve grown up now.

His voice is rougher, breathless like mine as he stands, slamming me hard against the table. “You’re right, little puppet. You’re exactly my type.”

The sound of his zipper punctuates his declaration, and already I’m scrambling with the hem of my nightgown, desperate to hike it higher on my hips, baring my soaked underwear. He discards his glasses as he drops between my legs, his nose brushing over the growing wet spot. “Gideon, please,” I whisper.