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“Watch,” he said thickly. “Watch us.”
She lifted her eyes to the mirror over his dresser and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his dark head at her breast. Erotic. Sweet. The combination left her breathless. His hands clutched her thighs, his thumbs teasing at the lace edge of the panties she knew had to be soaked clean through. “Luke.”
He looked up, his mouth wet from sucking her breasts. “What do you want?”
She was shivering uncontrollably. But the words simply would not come.
His eyes dropped to her panties, then looked back up, hungry. “Well?”
“Please,” she whispered.
“Ask me,” he said. “Nicely.”
She pursed her lips. Her cheeks flamed hot. But he wasn’t moving. He was waiting. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Taste me. Please.”
He threw her legs over his shoulders, then groaned, and whatever she’d intended to say evaporated because finally his mouth was on her. He kissed and licked and nipped, all through the lace until she thought she’d die. She pushed at the panties, until he shoved them down her legs. His tongue went deep and she groaned, long and loud. But orgasm shimmered frustratingly out of reach. “Luke. I can’t.”
He worked two fingers up into her. “Yes you can. Come for me, Susa
So close and not there. “I can’t.” Tears burned her eyes. “Dammit.”
He lurched to his feet, kicked off his trousers, and ripped open a condom. “Stand.”
She blinked away the tears and looked up at him, breathing hard. “What?”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the dresser. “Look at me,” he said harshly, wrapping her hair around his fist, forcing her chin up. “Look at my face.”
She did, staring at him in the mirror as he spread her legs with his knee and entered her in one hard, deep stroke and on a low cry she came, convulsing around him. His face tightened and he thrust hard once, twice, and on the third time he threw his head back and groaned her name. Then he sagged, pressing her against the dresser.
She laid her cheek on the cool wood. “Oh my God.”
He was breathing hard, every breath pushing her into the dresser. “You came,” he said, satisfaction in his tone.
“Yeah.” She struggled up on her elbows and stared at him in the mirror. “Thank you.”
He smiled, still puffing. “My pleasure. Any time. I mean that.”
A laugh bubbled up. “I did it. My God, I did it. Without…” She faltered.
“Paraphernalia of any kind,” he supplied cheerfully. “No whips, chains, or cuffs.”
Her cheeks heated. “Yeah. That. I did that.”
He lifted his brows. “I helped.”
She laughed again. “I’d say so. Now, if I don’t go to sleep soon, I’m going to die.”
He backed away, then lifted her into his arms easily, carrying her to the bed. He tucked her under the covers. “Where should I sleep?”
She looked up at him. “Do you want to be alone at three a.m.?”
His eyes flickered. “No.”
“Then sleep here.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”
He chuckled. “Damn.”
Dutton, Monday, February 5, 12:45 a.m.
The throbbing in her arm woke Bobby with a start. She poured herself a cup of water from Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service, swallowed the Ibuprofen Charles had left, then tried to relax in the sleeping bag she’d liberated from the basement. The sleeping bag had Daniel Vartanian’s name neatly printed on the label, along with the number of his Boy Scout troop. Of course he’d been a Boy Scout. She rolled her eyes.
The bag smelled musty, but it was clean. She’d spread it out on the box springs in Susa
Toby and Simon had hidden their incriminating rape pictures there, she knew. She’d liberated the pictures a few years ago. It had been handy having Rocky working in her uncle’s bank. Bobby knew what was in the safe-deposit boxes of a number of the townspeople of Dutton. Knowing their secrets when they all still treated her like white trash who’d had the good fortune to marry into wealth had made her feel powerful.
None of that mattered now. What she needed was money to get away. She’d be able to sell several of the Vartanian family heirlooms, like Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service. The thought of it made her smirk. After all this time, she finally possessed the family silver. She knew there were more treasures. When she got her hands on Susa
She’d use some of the cash she’d get for the Vartanian treasures to buy a passport with someone else’s name. Someone else’s face. Hers was now plastered over every news program in the country. Maybe even the world.
Dammit. What was I thinking this afternoon? I could have been caught.
She’d been thinking the way Charles had wanted her to think. She’d been single-mindedly focused on humiliating Susa
He hated Susa
And I want Susa
But now Bobby knew Susa
Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 2:45 a.m.
The weeping woke her. Susa
She was in Luke’s bed. But he wasn’t.
Gingerly she slid from the bed, suddenly feeling every one of the bumps and bruises from the last three days. Wincing, she shrugged into the shirt he’d thrown on the floor. It smelled like him, cedar and a little sweat.
I boarded that flight out of LaGuardia Friday morning hoping to change my life.
That, she thought as she rolled up Luke’s shirt sleeves, she certainly had done.
Darlin’ had stationed herself outside Luke’s spare bedroom. The door was ajar and Susa
“Luke.”
His bare back went rigid. He pushed against the bag until he stood straight, but didn’t turn around. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said stiffly.
“It’s almost three a.m.,” she said. “Par for the course. Can I come in?” He nodded, still not looking at her. She rubbed her hands over his back, feeling every muscle tense. “What happened?” she asked softly.
“Nate called.”
“Nate, from ICAC.” Dread pooled in her stomach. “They found Becky Snyder’s little sisters?” The little sisters who Monica’s friend Becky had died trying to protect.
“Yeah. On a podcast. Pay per view. Nate sent out pictures of the children after we left the empty apartment this morning.” The apartment whose address Monica Cassidy had committed to memory, keeping her promise to help Becky’s younger sisters. “One of our partners in Europe contacted him. They’d seen the kids. Nate saw them tonight. Online.” He rested his forehead on the punching bag. “He’s ripped up.”