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She shook her head, a sense of hopelessness spreading over her.
“Find someone else to play with, Sam,” she snapped out, seeing the surprise, then the heat that spread over his face. “I’m tired of it. And if you can manage it, next time we’re trying to draw that bastard out, let us do our jobs instead of jumping in. I didn’t rip Tate’s head off for a reason. You should have had enough sense to know that.”
She turned and slammed out of the bedroom, anger and arousal mixing inside her system until she felt like a volcano ready to blow. She moved to her own room and slammed the door close. She twisted the lock furiously, then moved to the door that connected to Sam’s room. She twisted that lock as well.
It was a Pocket Rocket moment, she thought as she jerked her dresser drawer open and retrieved the small, battery operated clitoral vibrator. Before the arousal drove her crazy, before she begged him to fuck her. She needed relief, weak though it might be without his touch. She needed the strength and heat of his body. And she needed it now.
She removed her panties and the light summer dress before kicking her shoes off by the bed and laying across it as she whimpered in agony. Her pussy was pulsing, clenching. Sam was making her crazy.
She twisted the control on the little external vibrator, moving it slowly over the bare lips of her pussy as her fingers moved to the sensitive opening of her vagina. She was too hot, too desperate to go slowly. She plunged two fingers as deep inside her hot cunt as they would go as she moved the vibrator to the side of her clit.
Her hips jerked, her strangled moan tearing from her throat as she worked her fingers through the thick cream of her inner juices. She imagined Sam, his fingers working inside her, his tongue on her clit, his breath hot and hard as he licked her, sucked her clit into his mouth or pushed his tongue deep inside her pussy.
Her fingers spread the natural lubrication of her body back, along the puckered opening of her anus. She couldn’t stop her moan of need as the third finger gently pierced her anal opening.
She remembered the one time Sam had touched her there. The one time his mouth had moved over her sensitive pussy, his fingers invading it as one hard, long finger pushed into her anus.
Invaded from both ends, her body shook. Her eyes were tightly closed, her body shuddering as she worked her fingers inside her, driving her pleasure higher, deeper. The strong vibration of the powerful little device at her clit made her release come hard and fast.
She bit her lip, moaning, her hips thrusting convulsively on her fingers as the pleasure tore through her, exploding through her clit, her hungry pussy and echoing along her body.
Heather didn’t bother to try to breathe through the little explosion. She let it tear through her, carry her along until her clit protested the strong stimulation of the battery-operated device. She eased it from her as she pulled her fingers free of her twin entrances. Her body still tingled, and though the worst of the extreme arousal had eased, she was by no means satisfied.
She stared up at the ceiling, ignoring her tears, and cursed fate and reality. In her dreams it was Sam taking her, yet it seemed the reality of it would never come to pass.
* * * * *
Sam stared at the ceiling, arousal and anger moving through his system as he fought to ignore the erection tormenting him. Damn. This wasn’t working out. Heather in the house all day, tempting him, her smile and her laughter teasing him in ways that stretched his self-control to its limits.
He remembered finding her the night of the attack. Unconscious, naked, blood staining her thighs from the slashes made across her mound. One had come dangerously close to her tender clitoris. Thin, shallow, but devastating all the same.
His hand lowered, tucking beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, gripping his cock. He could feel his own scars. Razor thin, but even now, twelve years later, easily felt. They crisscrossed the head, the shaft, his scrotum. A madman’s brand. A madman’s revenge.
He closed his eyes, the misty nightmare visions silhouetting behind the closed lids as his heart rate increased and his stomach tightened with tension. The memories were there, so close…
The jarring ring of the phone beside him jerked him from the forming visions of the past. With a curse on his lips, her rolled over and jerked the phone from its base.
“What?” he snarled.
“You like fucking your brothers, August?” Mark Tate’s voice came through the line. Breathless, almost frightened as he spoke. “You have two hours to show up at my place, or I send these pictures I have to every newspaper and law enforcement agency in the country. Interesting pictures of a dead man.”
Sam stilled. A haze of pain and white-hot fury swelled in his gut.
“You’re a dead man,” he whispered.
The line disconnected.
Chapter Five
There was blood everywhere. Like his worst nightmare come to life. The stench of death was like a blow to his chest, taking his breath, stealing the very air from his lungs. Sam could do nothing but stare in horror. Mark Tate was laid out in the small dingy living room of his mobile home, his body beaten nearly to a bloody pulp. It was Mark, he knew it was, but the features were nearly indistinguishable, his limbs were contorted, bits of flesh and blood splattered walls and furniture alike.
Sam shook his head, fighting for breath. He had seen such brutality before, and felt the violence of it searing his system. He shook, fevered and yet chilled as memory and reality collided, and for a moment, the scene was overlapped by that of another.
I killed him, Sam, Cade screamed furiously through his mind, his expression savage, commanding. Do you hear me? He’s dead. I killed him.
Blood had stained them both, the room in his memories reeking of filth and agony, and the bone-chilling scent of death. Just as it did here.
I killed him, Sam. Cade’s voice echoed around him again.
