Faking a perfect death.
It’s not an easy feat. It takes time. Preparation. Skills. And an accomplice who is apprised in manipulation tactics that rival the most intelligent law officials.
I pull London inside one of the cells.
“We might get trapped in here,” she says, her voice breathy, but her eyes are wide in excitement, those golden flecks sparkling.
“I could do time with you, baby,” I wrap her in an embrace, bringing her close, and try to conceal the pain touching her causes me.
She’s never fooled. She immediately rolls my sleeves back to inspect.
The scars on my arms are covered in new red and silvery slashes. The razor cuts are still sensitive, the poison leaving behind a permanent imprint on my nerve endings.
“The pain will subside with time,” London says, tentativelytouching the wounds. She lifts her gaze to mine. “Any lingering side effects? Dizziness, paralysis?”
A grin curves my mouth. “Always the good doctor.”
She goes to say something more, and I slant my mouth over hers, stealing her breath and inhaling her deeply.
It’s ironic that, what got me tried and found guilty, would also set me free.Corpus delicti. Body of the crime. It’s difficult to prove a death occurred without a body—but not impossible. Substantial circumstantial evidence is needed, and a witness.
A witness to observe the death is always helpful.
The psychotic FBI agent, obsessed with his capture rate, designed a death trap in the copycat manner to end my life, and he did. Grayson Pierce Sullivan is no more.
I now go by Cain Owen Hensley. That’s what it states on my fashioned ID.
I thought it was fitting, seeing as Cain killed Abel and then was doomed to wander the world aimlessly. Except I’m not aimless in my wandering. Not anymore.
I have a very specific destination.
And right now, that destination is wearing the most tempting fucking skirt. London sees the predatory intent in my eyes before I strike.
In one quick move, I have her chest pinned to the wall, my hand clamped over her mouth to catch her breathy gasp, my other dragging that skirt up her thighs.
“You wore this for me,” I murmur, voice low, my lips brushing her ear. “You knew I’d have to be inside you.”
Her body trembles against mine, her moan muffled beneath my palm as I shove her panties aside and slide my fingers into her with a deep groan.
“Fuck, you’re already soaked for me.”
She arches her back in answer, grinding her ass against my groin, and I nip her ear. “I missed you, too, baby,” I whisper, then tear her panties away, making her buck at the force.
I unclasp my jeans and pull myself out. Her thighs part in anticipation, and I thrust into her—slow, hard—all the way to the fucking hilt.
She unleashes a soft cry beneath my hand, clenching so goddamn tight around me, any restraint I held snaps. My next thrust is fast, rough, unguarded, making up for every second we were apart.
Arm caging her, I fuck her against the wall like a heathen. Every movement brutal, and reverent. Her hand slides over mine where it’s braced on the wall. Our fingers lace together, knuckles scraping against the coarse stone to offer a layer of pain to the consuming pleasure.
My mouth seeks the soft slope of her neck and I bite down, claiming her all over again. “Mine,” I growl against her skin. “Every beautiful fucking inch of you, London.”
Her moans deepen, muffled and desperate, as I feel hertighten around me. I drop my hand from her mouth to hear her breathe my name in her throaty, broken cadence as she crashes against me.
The feel of her falling apart beneath me tears my orgasm free, and I bury myself deep, pulsing against her clenched walls. I groan against her neck, shuddering through the onslaught as I utter her name like a vow.
We breathe hard against each other as we come down, bodies trembling.
“I missed you,” she whispers, and I wrap my arms around her tight, never letting go.
