“Jesus—fuck, London,” he groans, his accent deepening in the guttural rasp of his voice.
The air charges around us, his frenzied gaze refusing to release me as his touch grows demanding, pressing invasively against the thin barrier of my panties, and I want to sink my nails into his skin. My fingers curl, forming claws against his arm.
As if he knows what I’m craving, he licks his lips and says, “Do it.”
The dare crashes through me, the throbbing ache between my thighs painful, desperate for his touch. As I surrender, dragging my blunt nails down his forearm, his jaw clenches as his fingers slip beneath the elastic and push in just far enough past my sensitive flesh.
“Oh, god,” I breathe, taking a forceful step back.
His other hand releases my hip and catches the front waist of my skirt, fingers digging beneath my belt to hold me in place—but I break free, severing the connection.
Heart thundering, my lungs burning for oxygen, I don’t stop backing away until I’m safely behind the black line. Grayson’s heated stare tracks me, nostrils flared, his chest moving up and down with his uneven breaths.
Then, he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me.
Something treacherous pulses through me at the obscene sight. Breathless, I turn and rush from the therapy room, ignoring the empty ache low in my belly. Within minutes, the guards have Grayson shackled and transported out of my office, where I can finally drag in a full breath.
He didn’t say a word; he gave nothing away. No hint to the storm brewing between us—to the boundaries we sodangerously crossed.
Alone, I cross my arms, standing near the leather chair as the floor shifts, unsteady beneath my shaky legs. I can still feel him, his touch branded deep into my skin.
The gravity of my situation looms, needing only the slightest push to send me tumbling over the edge.
9
PUZZLE
GRAYSON
The hollowclicksignals the cell door locking.
I stand with my hands linked behind my back until the guard’s footsteps retreat down the hall. Moving toward the cot, I inhale deeply, taking in the lingering scent of lilac. The flowers dried up. Dead petals frame my puzzles.
I’m patient, but fuck, even I have my breaking point.
A year in prison was easier than those torturous few seconds spent touching her. Feeling her wet—so goddamn soft and perfect.
My muscles are fire as I settle my back against the cool wall, waiting until the lights finally dim to give me my regulated privacy.
I lift my tongue and dig out the tiny object I placed there in London’s therapy room. Less than two inches in size, the metal catch of her belt buckle wasn’t easy to obtain, but hell, it was so fucking satisfying.
Her sweet taste still lingers on my tongue, and the visual Ihave of her—mouth parted, eyes dark and soldered to mine—as my fingers pushed just inside of her…
“Christ,” I groan as I reach down and adjust my hard cock.
She’s lucky I had another goal in mind in that moment, otherwise I wouldn’t have stopped, wouldn’t have let her pull away.
A grin tugs at my mouth as I wedge the silver prong beneath a flap of cardboard on my puzzle box. I’m running out of hiding places.
Soon.
After I scrape aside the scattered puzzle pieces on the table, I unfold the timeworn article and smooth out the creases. I’ve read it too many times already, but each time I do, I uncover another piece. Just like piecing together my puzzles, London has left little details, tiny clues, for me to find and fit together.
Hollows, Mississippi doesn’t exist. But Sullivan’s Hollow does—what a coincidence, like we were meant to find each other. It’s not printed on any proper map, but I don’t blame her or any of the residents within Mize for wanting to erase the past. New names and new histories. That’s all that’s needed to create a different identity.
I wonder how much she remembers, or if she’s completely rewritten it, her memories some distant nightmare she dreamed long ago.
Nine young women from the ages of sixteen to nineteen went missing over the course of twelve years. That might not seem like a lot, but to a small population like that, it’s a terrifying thing. Most were chalked up to runaways, the article claims, blaming the teens for their errant ways. In a small town, judgment outweighs truth. The article is full of suspicion and outdated thinking. There wasn’t even a detective placed on the case.
