Page 229 of Chameleon Killer

For the first time in years, I had absolutely no official authority over anything. At the top of the stairs, I caught my reflection in polished metal.

White shirt. Rolled sleeves. No tie. Empty belt. I looked like someone who'd just had an identity removed piece by piece.

Maybe that was what Simon wanted. Strip away the Bureau, the procedure, the access, and every other structure I’d used as a foundation for my career.

What was left?

I checked what train was coming next and instead of going home, I got on the one that would take me to where I knew Mallory would be.

I headed for Flint Carter’s apartment.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

MALLORY

The kiss was nothing like I’d imagined. Not frantic or desperate, but slow and certain. His mouth was firm on mine, tasting of coffee and relief.

I slid my hands from his shoulders into his hair, the strands still damp from his own shower. He made a low sound in his throat, a quiet groan of surrender, and his hands tightened on my hips, pulling me flush against him.

There was no space left between us, not a sliver of light or air, just the solid, undeniable truth of his body against mine. I felt the hard ridge of his erection through my sweatpants—his sweatpants—and a wild, triumphant laugh bubbled up in my chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and searching. “What’s so funny?”

“Everything,” I breathed, tugging his head back down. “Nothing. I’m just happy to be here.” In the moment. With him. The words bubbled up and then got lost in the confusion as his mouth fastened over mine.

We could talk later.

This time, the kiss deepened. His tongue swept against mine, and I was lost. All the months—hell years—of careful distance, of professional boundaries, of telling myself no, we work together, we can’t, dissolved into this single, perfect moment. There were no jobs, no cases, no unsubs. There was only Flint, and the way he was kissing me like he’d been starving for this as long as I had.

“Bedroom,” he muttered against my mouth, his hands already sliding under the hem of my shirt—his shirt—his palms hot against my bare skin.

“Too far,” I said, backing him toward the living room. My hands fumbled with the hem of his own shirt, and I broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head. I tossed it aside, my eyes roaming over his chest. The dusting of hair, the lean muscle, the scar that cut a pale line across his ribs. I’d seen him without a shirt before, but never like this. Never with the intention of touching.

“My turn.” He caught my gaze, and a slow, lazy grin spread across his face.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of the sweatpants I was wearing. In one smooth motion, he pushed them down. They pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but a pair of simple black cotton underwear. The cool air of the apartment was a shock against my overheated skin, and I shivered.

“Cold?” he murmured, his gaze tracing over me, hot enough to burn.

“Not even a little bit,” I lied, reaching for his belt. My hands were shaking, but not with fear or adrenaline. This was pure, unadulterated need. I managed to unbuckle it, then pop the button on his jeans. He helped me shove them down, kicking them away along with his boxers.

We stood there in the middle of his living room, naked and bathed in the gray morning light filtering through the windows. It should have felt awkward, or surreal. Instead, it felt right. It felt like coming home.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.

I laughed, a real, uninhibited laugh that felt years overdue. “I’m a disaster. I have a bruise on my arm from where some cop grabbed me, and my hair is a mess.”

“Perfect,” he corrected, stepping closer. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. “You’re perfect.”

And then he was kissing me again, and there was no more room for words. He walked me backward, his hands roaming over my body, learning my curves, my dips, the places that made me gasp. The back of my legs hit the sofa, and I tumbled onto it, pulling him down with me. He settled over me, his weight a delicious anchor, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, arching up to meet him.

“Condom,” he gritted out, his forehead pressed against mine.

“Wallet,” I panted. “Jeans. Pocket.”

He rolled off me, and I watched him fumble for his discarded jeans, his body a masterpiece of masculine grace in the dim light. He came back to me, tearing the foil with his teeth, and I took the condom from him, rolling it on myself. His eyes went dark as he watched, his breath hitching.