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I could almost picture his body as he pistoned his hips. His tongue mirrored his cock with thrusting action and I swore we dueled for supremacy. The blunt thickness of his thumb was suddenly against my clit. The pressure against the swollen bundle of nerves exploded my control and I writhed.
His mouth devoured mine, but even as I came, spasming around his cock, he was relentless in the thrusts as he filled me over and over. The burning stretch of him seemed to just elongate my orgasm and then he stroked my clit again and I whimpered.
Actually whimpered, and he let out another of those deep chested growls before he slammed up into me once, twice, and on the third, he ground me against him as the hot jets of warmth filled me up. Fuck, it was just like when I'd jerked him off—he seemed to keep coming and I longed to watch his face as he did.
But we were still panting and kissing and holding on, as his cum leaked out from where we were still joined. It was dirty and sensuous and dangerous and delightful. Reckless in its disregard for where we were and what we were doing.
The little gasps escaping him told me he was no less affected. "Vienna," he whispered against my lips. "Next time you come, I want you naked. I want to see you."
I could work with that.
Eventually, he softened and we were getting closer to where the limo would leave us and we would vanish. His cum was still damp on my thighs as he trailed his hand up to try and clean me up. Though even the tissues we had didn't do enough. I had to clean the lipstick off his face and we were in total disarray.
There was no mistaking what we'd been doing.
"Thank you," I said in a soft voice.
"I should be thanking you," he told me, but his expression was so tender it wrenched the heart.
"No, not for the sex—though I definitely enjoyed that. Thank you for trusting me tonight. Thank you for helping me kill the monster."
We had so much to do and so much to talk about, but there was one less monster in the world, and Rick had helped make that happen.
Tonight, we celebrated.
15
Cash
There had to be a connection. I was missing it somewhere in the details.
Spinning from side to side, slouched back in a hotel chair, I fiddled with the Rubik’s cube in my hand. It was little more than a way to pass time at this point. I’d been working this particular one since I was about fifteen and Pops bought it for me for my birthday.
He’d said it was good for the mind. To learn the patterns. The algorithms.
And I had. I’d gotten so good at it, that I could damn near solve one in under five minutes. It was all in the repetitive patterns.
One thing I learned from my old man was that, no matter how good the unsub, there was always a pattern. We just might not see it yet. The better they were at covering their tracks, the more rewarding it would be to tug the thread that unraveled their entire operation.
Now just before noon, listening to old hits by Breaking Benjamin, I had almost killed what was left of my bottle of whiskey.
It just didn’t make sense.
Bending forward, I pushed a few of the pictures around. I’d taken copies of crime scene photos from all cases that were most likely connected to the Judge. Twenty-seven cases over the last five years. And that didn’t even cover the Eighty-two cases Pops had worked on for this particular killer.
But having seen the footage, the glimpse of that fucking temptress leading her victim out to slaughter, I knew we were more than likely looking at an accomplice, or a copycat. The woman looked all of twenty-five, maybe even twenty. She’d have been barely alive, if at all, when the first murders started. So, was she a devoted follower? A star struck lover?
I knew she was someone important though. And she was exactly who I was searching for. She was the loose thread.
Seeing her just added weight to my theory. The media had named the killer the Judge, because all the victims were horrendous men with poisoned moral compasses. I’d always thought they were too complex to pull off alone. It was a whole fucking Jury instead of just a Judge.
But the most recent case in Bum Fuck Nowhere was completely out of character.
If Pops were here, he’d say that wasn’t a Judge case. The man had dedicated his career to catching that particular killer and had gotten no closer to finding out the identity at his death than he had when he thought he’d made a major break a decade ago.
He was my old man, my hero. I practically worshipped the ground he’d walked on growing up, and on his deathbed I’d promised I’d pick up this mantle. I would not rest until I uncovered the unsub responsible for the only case that Pops was never able to solve.
I took that promise seriously. Living, breathing,fuckingto this case playing in the backdrop of my mind.
