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She absorbs my hard stare and hard words, and slowly lowers her eyes to my lips. Then she leans forward, trying to capture them. I pull away, shaking my head, and she whimpers. She’s regretting it.
Good.
I dip and sink my teeth into her breast and my fingers into her pussy, and she screams, bucking and wriggling. She’s felt nothing yet. And unlucky for Beau, she’s only made me angrier with her fucked-up intention of making this work for her. I have no choice but to make it work for me too.
I take her behind her thighs and lift, and like a man possessed, I pound into her on a guttural bark, impaling her to the hilt, no easing in, no soft approach. I roar, and Beau screams in shock at my ruthless move, her legs dangling lifelessly around my hips. I don’t allow her time to adjust. To accept me. I lift her and yank her back down, over and over, showing her no mercy. Unforgiving. Hard and brutal.
“James,” she yelps, wrenching and pulling her wrists as I pound on savagely, taking her aggressively. She knows exactly what I’m doing. And she asked me to do it.
I reach down and take her other boob in my mouth, biting. Marking.
She comes undone, screaming her way through an orgasm that takes us both by surprise. And the moment she goes limp, I start all over again. “It’s going to be a long night, Beau.” I strain the words, and her drowsy eyes drag open.
“Stop talking,” she murmurs.
And I smile. Because even without words, we speak.
And what we’re saying to each other in this moment is significant.
Hours. I go for hours, over and over, orgasm after orgasm, my anger fueling my adrenalin. I only stop when she submits. When she asks me to.
She’s nestled into my shoulder, her teeth sunken into my flesh, virtually asleep. I unravel the bonds with one hand, and then carry her to my bed, laying her exhausted body down gently. I’m beat.
But I have shit to do.
Dropping a kiss on her forehead, I cover her naked body and leave the room, stopping in my dressing room to slip on some boxers and grab a black bin bag of clothes, before passing my office to get a phone. When I get downstairs, I dump the sack by the elevator and drop onto the couch, dialing Spittle.
His hello is tired. Wary. “Tough day?” I ask.
“They’re still dragging Russians and Serbs out of the cove three years later. I’ve been pulled in to try and identify some of the bodies.”
“The Marina massacre,” I say thoughtfully.
“Yeah, Danny Black likes to leave his mark.”
Likes. I hum as if in agreement, but my head is quickly whirling for other reasons. Reasons I don’t have time for. “Do you have anything for me?”
“Nothing. All the files on Jaz Hayley’s death have been archived and I can’t access them.”
“Under lock and key,” I muse. “Convenient.”
“No, just archived. I’d have to get someone to sign them out, and forgive me, but your interest is making me reluctant.”
“So you’ve not even tried?”
“I need more information if I’m going to knowingly expose myself.”
“Are you forgetting about our dead friend?”
He laughs, and it gets right under my skin. “How could I? I just heard Wallace is being dragged out of the sea.”
I smile, knowing I’ll be receiving a call from The Bear very soon. “What is he paying you for?”
“I . . .” Spittle fades off, and I silently will him to be wise. Be wise or die. “Information.”
I roll my eyes and shift in my chair, feeling every muscle tug painfully. “On who?”
He stalls, and I wait patiently for an answer, my mind replaying his earlier fuck-up. Likes. Not liked. Present tense, not past. “Vince Roake.”
“The Alligator,” I muse.
“You know him?”
You could say that. I just killed the bent judge taking his case. “I know everyone.”
“But no one knows you.”
It’s time to put him out of his misery. “They know me. But they don’t know me.”
He inhales and releases the air on two words. Two very fucking powerful words. “The Enigma.”
“Well done, Agent.” I smile to myself. “Sorry, ex agent.”
“Jesus.”
I can see him in my mind’s eye. Sweating. Pacing. Wondering what the fuck he’s got himself into. “Get me that fucking file, Spittle.”
“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll try. Is that it? Just the file?”
“No. I’m going to give you a name and you’re going to find him.”
“The name?”
“Brendon Brunelli.”
“Who is he?”
“Inmate for two years in London.” I refuse to die until I find that motherfucker. Refuse.
“London?”
“You have contacts, I assume.”
“Fuck me, my life, retirement, was supposed to be easier with The Brit gone.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I’ll call you.” I hang up and dial Sandy immediately.
“You played me,” he says in answer. “Well done.”
“Thanks.” I slide the remote control from my desk and turn on the screens. Sandy’s face greets me. “Looking forward to dying?”
