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Who the fuck am I?
I stroke her hair and she murmurs something I don’t catch, turning toward me, fingers shifting on my bare chest. Awake, she isn’t sure if she trusts me, but in her dreams… yeah, she does. Implicitly.
Shit, I stay because I like being with her. I like her. I thought I hated her for who she was, or at least didn’t give a fuck about her, but I think I do.
Not because of that insane, intense, phenomenal session. It was more than sex; it was transcendent with me casting ropes, rigging them tight around her using my own style of Shibari.
Her orgasms, her reactions to the little bit of rope play I’ve done are so insane that I can see exactly how it’ll go when we do it properly.
The intricate knots and twisting and tying her into all sorts of positions… to do that properly can take hours. I want to do that for her.
Yes, I want to fuck her suspended in midair. But I also want to just bind her up in knots in the most exquisitely literal sense. The power dynamic of that, to have her absolute trust in letting me do that to her, is an aphrodisiac moving through my soul.
I take in a sharp breath. I can’t stay here. With her.
Slowly, I extract myself from her arms, slip out of the room, and walk down the hall. I unlock my study, about to step in when I think twice. I need to work, yes. But I also need to wipe her taste and feel from me. Because right now, she’s fucking everywhere. So I change and go for a long run.
When I return from the quiet streets of SoHo, I’m not tired, but the burn of the run makes me feel better, and it helped clear my mind. I shower quickly and head into my office.
The not tired thing’s a real bitch. Because after I finish with my work, I know I should sleep, but it feels a million miles away. So I grab the bottle of scotch and some cupcakes, intending to go into the living room. And yet my feet take me back to the master bedroom, where I peer in at her.
I stand there, lift the bottle to my lips, and take a pull, watching. She’s curled in on herself, the covers half-off, the pillow in her arms, and her hair a cloud of black around her.
Fuck me, it’d be so damn easy to put the bottle down, peel off my clothes, and crawl back onto the bed, maybe under the covers this time.
Skin on skin.
Not doing a thing but holding her against me, our bodies exchanging heat and?—
I shake my head and move away from the door. “Jesus fucking Christ, Malone. Get your shit together.”
My phone pings, and I pull it from my pocket.
It’s late, but no Knight keeps regular hours. Things happen in the dark depths of night, and whether they’re pleasure or work, it’s our time.
Present for you. It’s from Mercer. Had business out in Queens. Hooked up camera feeds on that dock.
“Yes,” I grumble.
I stab my screen.
Thanks.
I’m sure Smith called in that favor for me. We’ve set up other ones, but there must have been a lull, or… knowing Mercer, he made this happen right under the dock worker’s noses and they didn’t notice.
I really don’t care. I go into the study and pull up the feed, setting up my computer to show all the different ones.
While we don’t need a camera on Grant Hanlon’s place—too many people come and go, including delivery people, maintenance workers, and residents—we do. Just in case.
But the one on Dale Hanlon’s Sugar Hill residence is dark.
I roll back through the feed.
That fuckwit turned up in the middle of the night two nights ago, headed out in the early hours and then… nothing.
Did he go somewhere on business? I grab my iPad and check flights and the tracker on his car, but it’s parked at their main office where Grant comes and goes, as does their receptionist and various visitors, but not Dale.
I make a note to question Grant. Question fucking Scarlett, too.
