Page 8 of Still Missing You

I’m bent over his desk, the grain cool beneath my palms. The desk lamp glows low beside us, throwing golden light across the cluttered surface and casting flickering shadows along the wall. I hear the door click shut, feel the air shift as he steps in behind me.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. I feel the heat of him at my back, the weight of his stare tracing down my spine. My pants are gone—I don’t even remember them being pulled down—and the chill of the room raises goosebumps across my skin.

A moment of silence. Then a breath. A wet sound—

I flinch when spit hits my hole, hot and sudden. I bite my lip, a whimper catching in my throat. Another breath. Another slick sound. Then his finger is there, sliding inside with a deliberate push.

“Hunter,” I whisper, breathless.

He presses closer. A second finger joins the first, stretching me open in slow, practiced motions. I’m burning up, trembling. His other hand rests heavy on the small of my back, pinning me down. His belt buckle brushes my thigh.

Then I feel the blunt pressure of his cock. He pushes forward—

I gasp, eyes squeezing shut. He fills me with one slow, devastating thrust, setting a rhythm that’s hard and deep, each snap of his hips sending jolts up my spine. The desk creaks beneath me. His fingers curl in my hair, holding me down while he fucks me with quiet, focused intensity.

My orgasm builds fast, hot and desperate, curling tight in my gut. I try to hold it off, to make this last, but I’m already too far gone. My grip tightens. My legs tremble.

When I finally come, it’s with a sharp cry, my body locking tight and coming undone in waves.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my hand sticky, chest heaving. I collapse back against the mattress, the real world settling around me again in quiet shadows and the sound of wind outside the windows.

I get out of bed and shower, and when I check the time, it’s nearly five. I give up on sleep. Instead, I drive into town and get an early start on the day. I have orders to make, anyway. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the lack of sleep will catch up with me, and exhaustion will hit me like a brick wall. I might as well finish what I can now, in case I need to duck out early.

I’m sitting at my desk in the closet-like back room, a steaming cup of coffee next to my laptop, while I fill out an order form for deli meat, when I hear a thud overhead.

At first, it barely registers. Between the tiredness leaving my brain murky and my attention fixed on what I’m doing, the noise is distant and muffled and easily explained away. Then another thud, followed by a louder bang and what sounded like footsteps.

What the hell? I freeze, straining to hear more. Another bang and more footsteps. Someone is in the apartment upstairs. Matthew.

I stand and hurry from the café, walking around the side of the building to the back, where rickety wooden stairs lead to the apartment.

The sky is starting to brighten, deep indigo blue stretching out and eating the star-studded black. I didn’t bother grabbing my coat, and the sharp wind whips through my wool sweater, stinging my skin as if I’m wearing nothing at all.

At the top of the stairs, the door is ajar by a few inches, and the apartment is dark inside. I press my hand to the door and push it open wider, but I can’t make out anything in the shadowy darkness.

“Matthew?” I call, stepping inside and flicking the light switch on the wall next to the door. Dull light illuminates the small space, and I start to call Matthew’s name again, but the word dies on my tongue, my eyes widening at the chaos before me.

The place has been trashed. Books pulled off the shelves are strewn over the floor. The couch is tipped forward, fabric torn open and foam padding yanked out. All the cupboard doors in the small kitchenette in the back corner are open, and dishes are in piles of broken ceramic on the floor.

“What the fuck,” I whisper, apprehension leaving me cold. The thud of heavy footsteps from the shadows charges toward me. Before I can even turn to see who it is, someone slams hard into me, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me stumbling backward. For a second, I teeter on the edge of the top step, for just a moment before I lose my balance, then I tip backward, and the floor disappears from under me.

Chapter Four

Hunter

Even before I spot the blue and red lights swirling over the pavement from the police cars parked on the side street next to Dylan’s café, I can’t shake the unease churning in my gut. I’m not sure what Dylan has got himself mixed up in, but I know it isn’t good.

After he left my office, I’d convinced myself I would do the right thing, the smart thing. I’d look into his friend, see if I could track him down, and if I found him, I could email Dylan, let him know his friend was alive and well. If I couldn’t find him, if Dylan was right and there was something suspicious about Matthew’s disappearance—which I’d thought was fairly unlikely—I would turn everything over to Colin or Linc and let one of them take over.

That would have been the smart thing to do. The professional thing. Instead, I’m pulling into a spot across from the café, dread settling in my stomach like a cold stone as I scan the small crowd gathered out front for any sign of Dylan.

I don’t see him, and the unease swelling inside me turns to full-on dread. Where the hell is he, and what happened? I think about my investigation, and the men who vanished—men like Matthew Fraiser. It would be a cruel irony if Dylan returned only to disappear again—but for real this time.

Not that he was back in my life. He was a job, a client, and one I would pass off to one of my partners if he decided to hire us. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you’ll believe it.

Seeing Dylan again isn’t just awkward—it’s a minefield. Here’s what I found. Are you fucking him? And were you really so desperate to get away that you just vanished without a word to anyone who knew you?

Not seeing him among the group of people standing a respectful distance from the police cars parked at the side of the café is feeding the anxiety gnawing away at me. I walk closer to the group, still scanning the dozen or so faces, hoping Dylan’s there and I missed him, somehow.