My Killer Vacation

“Please.”

“Please what?” He hooks a finger in my top and tugs it lower, that final inch that reveals my pointed nipples, a groan rumbling deep in his barrel chest. “Suck these beautiful-ass tits? Goddamn, I knew they’d have those little triangle tan lines on ’em. Fuck.”

I’m intoxicated in a blinding instant.

He just…

Talks like this.

All the time. Bluntly. Even crudely. But he’s…complimenting me? I don’t understand why the gravel delivery of such abrasive words should make my hips writhe impatiently beneath his entrapping ones. I’m bowing my back even more dramatically, wanting him to perform the act he spoke about in such explicit terms. Yes, yes. What he said is what I want.

“Please.”

His long hair falls around his face and I can barely make out his features. Only enough to know they’re tight. That his lips are open and parted. Eyes dark.

Briefly, he lets go of one wrist and removes the gun from the back of his waistband, sliding it away carefully on the floor. Then, he lifts the same hand slowly. Slowly. Lets it hover just above my naked breasts. And my tummy tangos excitedly. Hollows and heaves, waiting to see what he’ll do. Where he’ll touch. All because he lifted a hand. I’m holding my breath, a whimper ready to break free. I’m shaking. I’m shaking. Waiting for the contact is borderline excruciating. “Never seen anything so hot in my life. Hot—and hot for it. Aren’t you?” Tongue perched in the center of his bottom lip, he lowers the pad of his index finger to one of my nipples, barely touching it, and he slowly grazes a light circle. “Yeah, you are.”

I choke on a moan, the end of it releasing long and loud, my body tightening and melting all at the same time beneath him. I don’t know what comes next or exactly what I want. I just know I need it now. Immediately. And I don’t want to think. I want him to think and decide for me. For us. All day long is for thinking and deciding. Right now I just want to be hijacked.

He traces that fingertip over to my other nipple, circling it with the same light, torturous treatment. “You want that pretty little mouth kissed?”

“Y-yes.”

“Now say it again without stuttering, baby.”

“Yes.”

That hand. That hand he’s using on me so lightly continues its gentle journey up, up—and then it wraps firmly around my throat. So unexpectedly that I gasp, the flesh between my legs growing pliant, so tender, thighs falling open naturally. As if they haven’t been given a choice and he rocks into them once, easy, laughing without humor at whatever he feels.

His mouth dips toward mine. I moisten my lips in preparation.

A car door slams outside.

No. Through the sudden lust haze in my brain, I realize it’s more of a sliding van door. In the driveway of the house. That loud sound is followed by more vehicle engines cutting out and the peppering of excited voices. Footsteps. High heels and more muted ones.

“We’ll set up over here. Let’s make this quick,” says an older female.

Myles drops his head forward with a curse, then rolls off me. Stands. Adjusting the protrusion in his jeans before reaching down and helping me up. Until he squeezes my hip and touches our foreheads together, I have no idea how badly I’m craving that show of…what? Comfort? But the second I have it, a twitchy feeling in my stomach settles. He looks me in the eye until I nod—and I barely know why I’m nodding. Only that I liked him holding me down, hand on my throat, but it woke me up to such a degree that I need his eye contact and softer contact to come back down. With my nod, I’m communicating something important to him that doesn’t need to be spoken out loud.

Weird.

We cross the living room to the window together, finding a group of people standing in front of the house. A dark-haired woman dressed in a smart, plum-colored pantsuit. A young man with a clipboard and a camera crew.

“What the fuck now,” Myles mutters.

He strides to the front door and starts to exit, before drawing to a halt and pinning me with a look. “You stay put.”

“No.”

With a rumble of unpleasant words, he vanishes through the doorway. After making sure my clothing is fixed, I jog into the front yard behind him. Five heads have swiveled in our direction. Clipboard Guy stares, pen poised over the surface of his notes. Pantsuit woman’s smile appears to be frozen to her face. The camera crew continues what appears to be their mission to stage a mini press conference, complete with a glass podium on wheels.

“What’s going on here?” Myles demands to know.

“I could ask you the same question,” responds the young man. With an amused glance in Pantsuit’s direction, he wedges the clipboard beneath his arm and approaches us with a hand extended, which we take turns shaking. “I’m Kurt Forsythe, the mayor’s assistant.” He smiles over his shoulder, then directs that smile at me, where it broadens. “Surely you know the mayor, Rhonda Robinson.”

“We’re from out of town.” Did Myles just edge closer to me? “You getting ready to film something?”

Kurt tilts his head. “Do you own this property?”

The assistant poses the question in such a way that he obviously already knows the answer. Myles doesn’t bother responding. Just crosses his arms and regards Kurt like a flea.

“No, I didn’t think so,” the assistant says, taking a not so discreet step back from the bounty hunter. “Erm. Do you mind me asking what you’re doing here?”

“I’ve been hired by the family. Privately. To investigate the murder of Oscar Stanley.”

“I’m on vacation,” I say. “And also helping him investigate.”

Myles is already shaking his head. “No, she’s not.”