“You aren’t asking enough questions, Max.”
“I’m asking them all.”
“You haven’t said Lilah’s name to any of your so-called suspects.”
“Witt already talked to them. What the hell am I supposed to add?”
“You haven’t been to see the other people in Wendy’s appointment book.”
“Her psychiatrist.”
“And her psychic reader.”
“The first won’t tell me a thing because I’m not a cop, and the second can’t know any more than I do. She’s a crock.”
“Excuses, Max. You have way too many.”
“If you’re so omnipotent, why don’t you look in your crystal ball? Why don’t you ask Wendy’s spirit? Why don’t you give me some answers?”
“I gave you the questions. Ask Nicholas Drake where he was when Lilah Bloom was murdered. Don’t you think that’s important?”
She felt the sand sucking her down. Circling the swing, she grabbed the chain and threw herself into the seat again. Her head swirled with Cameron’s words, her body squirmed with too much sexual tension. With Nick, and before that, with Detective Witt.
She wanted out of this discussion, out of Wendy Gregory’s nightmares. She wanted relief. Something. Anything.
She closed her eyes and felt Cameron’s body pinning hers in the swing.
“You want Witt. Nick is just a remnant of Wendy mixing you up.”
“I don’t want either of them.” I want you.
“You have me.”
“Do me,” she whispered. If he didn’t, she was afraid she’d have to search for someone at the Round Up. And she didn’t want that either. She closed her eyes, willing him to give her what she desperately needed.
“Out here?”
“Right here.” It would be like that time on the motorcycle, sitting on the seat, her legs hugging his body, all slippery on the leather. It was dark out now, not like the other day on the deck.
Then again, maybe she hadn’t been as desperate the other day.
“You’re always desperate for me to fuck the hell out of you.”
She felt him slide his body beneath hers, the swing sinking with his weight.
“Spread your legs.”
She did, gripping the links of the swing’s chain. She was glad for the broken lights of the playground. What the hell would someone think of a woman sitting alone on a swing, her legs wide, her head thrown back with the anticipation of bodily pleasure?
“You don’t need a cowboy. You can ride me,” Cameron whispered.
His thighs tensed, the swing started to move. No zippers needed to be undone, no buttons popped. He could simply slip three fingers inside her, penetrate deeply. All the lingering wetness of the day’s encounters eased his movements. She undulated against him, leaned forward to thrust her clit against the palm of his hand, then bore down to increase the pressure.
“Make me come.” She could forget this wasn’t real while she came. She could wrap her arms around his neck without even moving a muscle, hold him close, never let him go.
“I’m going to fuck you, Max. Right here, right now.”
Her feet touched the sand just as his cock drove up inside her. She panted through open lips, pumped against him. Her shoes seemed to sink into the sand. God, he felt good. So big. He’d never been so large when he was alive, but now he reached so high he almost touched her throat.
“He’d be this big, wouldn’t he?”
“Who?” She bit her lip, trying to climb to the edge of orgasm.
“Witt.”
Witt of the big hands and big body. “Yes, yes, he would.”
“He could ride you until you came a thousand times.”
She imagined the big man’s hands on her butt, holding her still while he drove into her. He would smell like that musky aftershave and the scent of sex. He’d crush her into the mattress, the weight of him squishing all the air out of her lungs. She’d spread her legs wide and wrapped her calves around his butt, taking him deeper. She’d scream for him.
Yes, she’d come. Oh, how she’d come.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she chanted. “Put your finger there. Yes, right there!”
“Call me Witt. Tell Witt what you want.”
She grabbed blond hair between her fingers, twisted it, while the detective’s callused fingertips stroked her clit.
“Oh God, Witt, please, touch me. Make me come.”
“So huge, you’re filled up, Max, past your throat, to your eyeballs. He makes your body sing.”
His lips clamped down on her exposed nipple, teeth grazing the distended tip. Then he sucked. She went into orbit, sparks traveling down her abdomen to that hot pocket of need centered right in her clitoris. Reaching behind, she stroked his balls and the crinkly, coarse hair surrounding them. Then she pressed a finger to the underside of his scrotum, where he was tight and filled with an impending explosion of semen. He raged inside her, grunted like an animal. Out of control. Concentrating on his cock and his need. Lost to it. His groans filled her ears. Her * gushed in response.