Page 119 of Love Me Fierce

The pleasure unravels so quickly, burning up through me like sweet fire. I cry out as he strokes and teases, surrendering to the emotions twisting inside me. He wraps his arm around my chest and presses his lips to my jaw, holding me to him while he draws every last drop of my release from my body. Panting, I hang on his arm and rest against his frame.

We stand together under the warm spray, our breaths echoing in the tight space. Little aftershocks jolt down my thighs, adding a hit of friction where his cock is trapped between us. I reach back and caress his thigh, slipping my hand between our bodies to touch him.

“I need to be inside you,” he says in my ear. “Do you think you can?—”

I wrap my hand around him. “Yes.”

He gives another low groan. “First, though,” he says, and pumps some soap into his hands. “You asked for help.”

I smile and turn to kiss him. His wet beard feels silky against my face and his lips are plush and so soft. He washes my body, swirling his soapy fingers around my breasts and down my thighs, rekindling my desire. He scrubs my neck and shoulders, being so gentle, then washes my hair, his strong fingers like magic, while making sure to be tender around my wounds. When we’re rinsed, he shuts off the water and squeezes out my hair, then brings in a big, fluffy towel to dry me off. We kiss and touch, my body already aching for him.

When he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, the relief to be off my feet is as powerful as the look in his eyes.

Everett makes slow, sweet love to me, his reverent touch everywhere and his whispered praises making my heart feel so full and tight inside my chest, When I come undone, my emotions crack loose with my climax, making me feel more vulnerable than I’ve allowed myself to be in so long. It should scare me, but it’s the opposite. How could I be feeling this much, so soon? How could I be so willing to trust after being so broken?

“It’s okay,” Everett says, kissing my tears away. “Let me have everything.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

EVERETT

I wakein darkness with Vivian curled against me and my phone lighting up my nightstand.

It’s a text from Luke Ballard.

Incoming

Though I hate to leave Vivian and the warmth of her body, I’ve been waiting for this.

Moving slowly so I don’t wake her, I slip from the bed and pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, then grab my phone and head downstairs. I get the coffeemaker going.

Ballard’s team has been working around the clock on the killer’s burner phone since we sent it to him over a week ago. Yesterday, they finally obtained the serial number from the phone records.

My phone chirps again, and I huff a breath before turning it over. Giving Jordy Clarke over to the feds is still a sore subject, and even though it’s not Luke’s fault, a part of me wants to hold it against him.

He’s sent me an email with attachments.

Is this the moment I finally see the killer’s face?

Everett,

Serial number matches a phone sold at a big box store in Ogden, Utah. We used time of sale to view footage. We think this is our guy.

Luke

I download all the attachments, then click open the first one.

It’s grainy like all security footage, and shot from above. It shows a man partially turned away from the counter, a small plastic shopping bag in one hand. He’s wearing a baseball cap that shields his face, so I focus on the other details. He’s tall and on the lean side, his jeans hanging slightly loose on his thighs, but his chest is filled out, like he spends time in a gym, or maybe he works a labor job, like construction. Or he’s a climber. His long sleeved t-shirt has no logo or graphic markings, and he’s wearing sneakers.

In short, he could be anyone.

Though I’m relieved he has no resemblance to Jordy Clarke. It was a long shot, but one I can safely put to rest.

I open the next image. They must be in reverse order, because he’s a back step closer to the counter in this one. A good amount of the right side of his face is visible, but the hat shades what I need most—his eyes.

I go back one more.

In this one, the guy’s free hand is halfway up to the bill of his ball cap, like the camera caught him about to adjust it. I still don’t get his eyes, but there’s a gray smudge on his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt has slipped down. A watch? The edge of a tattoo? Some kind of bracelet? It’s too grainy and with the grayscale, I can’t be sure.

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