Page 77 of The Reaper
“Something wrong?” I asked, setting the phone down.
She shook her head, her gaze locked on mine, bold and hungry. “There’s only one thing that can distract me from all of this,” she said, voice low, and dropped the towel, letting it pool at her feet.
Her body was a revelation—curves sharp and soft, breasts full, nipples hardening in the cool air, her skin glowing under the loft’s soft lights. My cock stirred, heat flooding me as I stood, drawn to her like a magnet.
She closed the distance, her hands on my chest, fingers deft as they unbuttoned my shirt, peeling it off, her eyes raking over me—chest, abs, the scars I didn’t hide.
“I want you, now,” she murmured, her hand trailing down, reaching into my pants, grabbing my cock, stroking once, twice, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt through me. My breath caught, desire coiling tight as she took my hand, pulling me toward the bathroom, her hips swaying, a promise in every step.
The shower was still running, steam billowing, the air thick with heat and the scent of her lavender soap. She stepped in, water cascading over her, glistening on her skin, her hair slicked back, eyes blazing with a hunger that matched mine.
“Get in,” she said, voice commanding, and I stripped fast, clothes hitting the floor, my cock hard and ready as I joined her under the spray.
She was in charge, her hands on my shoulders, pushing me against the tiles, the cold a shock against my back as the hot water poured over us. Her mouth claimed mine, fierce and starving, tongue sliding against mine, teeth nipping my lip, drawing a groan from deep in my chest.
Her hands roamed, nails raking my chest, trailing down to grip my cock, stroking slow, then fast, her thumb circling the tip.
“Fuck, Meg,” I growled, my hands on her hips, pulling her closer, but she shook her head, a wicked smile curving her lips.
“My turn,” she said, dropping to her knees, water streaming over her back as she took me in her mouth, lips tight, tongue swirling, sucking deep until my head tipped back, both hands working in tandem, a moan ripping out. She worked me with a rhythm that was all her—bold, unapologetic, driving me wild. I tangled my fingers in her wet hair, thrusting shallow, letting her set the pace, her moans vibrating through me, pushing me to the edge.
She pulled back, eyes locked on mine, water dripping from her lashes, and stood, pressing her body against me, her breasts soft against my chest.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, turning to face the wall, hands braced, ass up, water streaming down her curves.
I didn’t hesitate, gripping her hips, sliding into her, her heat tight and perfect, drawing a gasp from both of us. I thrust deep, slow at first, then harder, her moans loud, echoing in the steam, her walls clenching as I pounded, my hands reaching around to cup her breasts, matching her rhythm.
“Harder,” she demanded, voice raw, and I gave it to her, slamming in, her body shaking. Over and over she took the length of me and I savored every feel of her. If there was ever amore perfect sensation, I’d never felt it. Her hands gripped the tiles as she came, screaming my name, pulling me with her, my release white-hot, stars bursting behind my eyes as her pussy squeezed every last drop out of me.
She turned, still trembling, and pulled me under the spray, kissing me slow, her hands roaming, possessive.
We fucked again, her legs wrapped around me, my back against the wall, her riding me with a hunger that made me come alive, her moans a symphony, her body a fire I’d burn in forever.
When we finished, panting on the floor, me under her, water cooling, she looked down at me, a devilish grin on her lips.
“Maybe mystery notes aren’t such a bad thing, after all,” she said, voice low, teasing, her eyes gleaming with mischief and heat.
24
MEGHAN
The morning after Dean and Trish’s visit broke warm and still, the kind of Charleston day where the air felt too thick to move through and the gulls sounded closer than they really were. The sky over the harbor was pale and cloudless when I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Caleb. He’d been up a couple of times to prowl the perimeter. I was awake every time he left, and I never slept until he slipped back in bed next to me.
The kitchen was quiet when I came in, just the low hum of the walk-in cooler and the metallic tick of the ovens heating. I could’ve told myself it was going to be a normal day—prepping for dinner, checking invoices, ignoring the fact that I had a man in my life who could strip a Glock as easily as I could break down a duck.
But the lie didn’t hold for long. Not after last night.
I’d slept in bursts, dreams turning over and over into fragments—Caleb’s voice, Dean’s eyes narrowing across the table, the faint scrape of a chair on hardwood when I’d gone tothe back to read that third note. Even now, the words clung to me like static.
I crossed the dining room to my office, fishing for the key in my bag. The sunlight through the tall windows caught on the crystal water glasses, throwing fractured rainbows across the tables. It should’ve been pretty. Instead, the shadows between the banquettes felt too long, too deep.
When I opened the office door, I almost didn’t see it.
An envelope.
Lying just inside, on the floor.
No stamp. No address.
