Page 36 of The Shape of my Scar
She bent over the table without instruction. He peeled her shorts and panties down with a practiced tug and used his boot to push it all the way down before he took her from behind, fast and rough. She came within seconds, her wet walls clenching around him like she’d been starving for it. And like an untried schoolboy, he followed her within seconds. It carried the same thrill of putting a hand in a snake pit.
But it wasn’t the last time.
Over the next week, they fucked in a storage bay, a locked van, in a stairwell. Trish didn’t want conversation or foreplay, just control. She was sensual, yes, but never soft. She was always in charge and always watching like she knew a secret he didn’t. It made him wary.
Still, she remained tight-lipped about the operation, the inner workings, the records, the network behind it all. And most importantly, where the children were.
And that unsettled him more than he liked to admit. He felt like he was playing a game of chess with a master, and he was losing.
And then it all changed…
One afternoon during the second week, Thane passed Malcolm in the hallway. Smug as ever, phone in hand, he was chatting about inventory logistics, oblivious to him eavesdropping.
But five minutes later, he caught Trish in the side room with her back to him, her voice low and angry.
“I told you that’s not happening. I don’t give a fuck who he’s connected to—no names. Not over the phone. No.”
A pause.
“He’s not stupid. And I’m not walking into this blind.”
Another pause. Then she noticed him.
Her thumb cut the call.
“Delivery’s coming,” she said, changing the subject. “Get your shit together.”
Before he could press further, she added with a sensuous smile, “We’ve got half an hour.”
She stepped in close, unzipping him before he could even catch up. Then she was on her knees, her mouth hot, determined. Her short hair brushed his thighs, her hands firm on his hips as her full lips gently kissed the crown of his cock before enveloping it in the wet heat of her mouth and sucking it. He threaded his fingers through the shorn sides of her head as she looked up at him while she deep-throated him.
The expression in her eyes wasn’t playful or warm.
It was something else…watchful.
Something was wrong.
He came with her name half-caught in his throat, and that strange smile still tugging at her lips as she swallowed him down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“What are you, huh?” he asked hoarsely, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “My good little girl?”
Trish rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes flickered.
“You will know soon enough,” she said cryptically.
Then it was gone. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced for a second—if it was ever real—vanished beneath her usual steel.
But Thane felt it settle in his gut like something sour.
She knew something. This was a distraction.
Then came the shout from outside. Raised voices and tyres crunching gravel.
He followed her out just in time to see the dark van pull up to the edge of the lot. Jac moved to open the sliding side door without a word, and a small girl stepped out.
She couldn’t have been older than eight. Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears, her hands clutched a threadbare ragdoll. She blinked at the afternoon light like she wasn’t sure where she was.
Then a pale hand reached down and touched her shoulder gently.
