Page 37 of Say My Name

This investigation has been going on for a long time, and I’m already running circles around half of the girls there.

Yet, it’s not enough. Devereaux asked me if I wanted to be a Greedy Girl, but since then nothing. And the seduction has been non-existent because I haven’t seen him for a while.

Following the rules is vital, so I need to arrive early at the club so I can snoop without people breathing down my neck. Translation: Devereaux Huxley.

I hop in the shower, and while the warm water runs over my hair, I close my eyes. As soon as I do, whiskey-colored eyes haunt me. It’s impossible to investigate a man for murder you can’t stop fantasizing about.

Why couldn’t Devereaux be ugly? Or annoying? Or any other man who doesn’t make my blood sizzle every time his eyes tangle with mine.

At the mere thought of his name, my core tightens.

When he asked if my fake boyfriend would let him touch me, I nearly exploded from the visual. He’s so brazen. Arrogant. Irresistible.

Bold.

My soapy hand trails over my body and brushes the top of my mound. My heart beats ridiculously wild inside my chest, like the pounding of drums heading into battle.

But I lose this war waging within myself when I lean my head back against the tiled wall of the shower and spread my legs. What would Devereaux’s touch be like? Would it be gentle?

It’s a laughable thought. Something tells me Devereaux would be anything but gentle. As my finger circles my clit, a soft cry escapes my lips. A plea for strength to resist this attraction to a man who could be planning to kill me.

Something about the way he looks at me, though, makes me believe he’d never hurt another living soul.

I pleasure myself, letting my desire for him override cautious reasoning. In my mind, he kneels before me, adding his tongue to the mix, and I moan into the security of the shower, where no one knows I’m touching myself while thinking about him.

It’s my dirty little secret.

One he’ll never discover.

Water sluices down my breasts as I rub my clit with enough pressure to make my hips buck. I imagine his finger pushing into my tight hole, making me moan out unintelligible words. I keep playing with myself, riding my hand, trying to make myself come to thoughts of Devereaux.

How rough would he spank me?

Would I like it?

Would it hurt?

I add another finger so it has the same girth as his and use the heel of my hand to apply pressure to my clit, working a steady rhythm that makes my orgasm build low in my belly. I’m dizzy with lust as I work my fingers faster in a frantic rhythm.

I wanthishands all over me.

I can picture it so clearly. Him whispering naughty things in my ear.

Him calling me Swan as he pushes further inside me.

Would he call me Swan?

Or would he say my name?

My real name.

This fantasy of Devereaux has worked my body into a tightly coiled frenzy, and I no longer care what he calls me. I just want him to fuck me.

The shower shields my dirty secret as I come hard, moaning out his name as I do.

As soon as my body has calmed, a pang of guilt washes over me. He’s an assignment, not a lover.

And he never will be.

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