Authors: Diana Dempsey
When at last he broke
their kiss, his head dipped to her breasts.
Her body tensed.
Yet now he decided to tease her.
With excruciating slowness, the tip of
his tongue lashed at her distended nipple like a cat delicately lapping
milk.
Again and again he licked,
darting with infuriating lightness around the stiffened peak of her nipple,
refusing to suck at her, to give her the relief her body ached for.
She arched beneath his mouth but
couldn’t move far; he had her arms pinned, gently but firmly.
She was his prisoner, of his touch, of
his tongue.
He must have sensed
when she couldn’t stand it for a moment longer, for only then did he relent,
sucking at her nipples with a force that nearly brought her to climax.
She was so ready for
him, pulsing for him, so hugely engorged and wet and ready she felt as if she
might drown in her own arousal.
Yet
still he held himself back from her.
His erection felt like a steel rod against her body but he refused to
plunge it within her.
Her body
shrieked in protest.
She pushed
herself against him, trying to tempt him, to egg him on, but the movement only
brought a smile to his lips.
This
was Reid being Reid again, she realized, reminding her that he was the master
here, of this moment at least, of her pleasure and of his own.
She would get back at him later, she
knew—she would take control and she would torture him—but that
could wait.
This was now.
And now she was beyond shame, beyond
caring who did what to whom so long as his mouth kept moving.
And she was beyond caring that her own
need was so obvious.
His eyes
locked on hers, he rearranged his weight so that he could tether both her arms
with just his left hand.
Then, taunting
her with his unblinking stare, slowly he dipped the fingers of his right hand
in his mouth and began to lower his hand.
She understood his
intention then, and squirmed beneath him.
When he reached between her legs, slippery with wetness, he was the
first to release a moan.
Of
appreciation.
Of anticipation.
Almost of wonder.
He kissed her again, lightly, then
allowed himself to stroke the deep core of her.
She thought she might explode.
She arched beneath him, moving
uncontrollably, thrusting her body against any part of him she could
reach.
His hand was stern and
taunting, gentle and insistent both.
He gazed at her face as he stroked her, though she could no longer keep
her own eyes open.
She was nearly
thrashing beneath him, lost in sensation, in the building heat of her own
response.
But he would not let
her build fast.
He preferred to
tease her instead, the tender moist folds of her.
He rode lightly, ever so lightly, over
the pulsating knob that cried for his touch.
She thought she would die if he didn’t
touch her there, right
there
, but he
wouldn’t do it.
It was so like
him!
He would torment her
instead.
Close.
Closer.
So close … then away again, leaving her
maddened with desire and nearly breathless.
A fire built within
her.
His name escaped her
lips.
His mouth closed over hers as
if in reply, then he backed away again.
He murmured her name, softly, but continued to plague her with his quicksilver
touch.
She thought he must have
superhuman control over his own body, taut and tense above her.
Yet still he could be slow, so
excruciatingly slow as he pleasured her, as if he had all the time in the
world.
Time for her had swirled
into strung-together moments of delirious need, when she was nothing more than
wracked nerve endings that cried out for release.
She felt his eyes on her face, watching,
gauging her response.
Finally,
finally, he allowed his fingers to linger on the hot pulsing core of her.
He concentrated there, his touch nearly
painful with the intensity of sensation he brought to her.
But this time she knew he wouldn’t pull
back.
And he didn’t.
He was relentless, while she spiraled
higher, higher, and finally felt herself go over the edge, moaning his name as
she fell.
She exploded in a cataclysm
of spasms, her body radiating pleasure with an intensity she had never known
before and wasn’t entirely sure she could bear.
She was vaguely aware of him holding
her, murmuring her name into her hair, his touch soothing her, gentling her as
she trembled with the waves of pleasure that roiled her.
She felt heavy and lazy
and relaxed, but knew in a still functioning corner of her brain that another
joy awaited her.
And soon.
She wanted it to be soon and so must he,
for he didn’t wait to move atop her, fully this time.
He pushed inside her and she arched to
accept him, clung to his body to urge him closer, deeper.
Gentleness swiftly gave way to
urgency.
She could tell how far
gone he already was.
Soon his
breathing was ragged in her ear and his skin damp and hot, mirroring her
own.
A groan escaped him.
She tightened her muscles around him and
elicited an even more guttural response.
Their bodies slammed
together in slippery unison.
Reid
was greedy now, driven, pumping into her with abandon.
She closed her eyes, gripped him
tightly, thrilled at how lost he was inside her, how her body could give him
such pleasure.
She knew that this
is what she had wanted long before this night, this mating of him and her, this
most primal joining between a man and a woman.
Even as her own sensation began to once
again build, and she lost herself again in passion’s rhythm, a part of her
looked beyond that moment to other nights, future nights, and she let herself
imagine the same intimate ritual, in all of its wondrous variety.
With Reid, always with Reid.
He shuddered above her,
and cried out.
She clung to him,
conscious thought banished, adrift in a bliss without end.
In his 54 years of
life, thirty of which had been spent in the service of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, Lionel Simpson had seen his share of fleabag motels.
Early on this Sunday morning, when he
would much rather have been in church praising the Lord and anticipating
brunch, he stood outside the Palm Tree Inn, an establishment that put the flop
in flophouse.
Peeling urine-colored
paint.
A garbage-strewn lot next
door.
Bars on every window.
A don’t-bother-robbing-us sign displayed
in the front window: WE KEEP LESS THAN $20 IN THE REGISTER.
It was the tenth or
eleventh such place he was visiting that morning.
He could let the LAPD scour every
no-tell motel in the vicinity of Annette Rowell’s abandoned vehicle or he could
do some of the footwork himself.
It
was an easy call.
He pushed open the
glass door to the no-frills check-in area, which smelled of curry and
disinfectant.
A bell tinkled
overhead.
A Sikh man wearing thick
bifocal lenses and a khaki-colored turban stood behind the counter writing in
what appeared to be a guest register.
He looked like the desk clerk and proprietor rolled all into one.
Simpson extended his right hand.
“Special Agent In Charge Lionel
Simpson.
FBI.”
The man’s eyes widened,
then he gave a quick deferential nod.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“I’d like to ask you a
few questions, Mr. …”
“
Arun
Gupta.”
“Mr. Gupta.”
Simpson was digging his slim steno pad
out of his rear trouser pocket when Gupta spoke up again.
“I must ask, does your
visit have anything to do with Mr. Reid Gardner stopping in here last night?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gupta nodded vigorously.
“He was here yesterday.
And now you’re here today.
So to me—”
His index finger rapidly tapped his
turban.
“—the two incidents
must be related.”
Indeed they were.
“Did Mr. Gardner introduce himself?”
“No, but I recognized
him right away.”
Gupta pointed at a
small TV across the room.
“I watch
his show.
Very good show.
Crimewatch
.”
“Are you sure it was
him?”
“Absolutely.
Though I must say I was most surprised
to see him come in here.”
Gupta
spread his hands.
“Even though I am
the owner, I must tell you it is not really the sort of establishment that
attracts such a person.”
No kidding.
But it would be unkind to agree too
heartily.
Simpson acknowledged the
observation with a slight nod.
“And
what did Mr. Gardner want?”
“He was looking for a
blonde.
Not just any blonde,” Gupta
amended quickly, “but one in particular.”
Bingo.
“She was supposed to
meet him here,” Gupta went on.
“But,” he shrugged, “no such woman ever appeared.
I am afraid he was severely
disappointed.”
“Did Mr. Gardner
provide any other description of the woman?”
“He told me she was
wearing jeans.
And—”
He held his hand flat in the air, palm
down, around nose high.
“He told me
she was about this tall.”
A few inches over five
feet.
That jibed, too.
Who else could Gardner have been looking
for but Rowell?
The fact that the
female in question was blond and Annette Rowell was brunette didn’t faze
Simpson in the least.
An hour and a
bottle of dye were all it took to produce that transformation.
“How would you describe Mr. Gardner’s
demeanor?”
Gupta creased his
brow.
“Nothing unusual.
Perhaps slightly intense.”
Again Gupta pointed at the TV.
“But he is intense on
Crimewatch
, too.”
“What time did he come
in?”
“It was around seven
thirty.
I remember because while he
was here, my wife came in to inform me that dinner was prepared.
We always eat at that hour.”
“Thank you, Mr.
Gupta.”
Simpson slid his steno pad
back in his trouser pocket.
“That’s
all for now but I may want to ask you a few more questions another time.”
“No problem.
I am always here.”
Simpson nodded and
walked out.
He paused on the curb
and watched a few loose sheets of the
Los
Angeles Times
blow down the sidewalk like newsprint tumbleweeds.
They gathered in the gutter along with
all the other crap.
Empty beer
bottles.
Food wrappers.
Used condoms.
He shook his head.
Hollywood on Sunday morning was
depressing.
Nobody cared enough to
bother cleaning up from the party the night before.
He headed for his
rental car.
He still had no Annette
Rowell, but it was a fair conclusion that she’d arranged with Reid Gardner to
meet him at the Palm Tree Inn just twelve hours before.
Meaning she’d been in the vicinity
recently, and might still be close, even though she’d failed to show.
And now he had a likely
connection between Reid Gardner and Rowell.
It had to be highly unusual for Gardner
to frequent dives like this unless he had a damn good reason.
Like a particular five-feet-two-inch
bottle blonde who nicely filled out a tight pair of jeans.
And where the hell was
Gardner, anyway?
According to the
cop who’d been on surveillance duty all night, he’d never come home.
Nor was he answering his cell phone, at
least not when Lionel Simpson called.
Simpson unlocked his
rental car and slid inside.
There
was little doubt in his mind that where Gardner was, Rowell was.
And now he bet he had enough to convince
a judge to give him a subpoena for Gardner’s phone records and credit-card
receipts.
And maybe it was also
time to pay a visit to Gardner’s better half.