Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (8 page)

I part my lips, my breath unsteady as it seeks to touch what’s just out of reach. Everything he said…it’s what I want. Control. Absolute power in this completely fucked up web corroding my life. But everything,
everything
we desire comes with a price.

What will this trade cost me?

Before the horror of my past can reach up and snatch my courage away, I say, “Taste me, Colton. And don’t stop.”

Without hesitation, he does. When his mouth presses against me, eliciting a soft moan, my eyes close. And I’m lost. Fallen down the rabbit hole.

I
have never been a greedy
, impatient man. The years it’s taken to study the art of Shibari, the dedication, I have conditioned myself to not only understand patience, but to respect it.

Sadie strips me of all benevolence.

I’m insatiable.

A pure glutton as I run my palms over her thighs, savoring the quiver my touch provokes across her velvety skin. I’m just sampling right now, curling my tongue along her slick lips, teasing my teeth over her lovely clit. When I first glimpsed her sweet, pink pussy, it was all I could do not to fall to my knees and devour her whole.

Restraint. It’s not just a bondage term; it’s a religion.

And I’ve suddenly become a devoted practitioner.

I want to tease the experience out with her as much as I want to fulfill her. Every time her hips buck off the bench, it sends a pulse to my cock. He’s the greedy fucker. And as her thigh muscles flex, her legs straining, ankles puckering against the ropes, I can’t hold back any longer.

Sinking my tongue deep into her pussy, I taste her fully. Her sweetness consumes me, overpowering my senses, and her soft, soft skin—so wet—slides against my tongue, warm and beckoning.

Her breathy moans have me gripping either corner of the bench, my fingers damn near tearing through the leather. How long has it been since she’s allowed herself this release? I’m scared to know; the temptation to tie her down and ravish her might break me.

But she’s almost there now. She’s wound so tightly, all her muscles corded with the near release, that I have to grind my knees into the floor to ground me. The pain bursts through the lust-filled haze clouding my thoughts, and I focus solely on her. Each stroke of my tongue purposeful, each suck choreographed in sync with the arching of her back.

The rope hook near the top of the ceiling squeaks, and I glance up to catch her arms straining against the scarf. I latch onto her ass and scoot her forward, driving my tongue deeper. She cries out and sinks her mouth against her arm.

I want to tell her to let go—stop denying herself what her body needs. But I don’t want to lose our rhythm. This intense moment binding her to me. Instead, like the greedy fuck that I am for her, I decide I have to share—just a small piece of her—with the part of me that’s clawing like a wild animal to take every last bit of her.

Rearing back just enough so I don’t lose connection, I place one finger at her soaked entrance. Then I slide my finger inside, deep. Her ass comes off the bench, and I clamp my other hand tighter to her, holding her still. I want her to take it. Inserting another finger, I go deeper still, stroking her swollen flesh over and over until her walls clamp down around me.

As she fights her climax, wriggling her hips and refusing to make a sound, I slip my zipper down and let my hard, aching dick free. This won’t do. Not at all. It’s not nearly enough.

Quickly switching hands, I try not to miss a beat as I sink my fingers inside her and then wrap my cock with my other hand. Her wetness slides over my sensitive skin, and I groan against her as I stroke her come along my shaft, all the way to the head.

Fucking hell. I’ve watched her for what feels like forever—have imagined what she’d feel like. I’ve craved just a second where I could taste my goddess, but all that imagery was wasted. Just wasted. She’s beyond my fantasy.

And so I know—hell, do I know—that when I finally get to take her over the edge, I’ll be lost to her.

“Oh, God…Colton. I can’t…”

Her pleading breaks through my thoughts, and I pull away only long enough to find her eyes. Pushing my fingers hard against her swollen mound, I say, “Don’t think. Don’t fight. Just close your eyes and fuck my mouth.” Then I drop my head back between her thighs and nip her clit before my mouth surrounds her.

Hips bucking, she releases a strangled cry that pulses through me. I press deeper into her, my tongue caressing her clit as my other hand pumps my cock. And when she tenses—all sound muted until that single second when she shatters around me—I break free. I unleash a harsh groan as I spill my come to the floor, cock pulsing against her sweet wetness that still coats my hand, and we release together.

I stay where I am, just touching her, head resting against her pelvis, as I savor the aftershocks rolling off her to me. Her pants slow, and I look up into her face.

Her skin glows with a beautiful sheen of sweat. Features twisted, she looks pained, but I know that’s not true. I won’t let her feel guilty. That was our deal; no regret.

Standing slowly, I rise before her, still holding myself. Her gaze travels down.

“I’m still hard for you,” I say, running my palm along my shaft. “That’s what you do to me.”

I watch the slender column of her neck bob on a hard swallow. She clears her throat and says, “Can I taste you?”

And those words…coming from that mouth…send me right over the fucking edge. I grip the head of my cock and squeeze, biting out a curse as I throb from the inside out. I imagine grabbing my pocketknife and slitting her dress down the middle. Tearing it from her body. Strapping her to the St. Andrew’s cross in the corner and hearing the sounds I know she’s capable of making—

But I push that craving down into my gut. Shut it off. She’s not there yet. And she may never be. Whoever gave her that scar on her collarbone stole something sacred from her.

It’s going to take more than a hot face-fuck to crumble her walls. And I may be greedy, I may be a glutton, but I’m still patient.

I want it all.

Exercising that patience now, I step closer to her as I swipe the tip of my finger over the head of my cock. Then bracing one hand beside her on the bench, I lower myself, bringing my finger close to her mouth.

Her eyes drag over my face, flicking down to my slick finger. She parts her lips, and I rub the pad over her bottom lip. Her tongue snakes out to taste me, and a sharp hiss slips past my gritted teeth.

She sucks my finger into her mouth, sampling the taste of us combined, and I’m envious. I want so badly to pull my finger away and steal a kiss; taste us on her lips. Only I’m torn over her reaction to such a bold move and missing the feel of her sultry tongue sliding over my finger.

I decide I’ve been enough of a masochist for one night—there’s only so much torture I can bear—and slowly draw my finger away. I take one quick taste for myself, popping my finger into my mouth, and then say, “Now that you’re sated, we can start our sessions.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Tonight?”

I smile. “As much as I want to bind you right now…come back tomorrow. Rest first. Make sure you soak your muscles so you’re nice and limber, then come back to me.”

The corner of her mouth kicks up. “I thought I was the one giving the orders?”

Oh, how I want to punish that smart mouth. Nip those soft lips and bite that tongue. Pressing my forehead against hers, needing to inhale the sweetness of her, I whisper, “When you finally understand everything, you’ll know just how much power you truly have over me.”

With that, I straighten and begin to untie her scarf.

One admission is enough for tonight.

T
he reality
of my predicament doesn’t fully sink in until I’m seated behind my desk, the printed profile of the UNSUB spread out before me.

Colton Reed, a bondage rigger from a BDSM club, went down on me last night. In his room of torture devices and ropes. With my scar—that I show no one—on full display.

You’re being a bad girl again, I see. My dirty girl
.

I shake the vile voice from my head and gather together the scattered sheets on my desk.

I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself, how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man. I should feel ashamed of that, more so, than the fact that I was with Colton. Being with a man is normal. At my age, hell, it’s expected. And last night, we didn’t do anything—really—that verged on kink. It was vanilla compared to most scenes I’ve witnessed in the club.

Even so, Colton’s touch thoroughly shattered me—I can’t deny that. I can still feel his rough palms on my skin…his soft lips tenderly caressing, tasting…his taut muscles, hard and flexed, pressed against my thighs.

And what’s more, I’m hungry to feel him all over again.

It’s just the time between that’s shocking; I understand this. I haven’t thought of Isaiah in years. Only it’s impossible not to rewind to my last physical relationship—in my junior year of college—and compare. And cringe.

Has it really been that long?

Isaiah was the closest thing to love and understanding I’ve ever known, and not even he could beat back the darkness forever. In the end, it broke us. The fights, the accusations, the mistrust…the jealousy. And so much anger. I can still picture his face, striking even with its furious, hard lines, right before mine—his hot breath searing my cheeks as he shouted and I tried to turn away from him…

I always made him so angry.

It didn’t help that I was a psych major. Who psychoanalyzed him, over and over, no matter how hard he tried to convince me I was worthy of love.

It just never made sense to me back then.

It still doesn’t.

So it’s completely understandable that when Colton came along, offering validation for why I am the way that I am, it was an offer too tempting to resist.

And maybe I have to accept my shame as payment for my atonement.

Atonement.

That word sounds as foreign as it feels.

Would Colton be able to justify the full truth of me? If he knew everything? It’s unfair, really. Openness and trust; his words, his rules…now ours. Those things are as far out of reach to me as atonement.

A knock sounds at my office door, and I startle out of my dark musings. “It’s open.”

Quinn walks in with a serious, prepped look on his face. “You got the profile ready?”

Shit. Is it already time for the task force meeting? The morning just slipped away, and I’m hardly prepared to deliver a completed profile on the offender. Which is completely out of character for me. Last night was supposed to help me get back on my game, not turn my whole world inside out.

“You’re jumping the gun a little on this serial killer task force, aren’t you?” I say, reorganizing the sheets and placing them in an open file. “You’re still a body short.”

Every uniform and detective was on edge this morning as we waited for the call to come in. The one that would report the third victim. That call hasn’t come—yet. But Quinn still feels confident in calling the murders a serial, and is pushing the request through for the task force.

The call may not come today…but that doesn’t mean there’s not a body out there somewhere. At the rate the UNSUB is devolving, there could even be two.

“You want to hash it out real quick?” Quinn says, taking a seat in his usual spot. “We have about twenty-five minutes. Let’s go over what we know.”

With a long exhale, I pull up a doc I saved from my recent search and then turn the screen toward Quinn. “I’ve compiled a list of unsolved rapes and/or murders from the past three years encompassing the statewide area. There are three that stand out. Aside from the attacks occurring in each victim’s home, they were also posed. Not in the exact same position as our vics, but the use of both knife-like weapons to kill and fire to torture links them closely together.”

Quinn props his hands on his thighs and leans forward to read the screen. “Was there any DNA discovered on the bodies or at the crime scenes?”

I shake my head. “No. If the perpetrator who committed these crimes is the same UNSUB we’re dealing with, he’s at least always been consistent about that.”

A frown twists Quinn’s mouth. “Even if there was DNA, like you said, he’s meticulous enough not to leave a trail. His DNA probably wouldn’t be in any database, anyway.”

Surprised, I crane an eyebrow, but let the almost compliment slide untouched. “If this is our guy, his MO has changed some since these past killings. And I’m not sure we have enough to build a sure victimology off of, but there’s one thing for sure: sadists only stop when caught. With the speed at which he’s devolving, he could make a mistake.”

“I’m not sitting back and waiting for him to fuck up while bodies pile up.” Peeking down at his phone, Quinn quickly jumps ahead. “Twenty minutes.” He looks up at me. “Let’s flip the MO. Could we be looking for a team of killers?”

I still feel the same as I did last night at the crime scene; like this is one methodical killer—someone who is too selfish, too vain to share his spotlight. But…I can try to roll with a new take. Just to see if we can unearth a new theory. “Let’s say there are two. Two offenders would explain the two slightly different MOs. In this case, it would need to be a master and servant. One would be completely dominant in this relationship. And one, probably the servant, could be the devolving partner, the one becoming unhinged.”

“Why would the submissive be more likely to lose it?”

“It’s psychology,” I answer. “He’s the pleaser. He has to appease his master in order to feel self-worth. It’s his place. If something’s happened in their partnership to displease the other, then one would be trying to gain that approval back.” I shrug. “When a person is faced with losing what they value the most, they can go to desperate measures to keep it. In desperation, mistakes are made.”

Quinn’s gaze settles on the porcelain ballerina figurine on my desk, his expression blank, as if he’s far away in thought. Then, “Folie a deux,” he says. “Madness shared by two.”

“A psychotic delusion shared by two, to be exact.” I sit back and cross my arms. “Wow. I’m impressed, detective. Where did you pull that psychology term from?”

He looks up at me and smirks. “I know things.”

“Apparently.” And it’s so unlike Quinn to fall back on psychology that I realize just how desperate this case is making him. “It refers to an established, shared bond between two people that brings out the monster in them,” I say, elaborating on the dynamic. “Which is exactly what we’d be dealing with
if
there are in fact two killers. But we’re reaching, Quinn. There’s nothing at either scene to suggest there’s more than one UNSUB other than the slightly altered MO.”

He spears his fingers through his hair and sighs. “Let’s hear your profile first, then we’ll head to the M.E.’s. Maybe Avery’s had enough time to find something new.”

As he stands, he looks me over noticeably.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a shame you’re not still wearing that dress, Bonds.”

Rolling my eyes, I shut down my computer. “Let it go, detective.”

“Just saying. You’d have the full attention of the task force.”

“That borders on sexual harassment, Quinn. And my profile speaks for itself.”

He shrugs. “Maybe so, but there’d be no backlash on the profile if it was delivered by Agent Bonds in a red dress.”

I stand and pull my jean jacket straight. “Then do your job.” I eye him. “Keep your unis in check during the meeting.”

He scowls. “Just you leave them to me. I think you’ll be surprised to find we’re already on the same page. I have specific jobs mapped out for the team—just getting the forensic reports back soon would help. It’s always a damn waiting game.”

Nodding, I gather up my files and add, “I know, but we also need to look more closely at the victimology, find out why these women were targeted. If their paths ever crossed. During the meeting, we can put the techs on crosschecking their credit cards. See where they bought their coffee. What restaurants they liked. Clothes shops, etcetera.”

Heading for the door, Quinn adjusts his tie. “Gathering a task force on a
presumed
serial killer could end my career.” His eyes lock on to mine. “That is, if we don’t catch him.”

I hold Quinn’s gaze a moment longer, understanding exactly what he’s voicing. “You could also be shutting down a serial killer before he has the chance to kill again,” I say. “I think you’re making the right call. If you care for my opinion.”

He’s the first to break eye contact as he moves to open the door. “Let’s catch him, then.”

W
ith the task force underway
, guided by my profile of the UNSUB, Quinn and I keep to our own course and head to the Medical Examiner’s office.

I gave the most accurate profile possible based on the facts of our case. During the meeting, when the detectives usually mock and denounce my theories, there was silence. Quinn kept his word and backed up the profile, which I believe was the game changer. But I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that something’s…off. That I made an oversight. Not with the profile directly, but somewhere within the context.

It could be that the acceptance of the profile caught me off guard, or that this case being upgraded to a serial killer has everyone on edge. The atmosphere in the task force meeting hummed with high tension. Maybe it’s just getting to me, too.

And then there’s the missing link; the signature. What every serial killer case needs to be official. With only two bodies, both that were killed just similarly enough, I wasn’t able to produce a clear signature for the UNSUB.

As Avery opens the wall locker and pulls out the slab with the most recent victim, I reach down and rub the tender skin of my ankle, feeling the embedded rope marks left on my skin from Colton. My chest stirs with heat. Just the subtle reminder—the feel, the tenderness—is enough to make me crave him.

I drop my foot and right myself when Avery flips open her file to gather her notes.

“Someone was in his heyday,” Avery says, her gaze dropping to the covered victim as she peels back the white sheet. The body of the mutilated woman, now cleaned, is nearly more gruesome than when her wounds were hidden by blood. “I know you’re working quickly to catch this guy, so I’ll keep this short and direct. You can listen to the full examination if you want all the details.”

She runs through the most evident torture the victim suffered, which is an extreme reproduction of the first vic. Then concludes with, “Postmortem stab wounds cover her body. From chest to thighs.”

“That signifies sexual homicide,” Quinn prompts.

Avery nods. “She was raped. But this… Well, it’s extreme overkill.”

“I noticed that,” I say.

“Which is markedly different than the first victim,” Avery adds. “He tortured her. Pure and simple. Tortured her before he killed her, and he didn’t stop even after she was dead.”

The connection hits me hard and fast; the one thing I couldn’t nail down for the profile.

Whirling toward Quinn, I say, “Torture could be our UNSUB's signature. I mean, the methodology is usually unique. An offender whose preference is fire doesn’t typically use a knife, and vice versa.”

He huffs out a hard breath. “So we’re back to the prospect of more than one killer?”

“Not really….look.” I press my gum into my cheek, ready to dive into my explanation. “Usually torture falls into two categories: sadistic and functional. We can cross out functional, because we’re fairly certain our UNSUB isn’t trying to extract information. Though he could be punishing.” My chest tightens as the memory of a cane connecting to my back steals the air from my lungs.

“Bonds.” Quinn’s voice pulls me back. “You’re doing that thing you do again. Time. We don’t have a lot of it.”

Nodding, I brush my bangs away from my eyes. “Right. Okay. It’s more likely that we’re dealing with a sadist who uses torture to sate an emotional need. Sadists are sexually deviant, and even though there’s no proof the first vic was raped, sex is irrelevant. He’s satisfying his urges through torture. Or he was…”

“Not in the mood for a longwinded hash out, Bonds.” Quinn stuffs his hands in his pants’ pockets, impatient. I don’t fault the guy. I’ve already given the profile, and now I may have to expand on it.

“Torture might not be enough to satisfy his sadistic needs anymore,” I continue, working out the methodology in my head as I go. “He now needs to sexually torment his victims, too.”

“Either way,” Avery cuts into my theory, “the UNSUB is a sure psychopath. I was on the fence with the first victim, but this one is proof of what’s going on in his head.”

“Agreed. He’s one twisted fuck,” Quinn adds. “And because it’s easier for a sadistic killer to torture someone they don’t know personally, chances are we won’t find an outright common denominator between the victims.” He glances my way. “We should check in with the task force and see what they’ve dug up around the profile so far.”

I nod. “And maybe recheck ViCAP—go back at least five years outside the statewide area. This level of sadistic torture might show up somewhere else.” My thoughts intersect as I look down at the victim. “Most sadists restrain their captives on their own turf, so why would he take the risk at his victims’ houses? We need to cross-reference that, too.”

Quinn groans, his frustration mounting. “If we go nationwide, we’ll bury the task force. We’re already short on time. Not to mention resources.”

He’s right. But if we can find one significant clue, one important fact to ground our search, then it would be worth the extra effort.

Avery waves a hand through the air between us. “Hey, I know I’m no detective, and you’re probably already a step ahead of me—but don’t you want to know about the second message?”