Nightbred(53)

“Oh. Boy.” Her fingers curled into his hair. “Burke didn’t mention this.”

He looked up at her flushed, startled face before he deliberately pressed his mouth to the center of her dark curls. “And this?”

“Not a word.” She watched him through drowsy eyes, and when he used his tongue to part her, she shivered. “Jamys.”

He drew back a little to take in the fragrance of her desire, and look upon her hidden beauties. If she were his, he would take her away to some sultry deserted island where they would never have to wear clothing, and he could look upon her and touch her and take her whenever he wished.

Jamys put his hand over her to feel her heat against his palm, and her hips moved so that her damp mons rubbed against his skin. He eased two fingertips between her folds and found the slick entrance to her body, which instantly clenched around him in reaction. He could feel her tension in her thighs and the tightening of her belly, but when he glanced at her face, he saw only longing and excitement.

“Do you like that?” he murmured.

“No.” A dimple appeared in her cheek. “I love that.”

Slowly he pushed his fingers deeper, penetrating her sheath and filling her soft, wet channel. When she tightened again, he put his mouth against her, stroking her open with his tongue and rubbing the small, hooded nub of her clit. Like a pearl it swelled and emerged, satiny-soft, pulsing along with her heart.

As he lavished long, slow strokes of his tongue on her, he used his fingers to play within her, turning them in a rhythmic glide against the fluttering, grasping grip of her body.

This was how she would feel on his cock: hot and wet, tight and trembling.

The thought of fucking her that way made his muscles knot and his hips jerk as his fangs shot out into his mouth, and then she convulsed, scoring herself on the sharp tips as her body spasmed.

The taste of her sex and her blood released all the dark wanting inside him, and Jamys thrust his fingers in and out of her, harder and deeper with each roll of his wrist, driving her from one peak to another as he rode her with his mouth and tongue.

Her hands fisted in his hair, and she curled over, bringing his mouth to her lips. The carnal explosion of that kiss brought him to the edge, but it was the feel of her hand reaching into his trousers that sent him over. The moment she touched him he groaned and shoved the head of his straining penis against her palm, and released the first aching stream of his seed.

“I have you,” he heard her sigh.





Chapter 12

Sam looked through the two-way mirror at the suspect sitting in the interrogation room. A tanned, somewhat overweight man in his early forties, he wore an off-the-rack business suit, a wide and rather ugly yellow tie, and a fake Rolex. “That’s our killer.”

“Alleged killer.” Garcia glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He’s Eugene Gates, forty-three, divorced, no children. A pharmaceutical rep. Couple of speeding tickets.” He handed her the arrest report. “He gave the desk sergeant a bloodstained diamond necklace, but hasn’t offered a motive.”

Sam looked past him at Jonah Massey, who stood just outside talking with one of the janitors. “What’s he doing here?”

“I want Massey in there with you.” Before she could reply, Garcia shook his head. “The DA wants a full confession on videotape. That means two officers present, my lady.”

It also meant she couldn’t use l’attrait to compel the suspect to tell her the truth. “Massey,” she called, and was momentarily distracted by the hamster-wheel squeak of the janitor’s wheeled bucket as he pushed it out of sight down the hall. “Can you run a video camera?”

Massey ducked inside. “In my sleep.”

“Then you’re in charge of taping and typing.” She handed the clipboard off to him.

Inside the interrogation room Sam pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, noting the complete lack of reaction from Gates. The suspect, who seemed content to continue staring at a long scratch in the table’s Formica top, didn’t even twitch when she went through the introductions.

“Mr. Gates, I’m Detective Samantha Brown.” Sam turned the chair around, straddled it, and nodded at Jonah. “This is Detective Jonah Massey. Have you been informed of your rights?”

Gates nodded slowly.

Sam breathed in but didn’t smell any taint in the air that might indicate the man was stoned or drunk. “Sir, I’ll need you to answer me with verbal replies.”

“Yes, I’ve been informed of my rights,” he told the scratch. “I murdered Noel Coburn.”

Gates spoke in a monotone. That, combined with his vacant expression and lack of body language, suggested he was mentally handicapped, was in a state of shock, or had been sampling his wares a little too liberally.