“Is she?” I ask, amused.
Scratching the back of his neck, he dips his head. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before uncovering it.”
“It’s okay.” I walk over to where he stands and take in the full image of my naked self. “I posed in the mirror and studied myself for hours to get every imperfection on this canvas.” I dance my fingers along the collarbone of the image and down to the breasts. “Every scar that makes up who I am.”
“I don’t see any imperfections,” he breathes, his tone deep, heady. His eyes drop to my hard nipples peeking through my nightgown and his tongue swipes out, dampening his bottom lip.
“We all have imperfections, Detective.” I reach up to touch his cheek with the palm of my hand. “You’ve changed,” I muse, taking in his strong jaw, thick lips, and intense blue eyes.
Covering my hand with his own, his eyelids close and he inhales a deep breath. “So have you,” he whispers.
I wonder if he ever thought about me—what became of the girl he found in her closet, broken but reborn.
“I should go.” He pulls my hand away and turns around with purpose.
“What happens now?” I call out before he can leave. Halting at the front door with his hand on the handle, he looks over his shoulder, his eyes downcast to the floor where I stand.
“I’ll take care of it. Try to get some sleep.”
I won’t sleep. I’ll take a shower and then fuck my fingers thinking about him until I’m sore and exhausted.
Chapter Three
Adams
Lola has occupied every fucking thought in my head since I left her apartment earlier. I should have gone home, showered, and gotten some sleep, but I need to close this case so she doesn’t have to worry about it—think about it. Chucking back another cup of tar coffee, my fists clench. “Our dead guy is Ashton Reese. The gun is registered to his wife, Amanda Reese. She bought it a month ago. He has a record for domestic violence. Looks like he was a real piece of shit,” Snow growls, throwing a file down on my desk.
“Shouldn’t you be home sleeping?” I raise a brow.
“Shouldn’t you?” he retorts. “It’s looking pretty open and closed,” he adds.
Flipping the file open, images of a battered woman assault me. He liked to leave bruises on his wife too it appears.
“She picked a real winner, huh?” Snow scoffs, biting into a half-eaten sandwich left on the desk beside mine.
“Not all bastards show their true colors until It’s too late,” I remind him, snatching the sandwich from his hand and tossing it in the trashcan. “You’re gross.”
“What the hell? I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten.”
Getting to my feet, I slip on my jacket. “Go home and get some food and sleep, but first, have someone inform the wife and get a formal I.D. made.”
“How is the girl?” he asks, picking up my coffee and swigging the dregs, squinting from the bitterness hitting his tongue.
“She’s a survivor.” I shrug. “She’ll survive.”
My apartment looks sterile compared to Lola’s. Hers was alive with art and color, plants and quirky ornaments. It had soul. personality, mine doesn’t represent me, who I am. It’s just somewhere to lay my head after spending most of my time on the clock.
When she disappeared nine years ago, I looked all over for her, needing to know if she fought her way out of the darkness. Tonight, finding out her apartment is so close to mine, is a kick in the balls. Has she been under my nose this whole time?
Throwing the evidence bag on the small dining room table, I clench my jaw. This should have gone straight to the precinct. Chain of custody is everything if these things go to court, but that’s not going to happen.
A pounding in my chest roars, muting all reason. Ripping open the bag, I dump out the contents. Her small strips of clothing scatter on my dining table, the glitter top shining under the light. Speckles of blood stain both the top and skirt. Saliva floods my mouth when my hand reaches out for her panties. Black lace. Fuck, I’m going to hell. Clenching them in my fist, I bring them to my nose and inhale her scent. My balls tighten. My cock lengthens. She smells of sex and honey, and I want to taste her so bad, it’s sickening.
“Dammit!” I growl, closing my eyes to gain my composure. Shoving the clothing back in the bag, I throw it across the room in an outburst of anger. Not toward her or even the cunt who attacked her. Because of me—my own want—for being weak. I can’t control it, the way she’s making me feel. It’s reckless and doesn’t make sense, but her presence is so loud inside my head, it’s overriding reason, rationality. She’s intoxicating, infecting every part of me.
I blast the shower and strip out of my clothes. Images of her flicker through my mind like a movie reel. Her delicate pale skin, littered with bruises shouldn’t make me want to replace them with bruises of my own, but they fucking do. I want my fingerprints across her throat. My palm sting, red on her ass cheeks.
I’m a sick bastard.
Clenching my fist, I punch the tiled shower wall, to eliminate the images of her big doe eyes full of tears. So broken, helpless, beautiful. The throbbing across my hand from the impact does nothing but make me imagine her pussy throbbing for my cock. My chest heaves ragged breaths as more visions of her keep circling around and around in my head, a storm rolling in. The memory of her scent on her panties brings saliva flooding my mouth. I conjure up pictures of her before me, legs parted, pussy soaked with need. “Fuck” I roar, pounding
