Lost Souls (A Caitlyn O’Connell Novel) (22 page)

Oh, she’d noticed and felt a burgeoning hope. Sex would smooth away the edges. Give them a chance to connect in the one way they never failed to communicate well.

Already her body was responding to his unspoken signals, warming, melting like wax. As she preceded him into the darkened bedroom, her hips swayed, inviting him to touch.

A large hand clamped on one buttock. An arm encircled her, fingers pressing against her lower abdomen as he moved in behind her. His face nuzzled the corner of her shoulder. Then his teeth bit her lobe, tugging it before he nipped the tender skin of her neck, causing her to gasp
and her knees to weaken. She sagged against him, her bottom jutting to rub against the thick, hard ridge.

He peeled away her clothes, licking and nipping at everything he bared. When she was nude, he pushed her toward the bed.

She stumbled, falling onto the mattress. His strong hands gripped her waist and shoved her toward the center. Before she could get her knees beneath her, he was on top of her. His boxers gone. His cock nudging her backside, his hands pushing apart her legs.

He entered her from behind, not the deep thrust she craved, but his rutting movements, churning cream, warmed her from the inside out. His weight sank her deep into the mattress.

Her breaths were shallow, kittenish pants.

He surrounded her with his size, his musky scent, his strength. But then he withdrew, and again, his hands were shaping her, forcing her bottom up, her chest against a soft cotton comforter.

Fingers traced the length of her slit, drawing more moisture to coat the digits before sinking into her. His mouth pressed a single kiss against her bottom. When he began to pump his thick digits inside her, she wanted to say it wasn’t enough, opened her mouth to voice her complaint, but then a swat landed on her skin—sharp, stinging.

Again, she gasped, pushed up on her arms, and aimed a glare over her shoulder.

Her eyes, having adjusted to a darkness relieved by a sliver of moonlight peeking through curtains, noted Sam kneeling behind her, his face tense. His eyes, though darkly hooded, glittered in the silvery light.

Lips quirked up on one side, he swung his free hand and gave her ass an underhanded slap that rocked her body.
That
one she’d feel in the morning.

He challenged her with his dark eyes, thrust his fingers deeper and swirled, his thumb coming into play to rasp over her hardening clit.

All thoughts about the inadequacy of his actions flew from her mind. Her bottom and swollen sex caught fire. She faced forward again, leaned down to press her chest against the bed, and gripped the covers to hold herself still for whatever he wanted. He’d swatted her in play before, but never as a punishment. She wondered how far he’d go to make his point. Thought maybe she’d enjoy it.

His fingers slid free. A wet clap landed on the other side of her bottom. The next swat caught her directly between the legs.

She groaned, dropping her forehead to rest on the covers, surrendering, because her sex swelled, enlivened by his sweet abuse.

When her bottom and her pussy burned, his hands gripped her buttocks hard, fingers digging into hot lovestung flesh. His cock butted against her sex and then drove inside.

Cait moaned, a sound that stretched and gusted with his powerful thrusts. The thickness cramming so fast and hard inside stretched her inner walls. His heavy balls smacked against her engorged clit, giving her exactly what she needed to begin her ascent. She inched apart her knees to let him stroke deeper, to allow his groin to spank against her intimate flesh. Friction and his sexy pounding lifted her higher.

But he pulled free—so abruptly, she cried out. He turned her, dragging her body beneath his, and entered her again. His hands slipped under her, cradled her butt, and then he was stroking again, his chest against hers, his sturdy frame rocking hard and unrelenting against hers.

Cait cupped his face and lifted her head, branding his mouth with a hot kiss, which he returned with feral satisfaction, rubbing his mouth hard against hers, driving his tongue inside to duel and subjugate her own.

Her hands slid around his neck. She drew up her knees and curled her hips. Each thrust pushed the air from her lungs until she grew dizzy, her sounds more desperate.

She splintered apart, a jagged flash exploding from her core to tremble through her body.

Sam growled, gripped her ass harder, and powered into her, setting her sailing over the peak and into a pitch-black darkness.

When his movements ebbed, she rubbed her face against his, kissed his hard jaw, his throat, catching a trickle of sweat with the curl of her tongue. He dropped down, his cock and large body pinning her to the mattress. For now, she was content to lie breathless beneath him.

As her body relaxed, she roamed her hands over his back, fingers sinking into the deep indent of his spine. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear.

His soft grunting response made her smile.

At last, he rolled them until they lay side by side, her thigh riding his hip to keep their bodies intimately locked together.

“We should sleep,” he said, his voice already slurring with fatigue.

Nestled against his chest, for once she offered no argument.

The jarring sound of the phone ringing woke them both. Cursing, Sam reached out and slapped his nightstand, finding his iPhone.

Cait groaned and rolled to her back to watch as he tapped the screen. They’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep. Still, she was wide awake, felt a frisson of expectancy that something significant had happened.

“Pierce.”

“Get your ass down to the station,” came Leland’s gruff bark, loud enough she heard. “Reyes is here and wants to talk to the two of you.”

“Be there in thirty,” Sam said and ended the call. He rolled toward her.

Cait leaned up on an elbow.

“You hear that?” he asked, his voice rough as gravel.

“Yeah, sounds like we better hurry.”

They rushed through a shower, conserving water and time, and then headed straight to interrogation.

Leland was waiting in the hallway. “Reyes is in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “And he didn’t lawyer up.” His lips curled in a snarl. “By the looks of him, he might be workin’ on an insanity plea.” He reached out and opened the door but didn’t bother following them in.

When Cait passed him, Leland leaned close. “You do something to him? I don’t care if you did. Man’s a dirt bag, but he doesn’t look right.”

“And your first thought was that I’m somehow to blame?”

“I’d be impressed.”

Really?
She narrowed her gaze.

Sam’s lips twitched.

When she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her, she saw what Leland meant.

Sam took the chair opposite Reyes, whose hair stuck up in oily spikes and whose beady eyes were so wide, the whites showed.

More surprising to Cait was who stood behind him. She lifted her chin in a silent greeting to Sylvia, whose red-markered lips were stretched with a wide smile.

Cait took the chair beside Sam’s, aimed a glance toward the camera in the corner of the ceiling, and then settled her full attention on Oscar.

A cup of coffee sat in front of him, and he stared at it, his expression a little wild.

“Oscar,” Sam said, drawing the anxious man’s attention. “The officers read you your rights. Whatever you say now can be used against you. Do you understand?”

Oscar, all bravado gone, nodded, the movement jerking.

“You have something you want to say to me?”

Tears filled Oscar’s eyes, and he began to sob—deep, wrenching cries that made Cait cringe because they were so opposed to his previous arrogant display.

“She won’t leave me alone. The fucking bitch is haunting me.”

Sylvia’s dark eyes narrowed, and she leaned around Oscar. She pointed a finger and then stared at the cup. When she touched it, the cup moved an inch toward him.

Oscar cried out and scooted back his chair. “You see that?”

Sam gave no indication he’d seen the cup move.

Cait had to fight the urge to look in Sylvia’s direction. Instead, she intently watched Oscar Reyes’s shot nerves fray.

“She’s haunting me. Everywhere. Moving things. Writing on mirrors and windows. ‘Confess, confess,’ she says. The bitch knows.”

Sylvia pushed the cup into his lap, and Oscar leapt from his chair, shouting before curling into a fetal position in one corner of the room. “I spoke with a dude at the Deluxe,” he whispered, not lifting his head. “Said he’d take care of my whore of a wife. Said he was in the business of taking out whores. He got me drunk. Got me to agree. Then I gave him my wife’s
Match.com
password. She didn’t know I knew she had an account. She was flirting with other men online.” His face rose to meet Sam’s steady stare. “What was I supposed to do?”

Sylvia stood next to him, one hip hitched forward, her arms crossed under her ample breasts. “Joo a loser, Oscar. An
idiota
! Now joo gonna go to jail. Ha!”

Cait kept a straight face, but just barely. The man cowered like a whipped puppy.

Sylvia was on fire, flipping her hair behind her shoulder and doing a little victory dance in her pink heels. She shot a glance at Cait. “That enough to get him?”

“Oscar,” Cait said loudly to break through another round of loud sobs. “Who was the man who approached you?”

Oscar sniffed. “Some fireman at the Union Street station. Eddie.”

She winked at Sylvia and then angled her body toward Sam.

He hadn’t written a word in his notebook. Nor had he clicked the end of the Nick the Plumber pen. “Eddie,” he said, giving her a glare.

Cait raised her shoulder. “He seemed like such a nice guy.”

His gaze smoldered, so she moved around on her chair until she felt a twinge, and let him see it.

His lips curved. “Guess we’re done here,” he said, his gaze locking with hers. “Back to the hotel?”

Her breath left in a whoosh. She hadn’t expected him to cave that easily, and gave him a nod.

“I’d like to see the recording your buddies from Reel PIs have.”

Leland met them in the hallway as uniforms led Oscar away to booking. “Strange shit. Can’t edit that tape since it’s evidence.”

Cait cleared her throat. “His knees were bumping the bottom of the table. Scared himself silly. Guilty conscience got to him, I guess.”

Leland glared but gave her a nod. “Yeah. That’s the way I saw it too.”

Sylvia fluttered her fingers from behind Leland’s back, trying to get her attention.

Cait scratched her head. “I’m gonna hit the restroom. Be right back.”

Once inside the ladies’ room, she quickly searched the stalls to ensure privacy before rounding on Sylvia. “That was some trick.”

“Joor daddy showed me how. Said pure emotion can make it happen. Since I purely hate Oscar, piece o’ cake,” she said, snapping her fingers.

“You plan on sticking around here? Torture him some more?”

Sylvia shook her head. “I’ll be around. For when joo figure out how to send me back. Joor daddy said hi too. Says joo know where to find him if joo need to talk.” She yawned. “Need to rest. Payback takes a lot out of joo.”

In Sam’s car, heading to the hotel, Cait gave Sam the rundown of what had happened with Oscar.

Sam’s gaze didn’t leave the road, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Too bad we can’t put her on retainer.”

They parked on the street in front of the hotel and got out of the car.

Cait cocked her head, listening but hearing no whispers. She glanced up at the dumpy place. Old glass, yellowed, and in need of a good exterior cleaning. The marquee sign with its missing letters. Would anyone miss this place if it did burn to the ground? And how could she manage the destruction without ending up in prison herself, or getting someone hurt? There had to be another way.

“Nervous?”

“Of going inside?” She shook her head. “Just worried about how this will all end.”

“Can’t torch the place, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His gaze rose as well. “Not that anyone would miss this dump.”

Cait smiled. In some ways, they were on the same page. More alike than not, if she thought about it. They were both mulishly stubborn. Both kept their hearts cloaked behind brittle shields. And Sam had missed her every bit as much as she’d missed him during their long split.

The proof had been in the photographs. Even though they’d rushed through getting showered and dressed, with her climbing back into yesterday’s clothes because they didn’t have time to hit her apartment, she’d paused long enough to note the pictures. One of her on his nightstand, uncharacteristically smiling for the camera at her old desk in homicide. A picture of her and Sam, both wearing PD T-shirts at a family-day picnic. On Beale Street, standing under the red, white, and black Blues City Café sign. All happy moments. Always with a smile. Because they’d been so fleeting, she couldn’t remember the happy times as well as she could the sad.

Sam touched her elbow. “Look, you don’t have to come with me.”

Summoning a smile she didn’t feel, she met his questioning glance. “But then you couldn’t stay on my ass and make sure I don’t take rides in the elevator with demons.” She touched his sleeve. “You be careful too,” she added softly, then led the way inside.