She slid her legs from around his waist and stood. He moved his mouth to the side of her neck just above her clavicle as her fingers unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the tails from his jeans. She slid her hands over the hard muscles of his chest, abdomen, and back. Her fingers combed through the short hair on his chest, and he whispered something against her throat. With her skirt shoved up around her waist, Quinn slid his big hand between her thighs and cupped her through her panties and hose. She thought she heard him say, “Nothing here but Lucy.” That didn’t make sense, so she figured she’d heard wrong. But there was no mistaking what he said next. No mistaking what he did, either. He pulled down her hose and panties and slid his fingers where she was slick with desire. “You want me, and I want to fuck you until you can’t walk for a week,” he said as he touched her. “Until you can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but moan. Do you want that, Lucy?”
She swayed, and her knees got weak, and all she could manage was a breathy, “Yes.” Maybe under different circumstances she might have objected to his language. The f-bomb was not her favorite word, nor was she real fond of sex talk, but at the moment she wanted what he promised. Walking was overrated. She unbuttoned his jeans and slid her hand inside the waistband and beneath the elastic of his boxers. He sucked in a deep breath.
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered next to her ear even as he began to stroke her.
“I know. I want to do this.” Her fingers curled around the heavy length of him. He was hard and hot against her palm, and she squeezed him tight. She could feel his pulse, and she brushed her thumb up and over the plump head of his rigid erection.
“Lucy,” he forced through a heavy groan. “I’ll help you, Lucy.”
“Yes. Please.” God, he was a talker. She could deal with that. She moved her hand down the long hard length of him, feeling his velvet-soft skin that covered every ridge and bulging vein.
“Yes, touch me there, just like that,” he whispered. “You won’t be alone. Oh, God that feels good. I’ll get you help. I’ll get you all the help you need.”
He was all the help she needed. Especially when he slipped one long finger inside her and continued to stroke her with his thumb. Her whole world narrowed and centered on Quinn and the wonderful things he was doing to her with his hand. Her flesh tingled and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but the first scalding wave of orgasm hit her before the words left her throat. All she managed was an, “Oh no!” before the force of it knocked her head back against the wall and her knees almost buckled. She raised her hands to his shoulder to keep from falling into a hot puddle at his feet. Her heart pounded in her ears as wave after hot wave rushed through her. Over and over, it seemed to last forever and not long enough. She held onto Quinn for support as the last pulsations eased. Above the pounding in her head and the harsh breathing that filled the hall, she heard the insistent ring of the telephone.
“I’m sorry,” she said through a shallow breath. “I didn’t mean to do that yet.”
He chuckled and lightly bit the side of her neck. “You’ll make up for it.” The telephone stopped, only to start ringing again. “Shit!” he said. He lifted his head and looked at Lucy through the dark shadows of the hallway. “I’ll be right back.” He moved into the living room and picked up the cordless phone next to the couch. “Yeah?”
Lucy pulled up her panties and hose and pushed down her skirt. She retrieved her bra from the floor, then moved a few steps down the hall to watch Quinn pace the floor in the living room.
“Because I was busy.” The phone was cradled between his shoulder and the side of his face, and his hands were busy buttoning his pants. “What?” He stilled, and one hand came up to grasp the phone. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He turned to Lucy where she stood against the wall. “Tell me you’re kidding me.”
The look on his face was unfathomable.
Chapter 9
Serialdater: Seeks Killer Date…
Flashes of red, white, and blue sliced through the darkness and cut across the office windows and door of a motel known to rent by the hour. Traffic on Chinden Boulevard sped past, not slowing a click, not even to rubberneck the latest crime scene. Not at this time of night in the part of town plagued with flophouses and drug-related crimes.
Quinn fastened his identification to his belt as he moved between police cruisers parked at every angle in the small lot. He held a clipboard under one arm and his duffle bag in his hand. He glanced up at the second floor of the motel, and a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. The place was bound to be a nightmare of fingerprints, hairs, and body fluids.
“Is the night manager in the office?” he asked several patrol officers standing around in front of the building.
“Yeah. We got him in there cooling his heels until you want him.”
While the patrol cops filled him in on what they knew, Quinn took out a pen and glanced at his watch. He wrote down the time of his arrival, the address of the crime scene, and weather conditions.
“Write down the license plate numbers of all these vehicles and run ’em.” The victim’s car was probably in the lot and would need to be impounded. He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and moved up the outside stairs. He walked past three sets of windows with their curtains drawn and continued toward the patrol officers standing outside the open door of room thirty-six.
“How many other rooms are in use?” he asked.
“It’s Saturday night. Just about every one.”
Someone had to have seen or heard something. “Make sure no one leaves,” he said and walked into the room. Kurt, Anita, and two patrol officers stood next to the bed covered with a brown floral spread and a naked dead guy. Yellow nylon rope was bound to the bed frame and tied to the flexi-cuffs around the victim’s wrists. A Westco garment bag had been placed over his head and secured around his neck with silver duct tape.
Quinn took a pair of latex gloves from the duffle and moved to the head of the bed. He snapped on the gloves and looked down into a pair of brown eyes staring up at him from within the clear bag sucked tight around his face. Quinn unclenched two of the man’s fingers, then watched them curl once more. He’d say death had occurred within the last two hours. Sometime after Lucy had arrived at his house carrying a chocolate torte.
“Have you identified the vic?” he asked Kurt.
“Not yet. Anita and I just got here.”
Quinn glanced up at the other detective, and Kurt’s gaze slid away. While Quinn had been getting Lucy naked, and Kurt had been watching and listening from across the street, the real perpetrator had been doing her work. They’d fucked up. Big time, but he couldn’t think about that now. Lucy clearly wasn’t Breathless, and he would deal with her later. Right now, he had work to do. He had to deal with the dead man staring up at him through the child safety warning on the polyethylene bag.
Two crime scene investigators arrived, and Quinn had one of them snap a picture of the beige Dockers lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. Then he knelt on one knee and pulled a wallet from the back pocket. He flipped the wallet open and looked at the driver’s license of Robert D. Patterson. A forty-six-year-old white male. Brown eyes and hair. Five feet nine and one hundred and eighty pounds. Quinn stayed down on one knee, studying the dirty carpet for clues. He looked under the bed, then stood and secured Mr. Patterson’s driver’s license to the clipboard. He checked the other pockets of the victim’s pants and a light nylon jacket also thrown on the dirty carpet. Besides the wallet, he found a set of keys and a folded motel receipt. He placed the items in a paper bag and marked it.