Epilogue
Calloway
The Belize sun burns hot against my back as I gaze down at Jiya stretched before me on our cabana’s daybed. The ocean breeze carries salt and jasmine through the open walls, rustling the gauzy curtains around us.
“This view,” I murmur, trailing my finger along her collarbone. “Better than any photograph I’ve ever taken.”
Jiya smiles up at me, her bare breasts catching the dappled light filtering through the palm fronds above. Two weeks on Thorne’s private island has bronzed her skin to a golden hue that makes my fingers itch for my camera.
“You’ve said that every day since we got here,” she says, arching into my touch.
“And I’ll say it every day until we leave.” I bend to kiss the hollow of her throat.
Outside our cabana, the waves crash against pristine white sand. Further down the beach, partially concealed by a cluster of rocks, lies our earlier handiwork, wrapped in canvas, ready for tonight’s ocean disposal.
“No, no, let me,” I say, pressing Jiya back onto the daybed when she tries to rise. “You’ve earned your rest.”
She settles back, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat shading her face. “You sure? I did most of the killing.”
“Which is exactly why you get to relax now.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Besides, I’m better at the cleanup.”
I collect the wheelbarrow and make my way to our little project.
The man—a hedge fund manager with a side business in human trafficking—lies wrapped in the canvas, already stiffening under the Caribbean sun.
A chance encounter at a beachside bar last night had led to an impromptu game of cat and mouse.
The thrill of watching her work had been intoxicating. How she’d lured him away from the resort with nothing but a smile and the promise in her eyes. How we’d taken turns, me holding him down while she administered the paralytic; her steadying his head while I positioned the garrote.
I load him onto our boat. The ocean will do the rest, carrying him miles offshore. By then, the marine life will have made identification nearly impossible.
Sweat drips down my back as I work, and I glance up to see Jiya watching me, a contented smile on her face. She’s sipping a cocktail, looking for all the world like any tourist enjoying a private beach.
“You’re staring,” I call out.
“I enjoy watching you work.” She raises her glass in a toast. “The way your muscles flex when you carry him. Very sexy.”
I can’t help but grin as I return to the task.
“All done,” I announce, lifting a bottle of water from our cooler.
“My hero,” she purrs, making room for me beside her on the daybed.
I settle next to her, using a towel to wipe the sweat from my face and chest. “You comfortable? Need anything? More sunscreen? Another drink?”
“Just you,” she says, nestling against me despite the heat.
Taking care of Jiya feels right in a way nothing else ever has.
Not just the big things like disposing of bodies or helping her evade murder charges, but the small things too.
Making her coffee how she likes it. Running my fingers through her hair until she falls asleep.
Knowing when she needs space and when she needs me close.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, tracing patterns on my chest.
“How good we are together.” I take her hand and kiss her palm.
Jiya follows my gaze and smiles. “Thank you for the surprise. How did you know what I wanted for my birthday?” She pulls me down for a kiss, her tongue teasing mine in a way that makes me instantly hard.
I pull back. “Oh, that wasn’t your present.” I reach beneath the daybed and retrieve a black velvet box. “This is.”
Jiya’s eyes widen when she sees the box, her lips parting in surprise. That look, the flash of panic mixed with something else, tells me everything.
“Calloway...”
I shush her with a finger to her lips.
“Wait,” she says, sitting up straighter, clutching the sheet to her chest. “If this is what I think it is, I’m not ready.”
A flush creeps across her cheeks, making the freckles on her shoulders stand out more.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I love you, you know that. But we’re just getting to know each other. I need some time before I can marry you.”
I can’t help but smile wider, which only makes her brow furrow.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks.
“Because you said you’re going to marry me.”
“No.” She sits up fully now, the towel falling away. “I said I don’t want to marry you now.”
“I know. But you’re thinking about it; you want to do it in the future.”
She stares at me, her mouth opening and closing like she’s searching for the perfect comeback. I love when I render her speechless; it happens so rarely.
“Don’t worry,” I say, running my thumb over the velvet box. “I wasn’t going to propose. I know it’s too early. I’m not that thick.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “So what is it, then?”
Her eyes widen as I open it. Inside lies a set of platinum nipple clamps connected by a delicate chain that splits and extends downward to a matching clitoris clamp. What makes them unique are the tiny knives and cocktail glasses suspended from each nipple clamp.
“You didn’t,” she whispers, her pupils dilating.
“Custom-made.” I remove the first clamp. “May I?”
She nods, biting her lip as I gently attach it to her left nipple. Her sharp intake of breath turns to a moan as I adjust the pressure.
“Too tight?” I ask, my voice dropping lower.
“Perfect,” she breathes out.
I attach the second clamp, enjoying how her back arches off the bed. The tiny cocktail glasses dangle from each nipple, catching the sunlight like crystal prisms.
“And now for the final piece,” I say, trailing the chain down her stomach to her thighs, which part willingly for me.
When I attach the last clamp, she cries out, her hips bucking against my hand. “Calloway, fuck.”
“That’s the plan.” I reach for the small bottle of tequila I’ve kept chilled in a bucket of ice. “But first, a toast to the birthday girl.”
I pour a thin stream of the cold liquor into the first tiny glass, filling it to the brim. Some spills over, running in rivulets down the curve of her breast. I catch the droplets with my tongue, savoring the contrast between the cool liquor and her warm skin.
“Sweet mother of mayhem,” Jiya gasps as the movement jostles the clamps.
I lower my mouth to the first glass, maintaining eye contact as I drink the tequila. The glass empties, but I continue to suck her nipple through the clamp, and she writhes beneath me.
“More,” she demands, her hands gripping my shoulders.
I fill the second glass, pouring extra tequila so it spills across her chest. I lap it from her skin, working my way to the second glass and draining it while she watches, her breath coming in sharp pants.
“You’re overdressed,” she says, tugging at my swim trunks.
“Patience.” I place my hand on her stomach, and her muscles jump beneath my palm. “I’m not done with my drink yet.”
I pour more tequila onto her skin, creating a glistening trail from her sternum to her navel. As I follow it with my tongue, the chain connecting the clamps shifts, making her moan and curse in the most delicious way.
“Calloway,” she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair.
Her body has become my canvas, my perfect subject.
“How do you feel?” I ask, trailing my fingers across her hipbone.
“Like I’m on fire.” Her voice catches as I run my hand down her thigh, deliberately avoiding where she wants me most.
The tiny knives hanging from the clamps catch the sunlight as her chest rises and falls with each breath. They remind me of who we are, what we do. The juxtaposition of danger and beauty is everything our relationship is built on.
“Good.” I lower my head to taste the tequila again, letting my tongue circle her nipple before drawing it into my mouth, clamp and all.
Jiya arches off the bed, a stream of curses flowing from her lips. Her pulse races beneath my fingers as I grip her wrist.
“You’re enjoying torturing me,” she accuses, though her smile tells me everything I need to know.
“Consider it payback for all your failed attempts on my life.” I move to the other breast, repeating my ministrations until both glasses are empty again. “Though I’d call them successful now.”
“How so?” She reaches for me, sliding her hand into my swim trunks.
I groan as her fingers wrap around me. “Because you’ve killed any self-control I had left.”
“Still too much self-control for my taste.” Her free hand moves to the nape of my neck, pulling me down for a kiss that tastes of tequila and promises.
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. “Later. Right now, I want to devour you.”
And for a long time, there is nothing but the glorious, savage feast.
We lay tangled together afterward, our breathing slowing. The chains and clamps have left delicate red marks on her skin that I trace with my fingertips.
“I should handle our friend,” I say, nodding toward the boat.
Jiya sits up, her eyes following my gaze to the wrapped body. “You know what I love about us?” she asks, standing and stretching. “Even our cleanup is foreplay.”
She walks toward the boat with deliberate intent. “Come on. Let’s finish this properly.”
I follow her, admiring the confident sway of her hips as she boards our boat. Together, we heave the canvas-wrapped trafficker over the side. He hits the water with a satisfying splash.
“Number nine,” Jiya says, watching the body sink into the darkening waters. “Think the fish will enjoy him?”
“More than his victims ever did,” I reply, pulling her against me.
She turns in my arms, her eyes glinting with the same darkness that drew me to her. “You know what watching you work does to me.”
“Show me,” I challenge.
Her smile is sharp as a blade. “Gladly. But this time, you’re going to beg.”
And as the last evidence of our work disappears beneath the waves, she makes good on that promise.