Minka
MINKA
“ C hief Mayet!” The moment I step out of my autopsy room and angle for my office, the crowd of cops descends. Noisy. Demanding. Worst of all, they want to speak to me . And that’s not really my thing.
“What can you tell us, Chief?” One of them, a dude about Archer’s build and height, grabs my arm when I attempt to pass, tugging me to a sharp stop that has a snarl ripping along my throat. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, releasing me and raising his hands in surrender. “Lucas is my partner, Chief. He’s my boy.” His eyes glisten with a pain I know Archer would feel if it was Fletch’s body on my table. “Some motherfucker shot my best friend, Chief. So if you have information for me…”
“I have nothing.” I fix my jacket, straightening it because his hands tugged it askew. Then I stand taller and speak to everyone. “You know just as well as I do, I cannot comment on an open case. If you want information, call the primaries. And since we’re all adults here, we also know that even if you do call the primaries, they’re going to tell you the same thing: no comment . This is an active homicide investigation. To speak about it could undermine the whole thing.”
“That’s my partner!” the first barks impatiently. “We’re all cops, Chief. We’re not your standard fucking pedestrian standing on the street and begging for a morsel of information. We’re not here to gossip. Tell us what you know, or I’m gonna have to?— ”
“Gonna have to what?” Like a ghost in the night, Archer stalks through the crowd, a bowling ball through pins, and comes to a stop directly in front of me. His shoulder blades practically touch my nose and his back swells with adrenaline. “You best find your manners, Detective Wright.” He takes another step forward, forcing the group back. “Or I will remove you from this building. If you can’t get yourself under control, I’ll put you in a cage and happily charge you with obstruction of justice.”
“I’m not obstructing! I’m looking for answers. My partner was shot dead on the street today. I deserve to know what happened.”
“You don’t have rights.” Fletch pushes through the crowd and turns to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his partner. “The deceased has a right to a thorough and fair investigation. You stepping in our way or harassing our team violates those rights.”
“I just want answers.” I can’t see past my security detail, but I hear the emotion in Detective Wright’s voice. The hitch in his breath. I know damn well, if our situations were reversed and Fletcher was hurt, Archer would do more than raise his voice and demand answers from a hapless M.E.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” I move around the pair and look up at a red-eyed Wright. “Considering you were his partner, I’m certain Detectives Fletcher and Malone were coming to speak to you next. It works out that everyone is in the same place at the same time.”
“She’s actually right.” Fletch fakes a smile and gestures toward my office. “We have a list, Wright, and you’re on it. We were heading to your precinct after our chat with the doctors, but since you’re here…”
“Fine.” He shoves away from Archer, blowing past another cop whose eyes glitter with interest, then he stalks through my glass door. “Let’s go. At least then I might get more than the shit currently on the news.”
Before he follows, Archer points toward the elevators. “The rest of you can clear out. If I find you hanging around the M.E.’s office while they’re trying to work again, I’m gonna take names and talk to your C.O.s. This isn’t a fucking carnival. This is one of your comrades. Doctors need clear heads to do their thing, not adrenaline kicking in the back of their brains because they’re afraid of being jumped in the halls.”
“Let’s go.” Fletch herds the unhappy cops, arms wide and commanding tone, toward the elevators. “There ain’t enough room here for you all.”
“I would have dealt with them myself.” I grab Archer’s shoulder and drag him around until we’re standing toe-to-toe and his nose almost touches my forehead. Raising my brow, I pierce him with a look. “I don’t need a hero, Malone. ”
“I’m gonna be one anyway.” He gently brushes my arm, right where Wright grabbed on. “He hurt you?”
“Annoyed me, mostly. Give me the CliffsNotes of what you’ve found out since we last talked.”
“Little old lady has a crush on Fletch. Turns out it is possible to be ninety-eight years old and only four feet tall. Oh, and she didn’t see shit. But apparently a group of teen thugs were hanging around. So we’ll see if we can find them.”
“They killed our vic?”
He shakes his head and massages my arm so I feel it all the way in my belly. “Not according to her. And not according to anyone else we could talk to. The kiddie thugs are curious. Probably future gangbangers. But they’re not killers.”
“Let’s go.” Fletch comes up on my left and stands almost as close as Archer. “You’re a big, bad, badass, Dimples. Standing up to all those badges by yourself.”
“The badge is hardly a reason to be afraid. I have two of them in my kitchen on a daily basis. Neither gives me reason to worry.”
“I’m scary.” Grinning, he claps Archer’s shoulder and backs up. “Be afraid, Doc.”
“Uh-huh.” I wasn’t invited—I so rarely am—but seeing as Wright walks a path in my office, I follow the detectives and glance back only long enough to catch Aubree’s eyes on the other side of the glass wall. She stands over Mercer’s body, wary, as though she expects the crowd to come back. But I circle my hand in the air, a kind of pack it up motion, then I point to the elevator. Put him in the fridge . Finally, I turn back to find Archer holding the door. He waits patiently, allowing me to pass before he follows me in and makes a beeline for my desk.
He doesn’t dare walk to the other side or take my chair. He knows that’s where I intend to sit. Instead, he perches his backside on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles, and gestures with a single hand to the only visitor chair I possess. “Take a seat, Detective Wright. We’re working fast on this one, trying our best to solve the kind of crime none of us want to see on the job.” He dips his chin when the man does as he’s told, plopping into the chair and resting his elbows on his knees. “First and foremost, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You’d be tearing offices up too if it was your partner out there on a steel table. ”
“Yeah. I would. And I remain eternally grateful that I don’t know the pain you’re feeling today.”
“Talk to us about your partner,” Fletch coaches, pressing his back to the glass wall that overlooks our city. “Tell us everything you know we wanna hear. What’s his life like at home?”
“What’s life like on the job?” Archer adds. “What have you been working on?”
“He has a girlfriend.” Sniffling, Wright hurriedly wipes his nose and stares down at his boots. “It’s only been about a year, so they were talking about moving in together. But no rings or vows yet.”
“Kids?” Archer asks.
“No kids. Cops rarely make for good parents, Detective. Lucas wasn’t rushing. His girlfriend owns a bookstore. Quiet little place that keeps food in her belly. Barely. It’s no empire making a fortune. But she pays her bills and seems happy.”
“Parents?” Archer presses. “Siblings? Second cousins constantly in lock up, calling Mercer for a free-pass every second weekend?”
He snorts, letting his head droop and shaking it side-to-side. “Parents; married and retired. Siblings; one of each. Both married and happy. His sister has a couple of kids. His brother doesn’t. Lucas and I work in narcotics. Nine times out of ten, we’re U.C., which means plain clothed. Our shift wasn’t supposed to start till four this afternoon. We’re not active undercover right now, so we’ve got standard shift hours until we are. And there’s no chance he’s giving free passes to his cousins. Ever. He’s a straight shooter and vocal about it.”
“Any idea why Lucas was over on Marigold today?” Fletch waits for Wright to glance across. “He doesn’t live there. And being who you are, I’m certain he knew the area wasn’t the best. Did he tell you why he was heading that way?”
“No.” He clasps his hands together, much the same way Mrs. Morris did. “We’re pretty chatty outside work, ya know? He’s my best friend. But he didn’t say that he was going over there.”
“When was the last time you talked?” I ask, earning a scowl from both of my cops. “Today? Yesterday?”
“This morning.” Reaching into his pocket, Wright takes out his phone, sniffling again as he unlocks the screen and navigates to the call log. Or perhaps his messages. “He texted me around nine, saying he’d just woken up. He asked if I wanted to hit our favorite cafe for breakfast.” He chuckles, tiny and soft, which only makes the sound all the more pathetic. “Dude had caffeine in his veins, not blood. He wanted to get breakfast with me, but I said no.”
Fletch’s brow pinches with curiosity. “Why?”
He drops his hands and dangles them between his knees. “I’ve been seeing this woman. Lena. Lucas and I worked the late shift last night, so by the time I got home and my girl was already waiting in my bed…”
“You didn’t wanna leave it,” Fletch finishes. “Got it. Did he say he wanted to talk about something at breakfast? A current case? Personal stuff? Anything on his mind?”
He shakes his head, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “It wasn’t unusual for us to eat together, especially after a late shift. Lucas was the social type. He liked to make friends. Liked to hang out.” He brings his eyes up. “He’s friendly. So if his girlfriend had already left for work, which, by nine a.m., she would have, then he would have been lonely. He fills his social battery by hanging out with people.”
Un-relatable. I fill mine by being alone.
“But I said no,” he rasps. “It’s cool out today, and I wasn’t ready to get out of bed.”
“What are you currently working on?” Archer asks. “Case load. Anyone you can think of that might want your partner out of the way?”
He licks his lips, folding them over his teeth while he thinks. “I mean, no one likes us once we’re done dealing with them on the job.” He looks at Fletch, “You understand. If we’re hanging around, it’s rarely good news for those in our sights. We closed a case a few days ago that shut down some kinda nasty stuff. But I don’t…” he rubs his face as frustration bubbles closer to the surface. “I can’t pick anyone off the top of my head. People hate us, Detectives. But they’re not shooting us down in the street for fun.”
“Had any dealings around Marigold Street recently?” I’m nosey. I’m annoying. I know, I get it. “Anything that brought you over that way?”
“Nothing. I can’t say I’ve ever walked Marigold Street on my personal time, Chief. And the last time I was there, professionally, was about five years back. I doubt that case relates to this,” he jumps in before anyone asks. “Gangbanger shot his buddy because they were arguing over money. Tossed his friend into the manhole that led to the sewer. Vic bled to death while he was down there. That case was handed to homicide, obviously, but because we had dealings with them, we were brought in for a consult. Dudes were in their early twenties—both of them. Killer fessed up to what he did after about three minutes in interrogation and took the deal that landed him with fifteen. Parole in ten. We’re still five years from parole, and he was pretty damn remorseful for what he did. Crying the whole time he was being questioned. Begging to undo what happened. He was fond of his friend, but money and drugs make people stupid.”
I look to Fletch, thinking of the black and blue Jada Watson since we both know exactly what drugs and money do to a once-smart person. He catches me looking, firming his lips and shaking his head with an infinitesimal movement. Shut up about that.
Then we both bring our eyes back to Wright.
“Even if you gave me a free pass to choose anyone I want for this,” he sighs, “I can’t pin it on that guy. M.O. doesn’t fit.”
“Received any threats lately?” Archer prods. “Anyone giving you trouble?”
“We get threats five days out of seven. I bet you do, too. We have a team who follows those up and files them in the ‘ real ’ and ‘ bullshit ’ columns. There’s an entire division who takes care of that, and none that I can think of that would fit this.”
“What if we told you our killer was using .45s with tungsten tips?” Archer fiercely watches the other cop, wrapping his hands around the lip of my desk and leaning closer when Wright’s eyes pop wide.
“What?”
“The armor piercing kind. We’re looking for a cop killer who has access to cop-killing bullets. This ain’t your standard perp, Wright. You work in narcotics, but maybe you know someone who has a hookup on the gun market, too? Any old cases popping for you now?”
“No, I…” He shoves up from the chair, turning away and tugging at his hair. “Armor piercing? I’ve got nothing that fits that! Armor piercing?” he repeats in an almost whisper. “What the fuck?”
“That information has been shared with no one outside of this room,” Fletch inserts. Except Aubree . “We expect it to stay that way.”
“Even if your C.O. asks,” Archer insists. “Not a soul outside of us knows. So if it spreads, either you’ve yapped, or our killer is the messenger. You got that?”
“Yeah, I…” He groans deep into the base of his throat. “Fuck me. He wasn’t wearing armor though, right?” He circles back around and drops into his seat with a thud. “Lucas was off duty, which means no armor. And shit, ninety percent of the time, even when we’re on duty, we’re not wearing vests. Kinda screws with our undercover identity.”
“Seems our killer came prepared.” Sitting back, I swallow the dread that attempts to slide along my throat and clog my airways. “Assuming Lucas was his target, and assuming he knew where and when to find Lucas, he came ready to blow through a vest if there was one. He wasn’t taking chances.”
“That says a lot to me,” Archer concludes. “This wasn’t a wrong place, wrong time kinda hit. Mercer was the target, and dead was the end goal. He had an enemy, Detective Wright. And I’m just saying,” he hooks a thumb toward Fletch, “if I have one of those, then chances are, so does he. Watch your back, wear a vest, and don’t walk down any shitty streets until we have this one tied up.”
“ Y eah. Like a… a suite, I guess. A nice one.” Much like Wright when he paced my office this afternoon, I want to tear my hair out. Different reasons, of course. Different locations, considering I stepped into my apartment less than an hour ago. Archer is still on duty, but he’s also on strict orders to check in every ten minutes and be home as soon as he’s done talking to Mercer and Wright’s commanding officer.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not sure I understand your?—”
“A suite! I want a hotel room to stay in. Somewhere in Manhattan. I’m willing to spend more than thirty bucks a night to not sleep in a bed that’ll make me itchy, but I’m not willing to be robbed. So I want it to be nice, but not gaudy. We don’t need a grand piano or an untamed tiger walking around. But clean sheets would be good. A mini fridge, maybe. Especially if you have the kind that stocks soda and candy bars.”
“We have a lovely suite on Fifth Avenue,” the lady on the phone singsongs. She’s way too friggin happy. “In total, for two adults and breakfast included, comes to six-thousand, four-hundred and?—”
“You’ve lost your damn mind! Cheaper, please.”
“Oh, but I… uh… okay.” She hums in the back of her throat, tap-tap-tapping at her keyboard. I’m not entirely sure how I reached her phone extension, or how she became my personal hotel-booker, but here we are. A few transfers, a little hold music, and now poor Miriam is dealing with me. “I can secure you a room in Manhattan West. It’s significantly cheaper, includes breakfast, a doorman to help you on your way while you conduct your business, and?—”
“Bottom line, Miriam?”
“Five-thousand, three-hundred?— ”
“I’ll call you back when my bank balance and your spending habits align.” I tug the phone from my ear and jump straight across to my messages to find my most recent ‘ all good ’ from Archer. He sent it less than two minutes ago, upholding his promise and easing the worry that sits heavy on my heart. Tossing my phone onto the couch cushions and dropping my head back, I close my eyes and breathe.
Simply… Breathe in. Breathe out.
“I don’t think you understand that being in New York means staying at the house…” Cato, eighteen years old, flirtier than an old, fat, white man whose audacity is at an all-time high, and smug in the way his tone implies humor, he perches on the kitchen counter about fifteen feet from where I occupy the couch—a.k.a. his bed—and sucks down on a yogurt pouch he found in the fridge. “No way you’re flying all the way to the east coast and staying in a hotel for the night.”
“If you call Felix and tell him I’m coming, I’m gonna snap your legs and end your basketball career before it even begins.” I bring my hands up and press the pads of my fingers to my eyelids. “Archer will tell him when he deems that exchange of information necessary. Until that point in time, Felix isn’t to be told anything. And even when he is, I have express permission to not take his calls.” I drop my arm and blindly search for my phone, patting the cushions and feeling around for the device. Finding it, I grasp it in my hand and lift it victoriously. “This chick wants seven grand for three nights in a hotel. Can you call and find me a room?”
He snorts. But he sure as hell doesn’t hop off the counter and walk across to save me from my tedious task. “I’d much rather watch you fumble around and insult that poor woman some more. How much do you think it costs to stay in the city, Doc? It sure ain’t free.”
“My first car didn’t even cost seven thousand dollars! Who the hell would spend that kind of cash on something that ends in three days? Like, what?” I drop my hands and spin on the couch. “You sleep there. You raid the mini fridge. You move on. What are they offering that could possibly cost seven grand?”
“Pretty sure Archer spent oodles more than that on your seven-day honeymoon,” he smirks. “And that didn’t include accommodation, considering we own the boat you parked your bikini-clad backside on for the week. You could have bought a whole ass house in Texas for the same amount he spent on your trip to Jamaica.”
“Shush.” I turn again and slump back into my chair. “We have an agreement. My husband doesn’t talk about money, I don’t talk about money. ”
“You’re the one bringing money up right now!”
“I’m bringing up how ridiculous something costs. Seven thousand dollars! I could use that to buy new chairs for my staff. Or new computers. Coffee machines for every floor of the George Stanley.” I could offer it to Fifi and buy her loyalty for a little longer. “I’m going to New York to testify in a case that will hopefully see a man sent back to prison. I’m not spending seven thousand dollars on a bed to sleep in for a few measly nights.”
“Which brings us back to staying at the house.” He pops off the counter, touching down on the floor with his size thirteen shoes so the sound ricochets throughout my small apartment. “Stay with Lix, and you save the seven grand. Plus, he’d feed you, too. So that’s more money saved. He’d provide you a car to travel into Manhattan for court; that’s money saved again.” He snags a bag of chips from the pantry—the crinkle and tear of the packet, all the clues I need to know what he’s doing—then he wanders around until I see him in my peripherals. “Lix is gonna throw a fit if he finds out you’re close but not staying with him.”
“Lix has a girlfriend now, which would imply his obsession with annoying me has somewhat abated?—”
He snorts. “Wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Add in that he’s planning a wedding and, ya know, running a freakin’ drug cartel, and I’m gonna assume he’s a tad busy.”
“You confuse drug cartel with a plain old powerful family . Understandable, of course, seeing as how you’re a normie and we’re not. But we’re more in the business of money. Not drugs.”
“Sell drugs, make money.” I close my eyes and ignore him when he tosses a Frito into his mouth and chews like a cow. “One hand works with the other.”
“Run clubs,” he counters. “Pretty ladies dance for money, and horny dudes pay to drink and sleep with them. Make money.”
“So Felix is a dirty old pimp.” I roll my eyes. They’re still closed. The eyelids, literally slid down to cover the organ. But they roll. “That’s called prostitution. I guess I misspoke when I said drug dealer. I meant pimp.”
“You’re tired and cranky.” Chuckling, he comes around so I feel the loose material of his shorts brush my knee, then he sits on the coffee table, beaming when I drag my eyes open and meet his emerald stare. “He’s not a pimp. We both know that. He’s not a drug dealer. He is fluent in washing money, though. It’s a victimless crime.”
“Pretty sure the Federal Reserve would disagree.” Listlessly, I lift my phone again and offer it. “Please get me and Archer a room. Make it comfortable, but don’t spend laundered money. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I knew it cost a god-awful amount.”
“But you also won’t sleep if bugs are crawling on your skin.” He sets his bag of chips on the table and snatches the phone. Unlocking it—I have no clue how he knows the passcode—he types something in and hums in the back of his throat as he tap-tap-taps along to his own beat. “Breakfast,” he murmurs. “Door security. No gold-plated toilet and not six thousand dollars.”
“Seven thousand,” I grumble. “She quoted me seven.”
“You’re worried about Archer, huh?” He meets my eyes over the top of the phone, holding my stare for a long beat. “He called earlier and mentioned the bullets, though I’ve been sworn to secrecy about those. He said you’re going through some shit right now with Seraphina leaving and now the cop-killer walking our streets.”
“Which is why you’re here at,” I twist and glance at the clock on the wall, still on New York time after I neglected to change it when I moved. “Five-thirty. You’d usually be at the stadium around this time.”
“I’m wherever my family needs me to be. Felix is covered by Micah. Tim’s in the bar next door. He controls the wall at his back and has the building secure. Arch and Fletch are busy hunting a killer, and you’re having your girly feelings about Fifi.” He goes back to tapping on my phone. “I’m wherever I need to be, whenever I have to be there. Besides,” tap , “I kinda said some stuff to Jenna earlier today that landed me with a sore face,” grinning, he reaches up and cups his cheek. “It was worth it.”
“Jenna? As in, the daughter of the Copeland Condor’s basketball team owner ?”
“Stepdaughter. And she’s grown enough to fight her own battles. I doubt she tells the old man about her troubles.”
“But you say things that end with a red cheek and her palm, no doubt, stinging.”
“I call that the price of admission.” Another tap. Another. Then he pulls back and watches the screen. “Here, got you a room on Fifth Avenue. Not the expensive ass one, but one that is secure and safe and comes with a mini fridge. You don’t have to know the price, I won’t tell you, but I promise it’s not seven thousand dollars.”
I narrow my eyes and stare deep into his. “Not six thousand either, right?”
He winks and shoves up, snatching his bag of chips again. “Not six, either. It’s been paid for with Malone money, so save the city’s seven grand and buy your coffee machines and new chairs. And I swear to God,” he frees a chip from the bag, pointing it my way and threatening, “when Felix finds out you’ve disrespected him, you keep my name out of your mouth. If he hears I’m the one who booked your room, he’s gonna lash out at me.”
“He’s not lashing out at anyone.” I check my screen for a moment and spy the tiny, thumbnail images of a room. Glass walls. A picture of the New York skyline. But there’s no price, so I toss the device and slump back on the couch. “Felix is a total pussycat. I’m not sure why everyone acts so afraid of him.”
“Pussycat for the ladies,” he taunts, heading across the room and checking the peephole when thudding footsteps echo on the concrete stairs in the hall. “But he sheds that soft fur when it’s time to take care of business.” Crunch . He tosses another Frito into his mouth. “You catch anything interesting from the dead cop today?”
“Just that he’s dead. Healthy male, early to mid-thirties. Nonsmoker. His liver showed no signs of alcohol abuse. His brain was clear—no bleeds.”
At that, Cato peels away from the door and looks my way. “You looked at his brain?”
“Have to. This is homicide, and he hit the ground when he fell. Gotta make sure we don’t have any bleeds in the brain.”
“And he didn’t?”
“Nope. Abraded skin when he made contact with the road, but that’s it. You looking to go into forensics instead of basketball?”
He scoffs, and yanking the door open, he reveals Archer’s hand midair, right where the doorknob would have been a second ago. “But I’m always interested in education around hoodwinking the forensic scientists. Archer.” He reaches up and faux-tips the hat he’s not wearing. “Doctor Mayet and I have decided to run off to New York together and live long, happy lives in coital bliss.”
“Not my Doctor Mayet.” He pushes past his brother and smiles when I finish looking him up and down. No bullet wounds. No bleeding orifices. Not even a torn button or scraped knee. “How are you doing, Minnnka?” He walks directly to me, cupping my jaw, angling my head, and dropping a kiss square on my lips. “You look stressed.”
“Not stressed. It’s not like there’s a cop killer roaming our streets.” I return his kiss with another and sigh when his breath fills my lungs. “How’d you go with Mercer’s Lieutenant?”
“No Fletch?” Cato holds the door open and peers into the hall to check for our other cop. “He’s not coming? ”
“He went home to relieve the nanny and grab dinner with his daughter.” Releasing my face, Archer lifts one leg over the couch, then the other, and slides down onto the cushions beside mine. Wrapping his arm over my shoulder, he tugs me in, just like he knows I need, and forces my head to rest on his chest. “Mercer’s C.O. was a dick. He didn’t want to share current caseloads. But he knows he’ll have to, so he promised to have an email sitting in my inbox by morning. Until then,” he presses a kiss to the top of my head and exhales until his warm breath bathes my scalp. “I’m thinking we order Chinese, stay in, and chill the fuck out.”
“Sounds nice. Except for the fact we usually head next door to Tim’s for dinner.”
He pulls back, creating a double chin as he looks down at me. “You wanna get a burger at Tim’s?”
“I’m simply observing that we’re not. That distinct change in behavior screams, ‘ there’s a cop killer on our streets and I don’t wanna be shot next’ . Though your caution should comfort me, mostly it reminds me of why my stomach hurts in the first place.”
“No sore stomachs.” He drops his hand to my belly and rubs. “Caution is a good thing. Doesn’t mean I think we’re at risk, and it doesn’t mean I think he’s gonna hit someone else. Mercer’s murder comes across as pointed and personal to me. They wanted him dead. That specific guy. I bet you a whole dollar if I asked the department psych to profile him, they’d say he hit the target he wanted and has now gone into hiding.”
“I’m gonna order dinner.” Cato can be annoying as hell, often , and immature enough to send me nuts. But I know, beneath the crazy, is a young man who knows what’s right and what’s wrong. Flirting with me is fun, but giving a married couple privacy every now and then is up there on his list of priorities. “I’ll wait down at the bar till it’s here, so you two can have half an hour to yourselves or whatever.”
He snags a bright orange basketball from the corner of the kitchen, crushing it to his chest and his Fritos in his free hand, then he makes his way back to the door and swings it wide again, poking his head out to make sure no one is gonna shoot him as he emerges. “Do what you’re gonna do. But don’t talk about me. It hurts my feelings.”
“He booked our room.” I rest my cheek on Archer’s chest and play with the chain hanging around his neck. Dangling on the end, of course, is the wedding ring I went out at two o’clock in the morning to buy many months ago. “I was coming up on brick walls every time I tried.”
“Really?” He pays no attention to his brother as he leaves and the door closes. He massages my thigh instead and studies my eyes. “Everything is booked out?”
“No. There seemed to be ample vacancies. But the prices were ridiculous.”
“You want Manhattan glamor at Podunk prices, Mayet?” He leans in and nibbles on my bottom lip. “I can’t believe of all the gold digging, high maintenance broads on this planet, I married the cheapest cheapskate I’ve ever met.”
“Oh right. Like I’m the villain for not spending money like it comes from a Monopoly box. Who the hell would spend seven thousand dollars on a bed countless other people have slept on already? Never mind the fact we only get to use it for three nights. Then it’s done. The money is gone and life goes on. If I wanted to do that, I’d buy myself a new bed for half that, and enjoy comfort for the next five years.”
“Good beds last ten.”
“Sure.” I scoff. “If you want microscopic bugs eating your skin while you sleep.” I shiver when his fingers inch along my thigh. Massaging. Kneading. “I’d rather buy a new mattress and not share my space with flesh-eating bacteria, thank you very much.”
“So you do spend money.” He buries his lips against my neck, biting until I groan and chuckling when I drop my head back to give him more room. “Your expenditures are just more subtle. No Lamborghini for you. But expensive mattresses on a regular basis.”
“Do you have any clue what kind of breeding ground the average mattress is?”
“Odd. I enjoy breeding on it, too.” He scoops me up, smirking when a squeal escapes my throat and my arms flail, searching for something to hold on to. Then he turns, wrapping my legs around his hips and cupping my ass, his fingers dangerously close to places that’ll have me explode within a single brush.
One stroke of his tongue.
One single touch, and he’ll undo me the way he knows how.
“Come to bed with me, Minnnnnka.” He bites my neck and walks blindly into the hall. “Let’s try out the breeding thing you speak of.”
“Practice.” I bark out a sharp laugh when he nips at my collarbone and sneaks his hand around to touch my clit. “Just the practicing.” I pant like a dog in heat, turning from laughter to goo in an instant. My throat dries and my heart thunders. But when he pushes through to our bedroom at the end of the hall, tsking to get the cat skittering off the bed, he drops me down with an undignified thud that has my hair flipping forward to land partially on my face.
He stands over me, kicking the door shut the moment Chloe bolts for freedom. Then he drags his shirt up, wasting no time as his eyes track along my body. Hungry. Needy. And completely unashamed for the want pumping through his blood. “I gotta say…” He sets his knee on the bed between my legs, then his fists on the mattress on either side of my head. Leaning over me, he takes my pebbled nipple between his lips and groans when my back arches and my muscles turn taut.
He bites, despite my shirt.
Despite my bra.
He still brings me pleasure and works my body like an instrument he’s spent a lifetime tuning. “We hit a year in a few weeks.” Unabashed, he slides one hand along my body, teasing my flesh as he moves down to the stretchy waistband of the yoga pants I changed into after work. Then he slips his hand into my underwear and pumps two fingers deep into my pussy.
There’s no slow moving for us. No testing. No worry.
There’s just us, finding ecstasy no matter how little time we have to ourselves.
“A whole year,” he repeats, pumping. Panting. Drawing me closer to the edge of oblivion so easily. “I kinda figured after so long, I’d feel less…”
“Horny?”
He grins, swapping breasts and taking my neglected nipple between his teeth. “Feral. What I feel for you, it’s not just standard ‘ I wanna fuck that ’ hormones.”
“Charming.” And yet, pleasure ripples through my blood, spiking in my veins until I set my feet on the mattress and fold myself higher. Closer. Squirming for more.
“I still wanna fuck you. Every single minute we’re together, I’m thinking about filling your tight pussy and making you cry for me.” He abandons my nipple and grabs my face, locking his fingers around my jaw and forcing my eyes back to his. “But I swear to god, I expected the desperation would wear off after a while.”
“I hope it never does.” I lift my hips and shove my pants down, the fabric scraping along my thighs and revealing all of me. We don’t have time for the long, languid lovemaking we used to do before a teenager moved in and made our couch his new home-base. And honestly, I’m okay with it. Because Archer’s fast-fuck is like lovemaking on cocaine. It’s addictive and fun and so wildly intense, it feels like I might vibrate out of my skin. I kick my pants off, letting the fabric fall to the floor, then I reach down and unbuckle his belt. His jeans. I melt under his adoring gaze and groan when he massages my clit with the heel of his hand. “Fuckkkk, Archer.”
“You’re needy tonight too.” He helps me push his jeans down, kicking his shoes off and leaving the denim pooled on the floor. But instead of climbing over me, the way I expect him to, he drops to his back beside me, stealing his fingers from my pussy and smirking when I protest.
Loudly .
“What the f?—”
He grabs my hips and flips me up to sit on his lips so I’m facing the door, not the headboard. His palms bruise my thighs and his fingers force my cheeks apart. He exposes me in a way I’ve allowed no man to do in the history of ever. Then he buries his tongue inside my pussy and smacks my ass so I cry out.
Surprise. Pain. Just a little bit.
He’s always so careful not to mark me. Not to bring me harm.
But hell if he can lock himself down tonight.
“Suck my cock, Mayet.” He presses his hand to the small of my back and folds me over his broad form. Then he slips his thumb into my ass and holds me still when I almost shoot off the bed completely. “Take me into your throat and choke on my cock.”
“Archer.” Whimpering, a damn mess, I fist his dick and squeeze hard enough to send the man crazy, if only because he does the same for me. Then I bend over his body and follow his orders. Because I’ll be dead and buried long before I can resist taking him in my mouth when he asks me to. Opening my lips wide and swallowing to lubricate my throat, I take him all the way in, until there’s nowhere else for him to go. Then I swallow, groaning when he cries out and smacks my ass a second time.
To be played with by Archer Malone is one thing.
But to be the one playing with him is a whole other level of power I vow to never take for granted.
“Fuck, !” He pushes fingers into my pussy once more, pumping fast, powerful, and effective when I explode. My release gushes. Making a mess I might be embarrassed about, if not for the fact he frantically laps it up. Guzzling, like he’s afraid of missing out. “You taste so fucking good.” He bites my clit and is rewarded with more of me. “So fucking perfect, .”
I can’t talk, and I’m not giving up on my task to try. So I slide along his shaft, unsheathing my teeth to send him a little closer to insanity. I watch his legs, the muscles in his thighs and the curl of his toes to tell me when I’m doing this right. Then I cup his testicles and whimper when he feasts on my pussy. He tongue-fucks me with abandon, drawing out my pleasure with his thick thumb doing things I never, before him, thought I’d like.
“God, babe.” He smacks me again, dropping back when I take him all the way to the back of my throat. He plants his feet against the floor and shoves up, forcing himself deeper and drawing tears to my eyes. Yet his pleasure brings me pleasure. His surrender brings power to my blood, so when he trades his tongue for his fingers, I explode again.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give him. Nothing my body could deny him when we’re like this.
“Switch now.” He stretches his arm and grabs my hair in his fist, tugging just hard enough to curl my back. “Babe. Come up here. I wanna come in your pussy, not your throat.”
Both , I chant, tightening my lips around his length and firming my hold on his balls. I slide my lips along his shaft, lapping at his cock and drawing him closer, closer to the edge. His legs turn to stone as he fights the inevitable. His toes curl and his hand grows tighter in my hair. But I refuse to stop now.
“!”
I allow a little more friction of my teeth on his skin. A signal, perhaps, to let him know I hear him. But I’m in charge right now. Then I wriggle my ass until he takes the hint and pumps his fingers once more. I cry out around his length, choking for oxygen and filling my airways with him anyway. Just him. Only him.
“I’m gonna come, .” He tugs my hair and grabs my hip, digging his fingers into my flesh and holding on. “Sit on my cock now, babe.”
I shake my head and squeeze my hand around his shaft, crushing his length and lapping him up.
“!” He smacks me again, and yet, he cries out. We’ve come too far, and he’s powerless to stop me. “Ah fuck!” He bruises my thigh and releases my hair so he can hold my hip with the other. He shoves up from the mattress, his feet stretching against the floor and his cock filling my mouth.
Then he bursts. Hot, slick cum sliding along my throat while the man makes the sexiest, most tantalizing sounds I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. He’s always so in charge. He demands it. So undoing him, stealing from him and bathing in his surrender creates a brand-new pleasure for me. I vow to try again. And again. And again.
I milk him until his groans turn to a pant. Until the taut muscle in his thighs lets go, and the grip he has on my hips loosens. Then I release his cock from my lips and climb across his broad form. I turn and twist, swallowing his cum down and licking my lips as I move. I’m cautious with my knees, careful not to accidentally dig them in to his relaxed form, then I sit on his lap, and since he’s too relaxed to stop me, I fist his still-hard cock and slide down over top until we both whimper.
“Now we can fuck.” I roll my hips and close my eyes when ecstasy becomes all I know. When pleasure ripples in my blood and a fresh new release teases every nerve ending I possess. “Jesus, this feels good.”
“Mmmm…” He’s damn near comatose. A willing victim as I ride his cock and take my pleasure.
“I love you, Archer.” I press my hands to his chest, hooking my finger in the wedding band that rests over his heart. “This year,” I pant, rolling my hips. “Next year. And every other for the next eighty.”
His eyes snap open. Energy pulsing in his expression and his lips curling higher. Then he tosses me, body and soul, until my back hits the bed and my hair flips up a second time. Then he follows, grabbing my leg and folding it up until my knee almost touches my chin. “To the next eighty years.” He slams deep inside me, filling me up and stopping only when his hipbone crashes against my ass. “I can’t wait to fuck your saggy, hundred-year-old cunt.”
“Archer!” Laughing, I throw my head back and attempt to shove him off. “You ruined it!”
“Nah.” He hooks his hand around my shoulder, pulling me down while he shoves forward. “Come for me again, . Squeeze my cock like you do with your lips.”