Chapter 3
Several months later…
Sunshine warmed Dash as he pressed his lips to Emerson’s, sidling closer to that amazing, muscular body.
He grinned before Emerson leaned closer to capture his mouth.
Emerson’s tongue swept inside his mouth, tasting him.
In a flash, Emerson flipped him onto his back and spread his thighs apart.
Dash moaned, loving how strong his alpha was.
His moans grew when Emerson reached down to caress his hard shaft with one meaty fist.
One of Emerson’s brows quirked up, a wicked smile on his lips. “A quickie before we leave for work?”
“Yes, please,” Dash moaned.
Dash waited with bated breath as Emerson angled his big, fat cock towards his hole, his body tensing with need.
After a quick coating of lube, his alpha slid into him with one heavy thrust. Dash’s body had grown accustomed to the near constant use, easily yielding to Emerson’s thick shaft impaling him.
Dash smiled, arching his back so Emerson could go a bit deeper and hit his second hole.
“Fuck… your dick feels so good,” Dash whispered.
“It’s where it belongs,” Emerson murmured with a sly grin.
Emerson drove into him urgently, pushing closer and closer to the edge.
A fine sheen of sweat coated them both. Dash was just on the verge of coming when the alarm clock on the nightstand bleated out its incessant warning, ripping him from the delicious fantasy.
He leaned over and slapped it before lying back down, alone in his bed.
The morning wasn’t sunny. It wasn’t warm. It was a boring gray, like his eyes. It left his bedroom in shadow. Nor was he completely alone—not if he counted the thick dildo buried deep. A latex boyfriend was safer than a real one.
He arched his back and lifted his hips, before driving his body back down onto the shaft he used in the place of the alpha who’d haunted his fantasies for too long.
Dash closed his eyes again, attempting to return to his erotic morning pleasure.
Sitting up, he rode the fat cock, moaning at the wide stretch, but couldn’t get back into it.
The moment was lost. Already, his mind was thinking about all the work he had waiting for him on his desk, the many emails probably piling up in his inbox, and the investigators he needed to check in with before the end of the day.
There was also a visit to the Province Courthouse that needed to happen, and at some point, he’d have to return his papa’s last two phone calls.
That, on top of the guilt for taking a few minutes for himself when he should be getting ready to work hijacked the mental images he’d been painting before the alarm had gone off.
Why the fuck did he feel guilty? He continued to ride the shaft, clawing at the edges of the fantasy and trying to get back there. Didn’t he deserve a little pleasure?
According to his brain, the answer was apparently no.
Conceding defeat, he pulled off the shaft and climbed out of bed, carrying the thick dildo with him into the shower. Dash gave it and himself a thorough wash before slamming the suctioned bottom onto the wall and leaving it there to dry.
On the way out, he noticed the time. He’d taken too long trying to get back into the daydream and was now late.
The rest of his morning flew past in a blur of clothing and coffee.
When he finally arrived at work, the office was relatively quiet.
His investigators didn’t make a habit of sitting around the office all day, but there were usually a few doing research or meeting with clients. But not that morning.
“You’re late,” his assistant, Eliott, snapped as soon as he walked in the front door.
“Good morning to you, too,” Dash griped as he looked through the short stack of pink phone call notices situated on the corner of Eliott’s station.
“Morning,” Eliott replied, not looking away from his computer screen. “You have a new client waiting for you in conference room two.”
“I didn’t have anything on the books when I left last night.”
“He showed up this morning. Go handle it, please.”
“Handle it?”
Dash eyed Eliott, frowning. The omega was a pain in his ass sometimes but managed the office ten times better than either of his predecessors—and put up with the weird hours and what he’d been told was his cold demeanor.
Lukewarm, or maybe even cool, but he didn’t agree with cold.
Regardless, Eliott was hard working, even if his social skills were as bad as Dash’s.
“He’s… a lot. Go deal with him so I don’t have to listen to him anymore,” Eliott said, glaring over the top of his monitor. “Otherwise, I’m going to hurl him out the window. I might open it first, but I make no promises.”
Dash sighed. “Define a lot?”
“You’ll see,” Eliott said in a sing-song voice that never boded well. He pointed in the direction of one of the smaller conference rooms.
“Can I at least go drop my belongings at my desk, Boss?” Dash asked sarcastically.
“Oh, look. You’ve finally admitted who really runs this place,” Eliott said, cocking a brow. “Can I expect a raise with that, too?”
Dash rolled his eyes and walked into his office, calling over his shoulder, “I already pay you plenty.”
“According to you,” Eliott yelled back. “The man with zero fashion sense and twelve of the same ten-year-old black suits hanging in his closet.”
“The classics never die.”
Dash chuckled and lowered his laptop bag to his chair. Before he walked away, he caught sight of the morning newspaper Eliott had left for him. The large, bold banner headline read:
Macklin Found Dead
He snatched the paper and unfolded it. Just under the headline was a large photo of Charles Macklin on the night he’d been frog-marched into jail by none other than one Emerson Walker.
Dash gazed at the determined stare on Emerson’s face and the hint of satisfaction curving the corners of the alpha’s mouth.
His full, sensual mouth. He smiled, imaging those fantasy kisses from earlier in the morning. If he’d had the paper in hand, maybe he’d have been able to get back into things properly.
I bet he’s an amazing kisser. Too bad I passed on giving him a test run.
Dash slid his thumb over the photo before shaking himself.
He tore his gaze from Emerson, curious regarding what had befallen Charles.
Dash had obsessively followed the news over the disgraced serial arsonist, just like the rest of the province—though he did have a little skin in the game.
At Harrison’s request, he’d gone with Cassidy to collect some of Charles’s DNA.
While they’d failed, he’d called in a favor and gotten it another way.
Dash would’ve loved to attend the trial, but Charles’s attorneys had argued—and won—a change of venue. Bullet train or not, he’d been working another case and had had no time to go to Port Sacramenti to witness it firsthand.
Had he known it would only last less than a couple of hours, he might’ve gone.
Shockingly, Charles had pleaded guilty to the string of arsons and all the other related charges pertaining to his attack on Harrison, Raimy, and Cassidy—as well as the assault on his partner, Davis, and two other bodyguards in his employ.
A month later and Charles was dead? That seemed… suspicious.
Officials at Fort Seattle Penitentiary have confirmed that Charles J. Macklin was found dead in his cell in the early hours of Monday morning. The convicted arsonist had started his life sentence just weeks prior. No cause of death has been announced. An autopsy and investigation are pending.
Insiders close to the case suggest foul play might be involved.
On the day of his trial, Macklin was witnessed to have extensive bruising and wounds to his face, hands, and neck.
Given that some were quoted to be faded, it suggests ongoing attacks which have prison reform advocates calling for an investigation.
Officials refuse to comment on whether Macklin was a victim of regular abuse by either guards or fellow convicts—or if that abuse continued after the trial.
There are reports Macklin may have been moved to solitary confinement before his death, leading some to suspect death by suicide. Those suspicions have yet to be confirmed.
Dash lowered the newspaper and refolded it. Something felt… off about the whole situation—from the guilty plea to the recent demise. It didn’t pass his sniff test.
“Did you forget the conference room?” Eliott asked from the doorway.
Dash looked over at Eliott and lifted the paper, showing off the headline. “I assume you’ve read this?”
Eliott scoffed. “It’s been everywhere all morning. Had you not already heard?”
Dash leveled Eliott a bored gaze. “I overslept. I didn’t have time to check the news before heading out.”
“And listened to one of your boring podcasts on the way in?”
Dash scoffed.
“Still not sleeping?” Eliott asked, a frown furrowing his brow.
“Oh, I’m sleeping. Just not when I’m supposed to be,” Dash replied. He gazed at the front page again. Some of his sleepless nights were the fault of a man in that photo. The alpha, not the arsonist. A lot of people were going to rest easier knowing Charles Macklin was dead.
If he’s really dead.
“If you ask me, I bet he’s still alive,” Eliott said.
Dash’s gaze whipped to Eliott’s.
“A man with that much money and a history of bribery? How much you wanna bet he paid off some Guards and now he’s on his way to some exotic vacation spot to live out his days under a tropical sun. Some poor soul will end up in his grave, face beaten to hell to hide it really isn’t Charles.”
That exact thought had been whispering at the edges of Dash’s mind, but he wasn’t sure an exotic vacation spot was where he’d place his wager. Not at first, anyway. Charles was known to inside circles to be a vengeful asshole—and who would Macklin likely want to see pay most?
Harrison Walker and his mates.
I should check in. Make sure they’re all staying vigilant.