Chapter 13
Pinned Against the Glass
I’m sitting at my desk between patients, eating a sandwich and reviewing the file that Vaughn gave me on Sunday.
It’s Friday now, meaning Mark and Matt Davidson will be back tonight, and I’m trying to figure out what to do about Matt.
According to Vaughn, Matt spends the majority of his time either at Tofana Arena or at home, playing video games.
He doesn’t do his own grocery shopping. He doesn’t seem to go out to bars regularly.
He either works out at home or in whatever gym they have in the arena.
It’s unlikely I’ll be able to bump into Matt in a way that won’t set off alarm bells for him.
It doesn’t leave me with a lot of options.
I was hoping he’d be deathly allergic to something like peanuts, or even shellfish. Instead, it’s bees. I can’t exactly pack up a beehive and transport it to his house.
Matt lives in one of the multimillion-dollar houses from Rhys Steichen’s address book, so his home is almost guaranteed to have some kind of security system, and whatever the PIN to disarm it is, it’s bound to be more complex than nine-nine-nine-nine.
Plus, if he has anything more than the most rudimentary of alarm systems, he probably gets an alert on his phone every time someone arms or disarms the system.
He does have a cleaning service that comes by once a week, which may be my best shot at gaining access to his home.
But then there’s the question of what I do once I’m inside.
I don’t own a gun, and I’m not stupid enough to think I’m going to win a hand-to-hand fight against someone with five inches and at least fifty pounds on me.
A blitz attack is likely my best bet. A baseball bat will at least keep some distance between us.
Maybe a taser? Probably not. I bet the movies oversell their effectiveness.
Chloroform takes minutes to work, and it’s not like Matt is going to hold still while I press a rag over his face.
Heroin needs to be injected into a vein, which is easier said than done if the person you’re injecting doesn’t want to be drugged.
I could use a benzodiazepine—something like midazolam, but unless I steal it, it could be traced back to me.
I sigh and look at Matt Davidson’s house on Google Maps again.
He’s got a pool. Accidental drownings happen all the time.
Even among adult men. If I can incapacitate him and get him into the pool, they might assume his death was an accident, which could be beneficial.
It might delay the other three in figuring out someone is hunting them.
The last thing I need is for them to go into hiding or hire bodyguards.
How many hockey-douchebags can you kill before they realize they’re an endangered species? I wonder.
The most sensible approach might be to sneak into his house when the cleaning service goes in and then rely on a blitz attack and more than my fair share of luck.
The cleaning company comes every Sunday, according to Vaughn’s notes, so I’ve either got a couple of days or who knows how long, depending on when and where the team is playing over the next several weeks.
I pull out my phone to check their schedule.
They have a game tonight somewhere in Ohio, which is why Mark said he wouldn’t be home until late.
There’s no game tomorrow, but there is one on Sunday, which is actually perfect.
Sunday Funday. I wish there were time to watch the cleaners, but unless I want to wait five weeks—and I don’t—this Sunday is my best chance.
I’ll need to make sure I’ve got everything ready before Mark gets back. He texted me earlier to ask if I want to have breakfast with him tomorrow. When I asked where—assuming it would be at Wilma’s Cafe since that’s his normal haunt—he surprised me and said his place. Of course I agreed.
There’s a fine mist coating every surface as I knock on Mark’s heavy glass-paned door on Saturday morning.
The beat of a bass and the higher treble of a guitar are faintly leaking out around it, which is probably why Mark didn’t seem to hear my car as I drove up the driveway, or me when I got out and slammed my door.
I wait a minute, but there’s no answer. I knock again, a little louder. The music quiets, and a few seconds later I can make out Mark’s silhouette approaching.
He pulls the door open. “Hi. It was unlocked. You could’ve come in,” he says with a smile. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, grey sweatpants, and his damp hair is a hint darker than its normal mahogany shade. He looks amazing, and it’s all I can do to focus on his face.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind now that I know I’m allowed to let myself in. You look happy. And relaxed,” I comment as he tugs me into his house. “Did you win last night?”
“I don’t know if I should be disappointed or elated that you still don’t care about hockey, but no. We lost.”
“You seem surprisingly indifferent to that,” I remark as he shuts the door, and I slip my shoes off.
He shrugs. “I’d rather have won, but the team we lost to is outside our conference, so it doesn’t matter as much in the grand scheme of things.
Plus, I got to sleep in my own bed last night, and now you’re here, so what’s there to be unhappy about?
” His hand slides over my cheek and through my hair as he lowers his face to mine.
His lips are warm, and I shrug my jacket off as I press myself closer to him.
It’s nine-thirty in the morning, and I’ve been awake for a couple of hours.
I haven’t eaten yet, but I’m willing to skip breakfast if it means I get to have Mark now.
Apparently, he feels the same because his hands are already slipping from my hair and moving under my shirt, stripping it off me.
Our mouths break apart as my shirt goes over my head.
“I dreamt about you while you were gone,” I say, and it comes out breathier than I intended.
Sharing that information was a split-second decision, and I sound like a teenage girl talking about her celebrity crush.
Mark growls as his hands slide down my sides and over my ass.
He lifts me into the air, and I wrap my legs around his hips, locking myself against him as one of his hands reaches up to fumble with the hooks on my bra.
I work my fingers into his hair, kissing him as he carries me toward the kitchen.
He sets me on the island, stepping back just enough to remove my bra, and I remember his assertion that he could bend me over the counter and have me begging him to fuck me within three minutes.
Honestly, he was selling himself short. There’s no way I’m going to last longer than two.
What the hell is it about this man? I can’t help but wonder as I pull his shirt off. Then I see the muscles ridging his torso beneath it and remember exactly what it is about him. But no, that doesn’t fully explain it. I’ve been with other men just as attractive and—
He brushes his fingertips across my nipples—chasing every other thought from my head—then returns to pinch them until I’m writhing under his touch.
After a moment, he threads his left hand through my hair and yanks my head sideways.
Then, his mouth finds my neck as his right hand continues pinching and rolling my nipple between his fingers.
“God, I want you, Mark,” I gasp as I fumble with the button on my jeans. I need them off now. Wearing pants was stupid.
“I love hearing you say that, Alyssa,” he murmurs against my neck.
I finally get my jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, but I don’t have room to get them off, and I don’t want Mark to stop touching me.
I can see how hard he is—the light grey fabric is highlighting every contour of his dick.
He rocks his hips into my hand as soon as I wrap it around him, and I stroke him through the sweatpants.
He groans into my neck, and it thrums through me.
I pull my hands away from him long enough to push the pants over his hips, letting them drop to pool around his feet.
He kicks them away, and I immediately bring my hands back to him, gliding one hand along his shaft as I fondle his balls with the other.
He groans as he draws his face away from my neck and releases his grip on my hair. “Tell me about your dream,” he orders, his face inches from mine, filling my entire field of vision.
“Take my pants off first,” I demand.
For a passing second, he looks like he might argue, but then he wraps an arm around my waist, pinning my hands between us.
He lifts me slightly and drags my pants over my hips and down my legs with his free hand.
The island’s stone surface is cold against my ass, but the rest of my body feels like it’s on fire.
Mark tosses my pants to land next to his and then slides the heel of his hand between my legs, pressing it into my mound until I’m shifting against it—ensuring the friction and pressure are hitting my clit exactly the way I need—and the tip of his middle finger is pressing through the fabric of my underwear, into me.
I shift again, moaning softly. Wearing underwear was stupid, too, I think distantly.
“Tell me about your dream,” he orders again, his dick pressing into my thigh as I resume stroking my hand from the tip to the base of his shaft. “Tell me, Alyssa,” he growls through clenched teeth.
“It was on Sunday. That night after we talked, when I asked you about closing the curtains.” I nip at his earlobe.
His hand bunches the fabric of my underwear together, moving it to the side as the tip of his finger traces around the opening of my cunt.
“More,” I whisper, pulling back to watch his face. “Please.”
“Keep talking.”
“I was there with you. In the room.” His finger dips into me a fraction of an inch. It’s not enough. “More,” I whimper. “More.”