7. Leg bail
SEVEN
Leg bail
TO RUN FROM POLICE ON FOOT TO AVOID ARREST
If you’re on time, you’re late.
Trent’s dearly departed Grandma Grace’s idiom echoed like a mantra as he pulled to the curbside of the Palace Hotel five minutes before he and Maggie had agreed to meet.
He tugged at the collar of one of his more casual button-down shirts, the fabric suddenly too tight and warm even for a frigid February lunch hour.
Maggie was already there. Standing amidst the drab backdrop of gray stone, sawhorses, scaffolding, and plastic sheeting, she was an arresting sight, her curls a riot against the stormy renovation chaos, each one defying the notion of order that Trent held dear. She’d dressed way up for an afternoon tour through an active construction site. Trent’s gaze lingered a moment too long, taking in her hourglass figure hugged by a vintage-inspired dress that seemed to laugh in the face of practicality.
“Thought I was early,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of surprise mixed with a pleasure he wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
“Early bird gets the worm, or in this case, the scoop,” Maggie quipped, her mobile recording gear clutched like a shield of journalistic integrity. “Now let’s do this—if I skip lunch, I get real hunty .”
Trent frowned. “Don’t you mean hangry?”
“No, I do not.” Flashing him a mischievous smile, she turned on her heel and started off for the curtains of plastic sheeting protecting the edifice from the late-winter rain.
He palmed her elbow, gently detaining her for just long enough to snatch an implement off the scaffolding shelf.
“Hard hat.” He thrust the yellow helmet at her, avoiding her gaze.
She giggled, the sound lifting the fine hairs on his body like some live feed ASMR. “You can’t be serious.”
“Rules are rules, Michaels. Safety first.”
“We’re the only ones here, McGarvey. The crew doesn’t work Sundays.” She shook her head. “There’s no need for either of us to walk around looking like lemony dildos.”
“It’s code,” he insisted around a snort of laughter. “I was granted permission for this tour, only if it’s all on the up and up. So it’s hard hats or hard luck.”
“Jesus Christ, McGarvey, you’re like a Hemingway hero but, like…less hilarious,” she groused as she wrenched the helmet out of his hand and stuffed it over her curls.
She should have looked ridiculous rather than sexy.
He swallowed hard, heat pooling low in his belly at her teasing. “Don’t hate. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”
She rolled her eyes, jamming the hat down even further to keep it from slipping off her head. “Whose hat is this?” she bitched. “It smells like someone vomited it out of a roughneck ass factory. Can hats give you, like…scalp chlamydia? If I get scabies or leprosy or something, I’m coming to rub my narsty , peeling skin all over your anal retentively clean house.”
“Fair,” was all he said before donning a helmet and fetching the borrowed keys to the building from his pocket. “See? No need for a B&E if you know the right people and do the right thing.”
“Ugh.” She shoved past him into the gloom beyond the entry. “You’re such a dork, I think my virginity grew back.”
The last thing either of them expected was his boom of laughter that sounded too warm and too dark to be paraded out in the daytime. “From Albuquerque to here, I’ve been called many, many names, Ms. Michaels, but I think I was today years old before ‘dork’ was ever added to the litany.”
“Well, add it and put an asterisk next to it, because I have receipts.” Trent could swear she put a little extra sash in her shay before disappearing into the shadows of the building.
With a sharp inhale, he silenced the warning bells clanging from his head all the way down to his more sensitive bits.
Inside, he surveyed the grand foyer of the old hotel. Intricate woodwork, high ceilings with ornate crown molding, a spiraling staircase leading up to the mysterious second floor. Trent broke out his duty flashlight, the strong beam necessary even in the stormy gray light from the windows. By the time he’d blinked the daylight out of his eyes and adjusted to the dark wood interior, Maggie had flipped on her phone camera with an attached light and filmed her way up the staircase, her palm gliding along the smooth wooden banister. At the top, a long hallway stretched out before them, rooms branching off on either side.
“So…what exactly are you looking for?” Trent asked, peering into one of the bedrooms. A large brass bedframe, sans mattress, dominated the space, and the dusty velvet curtains hanging from an oval-framed window had long since faded to an indeterminate color.
“Best-case scenario? A smoking gun that solves the mystery of Madame Katz’s disappearance and that of the thirty-three men who were last seen at her establishment. Worst case? Some kickass footage I can edit into whatever story unfolds.” Maggie grinned at him, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“Without the proof, do you just take…creative liberties to tell the story?” he asked, idly testing the fortitude of a discarded bench and losing all faith in the structural integrity of anything nearby. Forget leprosy—they were in real danger of tetanus.
She whirled on him. “How very dare you question my journalistic integrity, sir,” she said, clutching imaginary pearls. “The truth is often entirely too weird to water down with fiction. What’s the point of telling a true story if you leave out the truth? Might as well make all the shit up and not lurk around haunted old whorehouses with a man so wholesome he’s basically a sentient pile of quinoa.”
“Hey, I like quinoa.”
“I already knew that, McGarvey. Everyone already knew that.”
Scowling, he followed her, ripping down spider webs and clearing detritus before she haplessly tripped.
“A cell camera makes for a bad navigator, Michaels.” Trent almost killed himself kicking aside a metal pipe and slipping on dusty old papers strewn on the ground.
“You’re doing the Lord’s work, McGarvey,” she quipped. “At least you’re making yourself useful. Also, stay out of the shot—your butt is too distracting.”
Trent didn’t try terribly hard to fight off a self-satisfied smirk. “If I had a dollar for every time…”
“You’d still have to work for the government. Now go through those three rooms on that side and tell me if the light is any good for a wide angle, or if I need to come back during golden hour.”
Trent set off to obey before he realized what the fuck she’d said and pulled up short. “This is your one-time access to this hotel, Michaels,” he said with the appropriate amount of gravitas. “There is no coming back after this.”
Not with you, she might have grumbled.
“What?” he said.
“What?” She peeked out from behind the camera to bat her Betty Boop eyes at him.
“I’m serious. If you’re caught here again, you might actually do time.”
“Don’t worry, Dudley Do-Good, you won’t catch me here again…” Her beatific smile hid a diabolical intent.
“It’s Dudley Do-Right,” he said without thinking.
“Oh. My. Gawduh.” Flashing him a look that might have threatened to drown the Calypso , she pointed across the hall in silent directive. “I’ve never bullied anyone, but I want to give you the worst wedgie right now.”
With a cheeky grin, McGarvey made himself scarce, surprised at how much he was enjoying himself. Each room whispered secrets of scandal, the faded opulence still clinging to the walls. Trent couldn’t help but admire the intricate woodwork, the ghostly remnants of luxury, even as his mind kept wandering back to the woman exploring across the hall. On the labyrinthine second floor, he still felt tethered to her. To the sounds of her shoes on the old floor. The small exclamations she made to herself. The pauses she took to presumably touch something she shouldn’t.
He couldn’t readily blame her. The place begged to be explored through texture. The thick, lined wallpaper. The grit on the plaster. The over-sanded banisters and well-worn door latches.
“You know, Madame Katz was quite the entrepreneur.” Maggie’s call echoed through the gloom as if it were an old friend. “Story goes, she had her girls slip laudanum into the drinks of unsuspecting workmen. Next thing they knew, they were waking up at sea halfway to Shanghai, the prisoners of the ship captain and at his dubious mercy.”
“Dubious mercy?” he mused. “I’ve never met anyone who talks like you.”
“That isn’t the flex you think it is.”
Always with the comebacks, this one. It was like she was afraid to say something real.
“Each room was rented by the hour,” she continued. “The madame ran a tight ship, let me tell you. She didn’t tolerate any funny business. Her enemies had a way of getting what was coming to them.”
“Funny business?” He arched a brow, a smile tugging at his lips despite his best efforts. “Wasn’t that basically her…business?”
“Har, har.”
“Shanghaied by seduction,” Trent said, his tone even as he pondered the cruel fates of those men. His own path to self-sufficiency had been paved by a workaholic father with a service record that shamed most of the Southwest. All the while Thomas Trenton McGarvey instilled in Trent the same work ethic and tendency to chase advancement and excellence.
If you do something, you do it perfectly, or why even start?
It was a question that ricocheted around his mind every day.
“I wonder how Madame Katz selected her victims?” she wondered aloud. “Did she pick men she didn’t like? You’d have to be pretty pissed to ruin someone’s life so effectively.”
Thoughts of men captured in ships and forced into work was just about the worst place his mind could go… “There’s something about history’s darker corners that’s just…compelling. It’s important that people don’t forget. The past isn’t romantic for everyone.”
“That’s why I do this. It’s like peeling back the layers of a forgotten world.” Maggie made her way across the hall to find which room he was inspecting. Her excitement was palpable, her energy infectious as she detailed every sordid tale she’d unearthed for her podcast.
“Murderous Madams” wasn’t just a catchy title—it was Maggie’s relentless pursuit of the truth, wrapped in the enigma of a past that refused to die quietly. He appreciated that about her, he realized. The fact that she didn’t want to sensationalize history but preserve it. To tell the stories people would rather keep hidden.
“Imagine the stories these walls could tell,” Trent said, running his fingers over a patch of exposed brick as if it might whisper its secrets to him. His gaze drifted to the skeleton of a bed, and he imagined Maggie spread out upon the sheets, her hair fanned across the pillows, creamy skin bare against the crimson velvet…
He shook off the vision, his face flaming. What the hell was wrong with him? He barely knew this woman, and here he was picturing her in some fantasy old-timey brothel he’d never even have been allowed into back in the day.
They continued their exploration, stepping lightly over the threshold of time, guided by the spirit of curiosity that seemed to bond them in a dance as old as the tales they chased. Trent found himself caught in a web woven of intrigue and attraction, spun by a woman who was as fearless in her search for truth as she was unknowingly adept at stirring his blood.
Trent couldn’t help but snicker as he followed Maggie, listening as she recounted the horror stories of life at sea, touching everything that caught her eye. Old picture frames. Shredded molding. Peels in the wallpaper that might hide a secret cubby in the wall.
“Scurvy-ridden sailors singing off-key shanties? No thanks,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll understand if I don’t have a similar fascination with ships bearing cargo they ought not to.”
“Fucking A,” she agreed.
“Though I feel like HBO needs a show like Shanghaiing Sex Workers in the Gilded Age Pacific Northwest . I’d watch the shit out of that.”
Their laughter echoed through the hallways as they moved from room to room, the derelict beauty of the place weaving an enchanting spell around them. Then, tucked away in the corner of what used to be a lavish bedroom, Trent’s gaze fell upon an armoire, its wood darkened with age.
“Check this out,” he called to Maggie, pulling open the creaky cupboard and drawers to find mostly dust bunnies and dead flies. After wrestling with the latch on the cabinet, he uncovered a stack of yellowed pamphlets, their edges brittle to the touch.
“Is that what I think it is?” Maggie asked, peering over his shoulder with wide eyes.
“Madame Katz’s menu of…kittens and services,” he confirmed, a hint of heat creeping onto his cheeks as he read the titles aloud. “‘Miss Alice and the Privateer’s Prize’? ‘Miss Kitty and the Captain’s Kiss’—they sound like bad romance novels.”
“Or really good ones, depending on your taste,” Maggie countered, arching her brow playfully.
They stood side by side, flipping through the pages, their amusement growing louder with each absurdly named act. “Oh, look—’Martha and the Mariner’s Prayer.’ And they have pictures! Do you think it’s called that because she’s on her knees?” She nudged Trent with her elbow and gave him the Groucho Marx eyebrows. “Look. Swallowing is a dime extra. A whole dime! Can you imagine the taste back then?” She made a face.
Swallowing.
Something Trent was no longer capable of doing.
Something he was absolutely not imagining her doing…
Oh fuck.
“‘Ariadne’s Anchor,’” he murmured, the whorls of his thumb smoothing over the rough, dusty vellum paper as he tried to think of something— anything —else. “Everything on this menu is five pennies to five bucks, but this one costs thirty dollars in the 1890s?”
“No helpful pictures or descriptions like the others… It must be some real hardcore kinky shit,” she replied. “What do you think? Group stuff? Butt stuff? LGBTQ stuff?” Her eyes widened, and she shook his arm. “Do you think it’s LGBTQ group butt stuff? Before I dropped out of college, I used to have these roommates that would pay to go to parties where they would?—”
“Know what? I think that’s probably a question for the Google gods,” he said before she could say anything that further revved his libido.
He was a man. A man who had control of his own body and mind. He knew better than to act like a fool.
Think unsexy thoughts. Paperwork overtime. Morning wheatgrass shots. My sophomore golf instructor, Mrs. Garcia, and her curly-haired neck mole.
Oh, good. It worked.
Kinda.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if it came with a side of vitamin C to ward off the scurvy,” Maggie said to herself, unable to resist the easy volley of innuendo between them. “If I were to pick, I think I’d do this ‘Fanny’s Feathered Slap and Tickle.’ I don’t know what it is, but I love a good spank, and feathers are fun.”
Jesus H. Truman Capote Christ , he couldn’t know that about her.
Where did I leave off? Mrs. Garcia’s mole. That weird green color that happens to refrigerated cured meats. Open abscesses. Fox News anchors of any gender.
Whew. Boner dead again.
He placed the pamphlets back where he’d found them, making sure the edges of the decades of dust lined up as if they’d never been disturbed. What he needed was to move on. “Let’s see what else?—”
Maggie opened her Dolce leather tote and arm-swiped the entire paper stack into the depths. “Digging for oil and struck gold! Hell yeah. High five!”
“Hell no, as it happens,” he replied, pointing at the now-empty cupboard and leaving her hanging. “You can’t take anything from here. It belongs to Mayor Stewart. You’ll have to put those back.”
“Oh, come on, McGarvey, he’s the kind of guy that docks his pet’s ears and tails and says it’s better that way, then goes home to eat his soup with a fork. Who cares? He probably doesn’t even know they exist. It’s basically garbage, and you can legally go through garbage.”
Trent let out a wry sound of disbelief. “That’s actually super illegal in almost every state.”
“Is it?” Those damn Betty Boop eyes again. “Oh. Well… That’s a thing I know now, and I have totally never broken that law. Anyways, onward!” She held her arm out as if it held a rapier and made to goose-step away.
“Hold on there, Napoleon—you have to put the pamphlets back.” He caught her elbow and gently dragged her back.
She rolled her eyes so hard he actually worried they’d get stuck. “Hey, man, don’t bust my lady balls, just look the other way. Pretend you’re letting me off a speeding ticket and you can totally get me next time. Cuffs and everything. I’ll even let you do the frisk.” She bounced those eyebrows again and did a little shoulder shimmy.
Damned if he didn’t actually find himself considering it.
At his stone-faced silence, she made a rude expression he hadn’t seen since elementary school, dug in her bag for the papers, made a dramatic show of organizing them, and placed them back on the shelf with the same exactness he’d shown. “Man… Madame Katz might have killed thirty-three dudes, but she’d be impressed by how fast you can murder a vibe.”
“We were all born with our own gifts.” He grinned, noticing that she clutched her tote tighter, tucking it over her shoulder and the opening to the bag beneath her arm. Suspicious, Trent picked up the pamphlets and counted them, realizing he’d not counted to begin with so wouldn’t know if the exact number had made it back onto the shelf. “Is this all of them?”
“Far as I can tell.” She shrugged. “Let’s do this.”
“Show me your bag.”
“Show me your warrant.” Her chin jutted all the way forward, and for a second the teasing took on a serious edge.
If he pushed her, she’d push back. Or clam up and cut him off.
His entire life, he’d been trying to learn how to better pick his battles. Maybe now was a good time to put that into practice. With a sigh, he relented, shutting the cupboard and gesturing for her to continue.
Her smile outshone the beam of his flashlight.
“C’mon, McGarvey, which thing would you have ordered? Lemme guess. ‘Bertie’s Backdoor Bob’? Or perhaps ‘Leo’s Lusty Cabin Boy’ is more your speed?” Maggie teased, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “Oh, I know… It’s ‘Sally’s Slippery Swab.’ If that’s not a cleaning kink waiting to happen, I’ll eat my hat.”
It wasn’t that he was a germaphobe. It was just that he could feel just about every part of his skin crawling with the ick. “Only if it includes not having to swab the deck afterward.” Trent matched her tone, leaning in closer as the air between them crackled with something more than humor.
Why did she make him forget everything he compulsively had to remember?
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside the crumbling walls of the Palace Hotel ceased to exist. There was just Maggie with her fiery hair and mischievous smile, and him, Trent McGarvey, caught in the tangle of his own restraint and the undeniable allure of her laugh. The way her lips tasted when she was excited…
“Come on,” Maggie said finally, her voice a soft challenge. “Let’s find that secret passage before we get completely lost in”—she gestured to the armoire with a grin—“historical appreciation. Oh! And speaking of shady dealings,” she added, her tone shifting to one of conspiratorial glee, “remember that secret passage I mentioned—the one you caught me sneaking around last time?”
“One of the weirder reports I’ve ever written.”
“You’re welcome.” She laughed, then pointed toward the staircase that would take them back to the grand first floor. “Well, I never got to see where it leads. The schematics don’t match up with anything in the archives. What do you say, deputy? Ready to go down the rabbit hole?”
“Lead the way, Alice,” he replied, the prospect of undiscovered history momentarily outweighing the rational part of him that screamed about safety regulations.
She gathered extra footage on the way back down what was once a grand staircase. Their steps echoed through the empty foyer until she led them to the alcove he’d found them in a few nights prior.
“To the Batcave!” she said.
Trent’s gaze followed the trail of Maggie’s laughter, but it was her flushed cheeks that set his pulse racing. She was a siren in her own right, luring him into dangerous waters with just a smile. He shifted uncomfortably, turning on his heel under the guise of inspecting a nearby wall. As he adjusted the fit of his trousers, he missed the exact moment Maggie found the panel, but her triumphant cry snapped his head around.
“Look at this!” she exclaimed, pointing to the wooden wainscot panel marked with the darker brand of a mermaid. With hardly any effort, she unlatched it, revealing a hidden stairway plunging steeply into the earth below.
“Ah, the classic ‘enter the creepy hidden tunnel’ move. You know we’re the exact kind of folks who get axed first in horror flicks, right?” Trent jested, peering down the ominous staircase.
“Please, if anything, I’m the plucky survivor,” Maggie retorted, her grin undimmed by the eerie descent ahead. “I’ll keep you safe, McGarvey. Horny old ghosts love me—I have the perfect body type for most of recorded history.”
“Comforting,” he deadpanned, though his chuckle betrayed his amusement. She had the perfect body type for now. For always.
For him.
“What kind of ghosts do you think live here?” he asked. “Horny ones? Or polter ones?”
“Probably both,” Maggie replied with a wink, her earlier warmth returning in full force. “Now come on, let’s find out where this little trip through time takes us.”
“Um…the past is a bit kinder to some of us than others. I’ve never shared your fondness for it and most definitely don’t want to visit.” Also, he hated being underground—dirt floors, cobwebs, and standing water—but would eat all of his Baccarat stemware before he admitted it.
She grimaced, casting a sheepish glance up at him. “Super fair point. I can take it from here, el jefe —you guard the door and come running if I die.” She tipped her yellow hard hat at a jaunty angle, gave him a two-fingered salute, and plunged down the stairs.
Goddammit.
He followed, if only to watch her backside—er, back.
With a shared sense of intrepid (or foolhardy) spirit, they began their careful descent. The earthen stairs were a claustrophobic hug, the walls pressing close as they made their way down. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust, a musty perfume that spoke of ages gone by.
Trent felt the weight of history here, a tangible presence surrounding them.
Maggie was like a torchbearer for the past, illuminating forgotten stories with her fervor. Trent admired that about her—the way she relentlessly pursued the truth, regardless of how uncomfortable or unflattering it might be. It was a stark contrast to the whitewashed narratives so often paraded before the public as unbiased truths.
“Most people prefer their history scrubbed clean and dressed in Sunday best,” he remarked casually, watching her navigate the narrow steps with care. “But not you. You’re not afraid to dig up the dirt and show the bones beneath. That’s…impressive.”
Maggie paused, looking back over her shoulder at him, and he could see the impact of his words flickering across her face—a fleeting vulnerability quickly masked by determination.
“Thanks. Someone has to remember these lives,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the tight space. “Did you know Madame Katz wasn’t just running a brothel? She was teaching men how to please a woman—publishing manuals and everything.”
“Enlightened for her time,” Trent mused, picturing the formidable madame sharing secrets most Victorian men would blush to even contemplate. “Or maybe just good business sense.”
He followed Maggie through the tunnel, their shoulders brushing against the earthen walls that seemed to close in with each step. It was a narrow passage, barely enough for one person at a time, and Trent had to duck occasionally to avoid the low ceiling.
Their journey ended abruptly at a large iron door, rusted with age, yet still formidable. An image of a mermaid, now reduced to a faint outline of a tail, decorated its surface—a silent sentinel guarding whatever was on the other side.
Maggie tried the latch, and it turned, but something on the other side barred their entry. She glanced to him with a silent plea for help.
With a concerted effort, Trent pressed against the barrier. His muscles strained until, with a groan of protest, the door yielded to reveal a dark room beyond.
“Looks like we’ve hit the jackpot,” Maggie said, her excitement palpable as they stepped into the dank space.
“Or…the Sirens storage room,” Trent observed dryly, noting the muffled sound of music and voices from the lunch crowd on Sirens’ restaurant balcony. “Which means we’ve tunneled under Water Street from one basement to another. Could this just be a way to move things across a busy thoroughfare when this was an active international port town?”
“Could be. But my instincts tell me there’s more to this. Think Mayor Stewart knows about the tunnel?” Maggie pondered aloud, scanning the room. “This could be a gold mine for the history of the Palace Hotel when he reopens it.”
“Good luck getting him to sit down for an interview,” Trent replied with a chuckle. “He’s more slippery than an eel in an oil spill.”
“No lies detected.”
Trent traced the faded tail on the now-open door. “Clever using the same symbol to mark the secret entrances. Not that many people would have recognized it for what it was.”
“Exactly.” She turned to face him, soft features a mask of excitement. “So why put it there if it’s not meaningful? I’m going to ask Mayor Stewart at the first available opportunity. He’s the kind of guy whose favorite book is Where’s Waldo? —He won’t be tough to outmatch in a game of wits.”
“Well, if anyone can crack him, it’s you.” Trent gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “You’re nothing if not persistent. Just…don’t give him a reason to call me, yeah?”
He didn’t miss the fact that she made no such promises herself as she turned to investigate the carcasses of kegs of weekends past, a defunct deep freezer, several boxes of seasonal restaurant décor, the Valentine’s Day box noticeably missing from its spot.
“At least it’s organized chaos.” She spread her arms. “Let’s look for more symbols of mermaids or sirens. My gut says that’s where the answers lie.”
Trent nodded his agreement. “What else is your gut telling you?”
She stopped for a second as if listening. “That I’m having the chicken pesto on ciabatta and sweet potato fries with sriracha mayo for lunch after this.”
Chuckling, he batted aside a few cobwebs hanging from old iron shelves, checking the wall behind for a siren guarding secrets. Trent couldn’t help but think of the dual nature of such a place: a potential safe haven or a prison, depending on which side of history you stood. “Places like these… They could’ve been sanctuaries,” he mused, touching the rough wall. “But with those heavy doors and solid earth? Feels more like a cage.”
“I know what you mean… Were the doors built to keep people out? Or to trap people inside?”
Maggie efficiently started searching the other side of the room, lifting tarps and checking behind boxes. As she searched, bending over, squatting, and leaning into corners, Trent couldn’t help but watch her movements. He grew more aroused by the second, cursing his body’s reaction to her unintentional provocativeness. She was so engrossed in her search, oblivious to the effect she had on him—a siren unaware of her own song.
“Wouldn’t it be hysterical if there was a body in this deep freeze?” she said, testing to see if the lock was engaged.
“If by hysterical, you mean horrifying, then yeah.” Trent drifted over, waking a little differently to compensate for what was going on in his pants. “If you find a body in there, give me time to beat feet, because that’s paperwork I don’t want to do on my day off.”
She’d opened the lid like a treasure chest to look down inside by the time he reached her.
Empty.
“It’s not even plugged in.” She pouted, then brightened. “Maybe it’s here to hide something behind it.”
Trent’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think?—”
Bending over at the hips, she bent across the freezer to peek at the scant inches between it and the wall. “I need your flashlight,” she called.
Need.
It slammed into him with all the invisible force of a hurricane. His vital oxygen swirled into a tornado of lust in his lungs.
The charged air seemed to crackle around them, the musty scent of earth and the faint sound of muffled voices from above forming a backdrop to the tension that stretched as taut as the zipper over his cock.
As he watched her wiggle and lean yet a little further, the way her back arched and her skirt hugged her form?—
“Maggie.” Trent’s voice was husky, barely a whisper over the hum of his own racing pulse. “I swear you’re doing this on purpose.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, an impish grin playing on her lips. “Doing what, deputy?” she teased, feigning innocence while straightening up.
“Killing me, slowly,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle, closing the distance between them with two decisive strides. “We need to get out of here, or I’m gonna do something impulsive…like kiss you again.”
Instead of stepping back or showing any signs of reluctance, Maggie set down her phone camera with deliberate care and faced him fully, her green eyes alight with mischief. Without a word, she closed the remaining gap and pressed her lips firmly against his.
The world outside the basement seemed to vanish as the kiss deepened, their breaths mingling, the taste of her sending every other thought scattering. The deep freezer became a mere prop in the devastation of their passion.
Devouring her delicious mouth, Trent had no trouble finding the curves of her hips as he lifted her onto the deep freeze. The act was a dance of control and surrender, one he performed with a growing hunger.
Maggie made a soft noise of approval, encouraging him, parting her legs instinctively. Trent slid his hands up, pushing her skirt to bunch around her waist, and kissed her fiercely through the thin barrier of her leggings and panties. The heat and dampness he found there sent a jolt of desire through him, so intense it bordered on pain.
Trent groaned, possessive need coiling hot and tight in his gut. He wanted nothing more than to strip her bare and take her right here, hard and fast against the wall. Bent over the freezer with that sweet ass high in the air. But he forced himself to slow down, to gentle his kisses and ease the grip of his hands.
He sank to his knees before Maggie, gliding his hands up her bare thighs to grip her hips. Her skin was silky smooth under his palms, and he groaned at the scent of her arousal.
“Trent,” she whimpered, fingers gliding over his hair.
The sound of his name on her lips was his undoing. He buried his face between her thighs, licking and sucking at her clit until her moans rose in pitch and her hips bucked against his mouth.
He slid two fingers into her slick heat, crooking them just so, and Maggie came with a sharp cry that rang off the walls. Her inner muscles clutched at his fingers as her orgasm rolled through her in waves.
The silence of the room was quickly filled with a chorus of sighs and soft moans as Trent lavished attention on her with an eager tongue, tracing the contours of her desire with a reverence befitting the goddess beneath him. Each breathy whisper from Maggie echoed off the walls, creating an intimate symphony that felt sacred in the cool, musty air.
Maggie white-knuckled the edge of her perch as he rested her legs on his shoulders. She undulated, urging him closer, her hips rising to meet his mouth as waves of pleasure cascaded through her. The sound of her bliss, unrestrained and resonant, swirled around them, mingling with the scent of old wood and an age long forgotten.
Trent gentled his touch, laving at her until the tremors eased and her hands loosened their grip on the edge.
Only then did he raise his head, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
The sight of Maggie splayed out before him, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pleasure, was nearly enough to make him come in his pants.
As if reading his mind, she glanced down at his hips, her gaze widening and then glazing with a dark hunger.
Her questing fingers beat his own to his belt, wordlessly grappling with it.
Struggling for breath, Trent glanced over her shoulder and saw the one thing that could quell his lust faster than the ice bucket challenge.
Kiki Forrester stood in the doorway, one brow arched, arms folded over her chest.
Not only was the regal, forty-something indigenous woman the sheriff and his boss…
She was also the last woman he’d slept with.