Safeword (11 page)

“Yours, Sir.”

“I want to hear you,” he continued, thrusting toward the small of my back.

“Please,” I begged.

“Please what?”

“Claim me again, Sir.”

He growled, slowing his thrusts long enough to find my opening and ease in. I grunted at the burn, and he moved excruciatingly slow but didn’t stop. My ass was the last part of me on board with total submission, but finally, it relented, accepting him, surrendering.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, increasing to a languorous pace from the glacial movement he’d begun with. “Give it all to me.”

“Take it, Sir. Take me.” I wasn’t sure if I spoke aloud or in my head, but he got it anyway, penetrating me long and deep, slow and steady. I burned for him. His arms encircled my torso, hands splayed across my chest. I hung onto the headboard slats, my leg lifted and curled backward over his hip. His hot breath wafted over my neck, and I felt the scrape of his stubble just before the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into my shoulder brought my focus to a single pinpoint. I gasped and went completely limp in his arms, a giant nerve stimulated in every way possible.

We weren’t only seeking pleasure, or the physical embrace. We were redefining ourselves. So much had changed from those heady days when we first knew we wanted each other, from those times he showed me what it was to fly. Life had intruded, and rather brutally. My surrender to him, and his acceptance of it with conviction and pride at having earned it, was a statement at what we would no longer let run our lives. We were who we were, and we were owning our relationship, and most importantly, owning ourselves, flaws and all. We were Ben—a serious, though warm-hearted, powerful Dom with a penchant for pasta and movies about U.S. history—and Gavin, a somewhat jaded, sarcastic sub with a weakness for bacon and a crazy, nosy, loveable family.

In those moments of passion, we let it all go, the last of our protective walls built in the space of one sadistic morning that had shaken us to our cores. But also at our cores were two strong men, capable and worthy of each other, and utterly in love.

The first throbs of orgasm teased deep in my pelvis, and I whimpered. Ben put a finger to my chin and turned me toward him so he could reach my lips and swallow the sounds at their very source.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to mine, buried himself deep, and groaned. His heat erupted inside me, and I wanted to follow him into bliss, even if subspace was its own form of ecstasy and I was well entrenched. Ben, however, had other plans.

With one foot, he hooked the disheveled sheets up and over our sweating bodies. “You can let go of the headboard now, Gavin.”

I took a calming breath and released my grip, my fingers stiff and curled from holding on so hard. My cock throbbed, and there was answering spasm in my sphincter, which was still stretched around Ben’s girth.

“No. No coming. I’ve marked you, inside and out. That’s all you need right now. And when I do finally give you permission to come, it’ll be so good, it’ll hurt.”

I shuddered, trying to ignore the ache. There was no way around it. Ben pulled the covers to our shoulders, still inside me, still half-hard. As he maneuvered me into a more thorough spooning, he murmured in my ear.

“I’m staying right here, as close to you as I can be. And this”―he wound his fingers around my dick, grip firm and unmoving―“is also mine. To ensure nothing touches it, I think I’ll hold onto it.” The skin of my cock was so tight around my hardness, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it split at his slightest touch. His hand on me was possessive, and my dick apparently knew better than to do anything but acquiesce.

Speared, caressed, trapped, cradled, and claimed, I sighed and let myself drift in a sea of warmth and surrender and security.

“WE’VE GOT a problem,” Myah said as soon as I approached my desk, coat still draped over my arm.

“Another one?”

“I can’t find Marshall Schofield’s family.”

“What do you mean, can’t find them? You’re having trouble reaching them, or there’s no way to contact them?”

“A little of both. They went back to Colorado after the verdict for Strange was delivered, and Mr. Schofield’s boss said he took a year-long sabbatical from his teaching position at Colorado State. Mrs. Schofield put in notice at the pharmacy where she worked. Their address is still valid, though they’ve disconnected their former phone number, and if they have a new one, it’s unlisted. Phone company won’t provide the new one without a warrant, which of course, we have no reason to get.”

“Well, that sucks,” I grumped, but it was for show. Very little could ruin my mood after the night before. I finally felt at home in my skin, like the world had returned to the correct axis tilt and was spinning smoothly instead of wobbling and throwing me off balance. I hung my coat on the coat tree in the corner of the room. “I need coffee. Want some?”

She stood and followed me to the break room with her mug dangling from two fingers.

“I don’t blame them,” I said, resuming our conversation. “The press hasn’t left them alone for months. They probably want some peace to make sure Marshall is doing okay, getting treatment, and isn’t in the spotlight for what’s undoubtedly the worst time of his life. I’d do it too, if I had a kid facing that.”

Myah leaned on the counter, holding her mug out for me to fill. “Yeah, that would make sense. Except I can’t show him the age progression Sugar sent yesterday afternoon.”

“We still have a line open to the Trexalls?”

“First thing I checked after striking out with the Schofields. They’re staying put.” She blew across her mug and tentatively took a sip.

I splashed a bit of cream into my coffee. “Maybe we don’t need to bother them. We’ve got the conference Strange’s lawyers finally let us set up happening in a few minutes. If I can get Strange to admit to something, the boys’ corroboration won’t be necessary. Let’s see how that plays out before we put those boys through anything more.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Something’s different.”

I sipped my coffee, face impassive as I looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re calm. Five days ago, you were jumping out of your skin, giving me orders—which I allowed even though I’m the lead on these cases, because they were the same orders I’d have given—and you were ready to overturn every stone on this case to find an explanation for Alex Dennan’s DNA at Stevenson’s scene.”

“Oh, any word from the state lab on Halloran’s DNA tests?”

She waved an impatient hand. “Yeah, same time frame as before. Another week. What gives, Gavin?”

“I still want to turn over every stone.” I walked past her back toward my desk, but before I could get there, she shoved me into an empty interrogation room. “I just think there’s an order to which stones we look under first.”

“I’ll give you that,” she conceded, eyeing me shrewdly as she closed the door. “But that’s not it. Are you feeling all right? If not, get yourself home. I can’t afford a partner who’s not totally focused. We’re going swimming with sharks in a few minutes, and I can’t have you dragging me down.”

Normally, I’d have bristled. Not then. I nodded in agreement. “I’m fine, Myah. Better than fine. Things at home are getting better.”

“Uh...huh.”

“That’s it. A little less stressed out than I was, which is good for my focus here, right?” In fact, I hadn’t recognized the feeling for what it was when I’d woken up wrapped in Ben’s arms, his hand still possessively claiming my dick. Who knew not being allowed to come would lead to such poise?

“That’s all? Not feeling weak or feverish?”

“I swear,” I laughed, holding up a placating hand. “I’m great. Now let’s figure out what’s going on here so we can find this Alex kid and see how he knew Stevenson.”

She wouldn’t let me change the subject. “You’ll tell me? If there’s something I need to know, so Kittridge has no reason to question putting us on these cases?” Her brow creased with worry, and the irritation beginning to surface subsided.

“Myah, Ben and I found our balance. That’s all. I’m not sick, my brain’s functioning fine, and I’m not about to break.” I left “again” unspoken. “If I need to tell you anything important, I will. You deserve that much from me as my best friend, let alone my partner. So can we get back to the partnering thing and go grill a pedophilic scumbag?”

“Yeah.” She patted me on the shoulder, and then jerked her hand back as if remembering my touch aversion. The physical contact hadn’t bothered me in the least.

Cameron, Missouri, the town housing Crossroads Correctional, was more than a four hour drive one way. An inmate visit, plus the trip there and back, would eat up a whole day, so Myah and I had set up a video conference with Strange and his lawyers, who were ensconced in their posh offices. We settled ourselves in one of the conference rooms, a large TV-sized monitor on the wall running a bouncing ball screen-saver. Myah flicked the mouse, and the screen-saver disappeared. She typed in her login and password, and a few clicks later, the video conference was live. Both sides of the split-screen interface were blank, awaiting the other attendees.

“Looks like we’re early,” I muttered, opening the file I’d quickly grabbed and leafing through for Sugar’s age progression photos. There were three, each with a different style of hair or weight distribution to give more chance of recognition. One side of the screen flickered awake showing a stark room with gunmetal gray walls in the background and a utilitarian table and chairs. Strange was not yet present, but the prison personnel were right on time with the feed. Shortly after, the other side blinked to life on a warm conference room with legal volumes on shelves that covered the entire wall behind a long, lacquered conference table. Both Strange’s attorneys were present.

Charles Johnson, the younger of the pair, looked like he’d barely graduated law school, but I knew better, having dealt with him in the court system for the last ten years. Despite us being on opposite sides of the defendant’s table, he was a fair man whom I respected. His partner, Keith McClintock, was another story. He was all bluster and pomp, and while I had no doubt he’d give each client his best, his best was sometimes shady. He’d used public opinion to sway juries, despite the usual directives from the judge to avoid publicity about the cases they heard. More than once, a jury had to be sequestered due to McClintock’s tactics. I put nothing past the man, though it had never been proven he’d actually tampered with a jury or otherwise compromised a case.

“Gentlemen,” Myah nodded politely. They nodded back, McClintock’s eyes drawing rakishly across my partner, going as low as the camera would allow him to look. “Strange should be along shortly.” Her voice was utterly professional and devoid of any emotion or judgment, though I saw her hands were clenched across her stomach as she leaned back in her chair.

The clang of a metal door opening heralded the arrival of the star of the hour, David Strange. The bright orange jumpsuit he wore contrasted with his dark, unkempt hair, and his stubble gave him a greasy, washed-out appearance. He focused on the camera with hard eyes as a pair of hands belonging to the guard accompanying him pressed him into the chair with a scrape. He folded his hands on the table, the shackles at his wrists clanking loudly.

I went through the niceties, stating my name, rank, and badge number. Myah followed suit, then identified those present as well as noting the date and time. “This interview is being recorded in accordance with Missouri state law. Mr. Strange, please acknowledge you understand the circumstances of this session.”

Strange gave a grunt in assent. Myah leaned forward, eyes flinty. “Did you, in the year 2006, live and work in the vicinity of Amarillo, Texas?”

“Yes,” he answered neutrally, returning her cold look.

“Does the name Alex Dennan mean anything to you?”

I squinted at the screen, studying the prisoner. He didn’t move, didn’t change position or expression, but features turned to stone.

“It rings a bell, but I couldn’t say why,” he finally replied.

“Would it jog your memory to know he was a thirteen-year-old boy abducted from the town of Dumas, a short drive from where you were living at the time?”

“Don’t answer that, David,” McClintock barked, leaning forward. “Detective Hayes, every missing person’s case in the country isn’t necessarily connected to my client. If you’re fishing for some kind of confession, you’re not going to get it.”

“Just some follow-up questions, Mr. McClintock. Being thorough,” Myah said with a disarming smile. She clenched her fingers. She had to be digging furrows into her palms with her nails, but her composure for the camera was impeccable.

“Mr. Strange,” I interjected, leaning forward and keeping my tone calm and friendly. “Were you aware of the Dennan boy’s disappearance when you lived in Amarillo?”

A brief silence ensued while Strange waited for his lawyers to chime in if they thought he shouldn’t answer. When nothing was said, he spoke.

“Now that you mention it, there were a lot of news stories about it at the time. I didn’t pay much attention. Had nothing to do with me.”

I held up an 8x10 photo of Alex Dennan’s friend, the one who’d called the police. It was from a shot the media had circulated of both boys earlier that summer at an amusement park, their arms slung casually across each other’s shoulders. I’d carefully cropped out Dennan’s image. “Is this face familiar to you?”

“I guess. Like I said, I didn’t pay attention.” It was human nature to be curious about the potential drama or tragedy befalling their neighbors. Dennan’s disappearance had made national news. I could have asked anyone living in Amarillo at the time if they knew Dennan, and he’d have been instantly recognized. Only a handful would remember the friend. I suspected whoever had taken Dennan would know every detail of the faces of both boys. Strange’s eyes fluttered shut briefly, and after a quick glance at the photo, he stared at me, ignoring the image.

Holding up another 8x10 glossy, I repeated my question, careful not to ask whether he recognized Alex, but simply if he recognized this boy. If he’d had something to do with the abduction, he might not remember which photos had been used in the media blitz surrounding the case. I’d obtained the photo from Mrs. Dennan’s sister the day after the case files had finally landed on my desk. This shot was one the media hadn’t saturated the airwaves with.

Strange studied the photo, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He raked his eyes over the picture a moment longer before studiously looking away. I continued to hold it up, but Strange wouldn’t look at it anymore, an obvious sign of discomfort. Whether it stemmed from fear of being associated with a new kidnapping, however, wasn’t as clear.

“That’s not the same kid as the first one.”

“No, it’s not. Do you recognize him?”

“Isn’t that him? The one who was taken? I mean, if it wasn’t the other one.”

“You tell me,” I prodded, not an ounce of judgment in my tone. He wouldn’t open up if he felt persecuted beyond what he already was.

“I tol’ you, I don’t know.”

“Do you recognize this man?” Myah asked, holding up the age progression of Dennan with short cropped dark hair and a smile on his face. The quality of the image was excellent despite the drawing feel as opposed to an actual photo.

“Where are you going with this?” Charles Johnson asked.

“This person may be relevant to the Alex Dennan disappearance, and we’re interested in locating him for questioning. Because your client lived near Dennan at the time of his abduction, we thought he might know something about the case and be willing to help.”

Johnson leaned forward. “Is the only reason you’re showing these images to our client his proximity to the boy at the time he vanished?”

“Not specifically, no,” I lied. “This man may be relevant to another investigation, and we’re interested in speaking with him. If he’s connected to Alex Dennan, we thought Mr. Strange might recognize him since he was there at the time Alex went missing.” I held up one of the other two agings, the one with dyed blond hair and a heftier build to the shoulder and neck area. Strange’s face didn’t change.

“I can’t help you,” he said grudgingly.

“No?” I held up the third and final progression, this one with longer dark hair, sort of lanky and hanging in the man’s face, which was somewhat gaunt and haunted. “He’d be around twenty, maybe six feet tall.”

This one stirred something in the inmate’s face. His eyes flashed and his nostrils flared in anger, his lips all but disappearing as he clenched his jaw to reign in his temper. His body language screamed that he was more than a little uncomfortable, stressed even. “I tol’ you, I don’t know shit about it. Whoever that is,” he snapped, flicking his hands at the paper between my fingers, the rattle of his wrist chains on the table jarringly loud. “I don’t know him. Never saw him before. Maybe I saw those kids on TV, but it was a long time ago.”

“Okay, detectives,” Johnson broke in. “Your fishing trip is over. If you have solid evidence linking our client to whatever case you’re working on, feel free to bring up charges and handle it through the proper channels, but if this is all you have, you have no reason to bother Mr. Strange further.”

“Just one more question, Mr. Johnson.” Myah raised a hand, then pointed to the composite I still held. “Mr. Strange, is this man still going by Alex? Or did you call him something else after you moved him here?”

“That is enough!” McClintock blustered, practically shouting over Strange’s vehement snarl. “Guard, this interview is concluded. Mr. Strange can be taken back to his quarters.” I snorted at that, speaking as if the pedophile were a guest on a fucking luxury cruise ship. The feed to the prison cut off, and the two lawyers’ image shifted to take up the entire screen. Myah smiled serenely as McClintock composed himself. “Like my partner said, if you have evidence, charge David with a crime and pass what you’ve got over to us. We’ll be happy to take a look at it. Otherwise, there’s no further reason for you to talk to our client again about crimes he knows nothing about.”