Page 16 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

He hesitated. “Not at all, actually.” His voice was guarded. “A couple of minutes with a good search engine was enough to establish that.”

My outrage grew. “So you checked up on me? You hacked into my private business?”

“I wouldn’t call that hacking. I didn’t get into anything private. I just looked at what was lying around in plain sight. Matters of public record.”

“But why?” My voice rose in pitch. “Why poke into my life?”

I still couldn’t make out the expression on his face, but his shrug looked unrepentant. “I was interested.”

“Well, your level of interest is invasive and weird, and it’s making me nervous,” I said. “And I don’t need anything else in my life to make me nervous. I am at full fucking capacity, Duncan! Do you get me?”

He nodded, but did not apologize. He just stood there, obdurate. Waiting.

“Good God, Burke,” I snapped, exasperated. “It’s all or nothing with you. Either you completely ignore my existence, or you pin me under a microscope and stare. Whatever happened to just, you know, flirting? Suggestive conversation? Casual chatting?”

“Not my strong suit,” he admitted.

“I’ve noticed! So? ‘Fess up. What did Lanaghan say? Not that she should have said anything about our business to some random guy off the street.”

“I’m not some random guy. And she spoke to a cop friend of mine, not to me. She said pretty much what you told me last night. They haven’t made much progress.”

“No, they sure haven’t,” I said bleakly. “They are nowhere with it. The guy’s really good. He left no trace. No prints, no DNA, nothing at all. Even the car that he used in Boston when he tried to kidnap Nancy turned out to be stolen just hours before.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

Thinking about it chilled me. I shied away from the subject, groping for something else to think about.

“So, Burke? What else did you find on me out there on the internet?” I demanded.

“Did you read my last term’s graduate seminar paper on Christina Rossetti?

Did you dig into the archived transcripts from the message boards at the online poetry forum? ”

“Yes, both. But my favorites were those five short poems you published in The Golden Thread Poetry Journal last January.”

My mouth opened and closed in astonishment “Ah ... actually, I was, um, just kidding about you reading that stuff.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied. “I read it. All of it. Several times.”

After a few moments of my speechless silence, he gestured with his hand. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “It’s not like I can discuss your poems intelligently. I absolutely can’t. To be honest, I don’t have a clue what you were talking about.”

I was puzzled. “Ah. Okay. So how did you know they were your favorites?”

He fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know how,” he said impatiently. “I just liked the way they made me feel.”

I was oddly moved. “Wow. I think that might be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me about my work,” I told him. “Thank you.”

He kept drifting closer, like a shadow, until he stood right in front of me. His aura interfered with my brain function. Alarm bells were ringing, colored lights flashing in there. It was complete pandemonium.

“You’re welcome.” His low voice felt velvety to my ears. “First time in my life I ever got something like that right. And it was by accident. Just dumbass luck.”

“It’s not something that you get wrong or right,” I said. “It’s just a matter of paying attention. Telling the truth.”

He touched one of my ringlets, winding it around his finger. “Those are strong points for me. I’ve got no problems with paying attention. Or telling the truth.”

“You sure don’t,” I agreed.

He stroked the texture of my hair, pulling the curl, letting it spring back. “So, what’s my prize for getting this right?” The deep vibration of his voice made my skin tingle. His breath was so warm. It smelled of coffee and mint. “Did I earn any points?”

“Don’t reduce it to a game,” I scolded, breathless. “It’s not about scoring points.”

His lips grazed my temple. “It’s not?” Then my cheekbone. His voice was like a brush of sable over my jangling nerves. “Then what is it about? Teach me. I await your wisdom.”

My head dropped back, and his hand was ready to support it, warm and strong, cradling my nape. “Do not make fun of me,” I whispered.

“Never.” He breathed the words into my ear … and kissed me again.

True to form, my body went nuts. Delicious heat flushed every part of me. Some sinuous, muscular animal thing inside me was awakened—not afraid of him at all, not one little bit—and it knew exactly what it wanted, and that he had plenty of it to give.

I wound my arms around his neck, which provoked a satisfied rumbling sound deep in his throat.

He positioned himself between my legs where I was perched on the table.

He cupped my head with one hand and my bottom with the other, sliding me tighter against him.

Close, but not enough. I wanted to wind my legs around him and yank him closer, closer, infinitely closer.

I’d kissed men before, and been kissed. I’d had sex before, too.

Some, not a lot. I’d even enjoyed it, almost, but with some part of me always standing apart, critiquing, judging, comparing.

I wanted to let myself go so I could experience the ineffable magic that poets wrote about, but it just didn’t happen to me.

I stayed flat, cool. Mind racing, hyper-aware of every single embarrassing detail about my body.

With Duncan, there was no problem with letting go. The problem lay in holding back. I wanted to eat him up, strip him bare, ride him hard. He coaxed my mouth open, and I wound my fingers into his thick hair and moved against him, helpless to stop.

He bent me back on the table until I let go of his arms to prop myself up on my elbows.

He grabbed my ankles, folded my legs up high until my skirt rode up and my gartered stockings showed.

The ones I’d put on this morning, back when I had still been trying to fool myself into thinking that I wasn’t going to wrestle this guy to the ground and have my wanton way with him.

Who had I been trying to fool? He was so hot.

A smorgasbord of sexual delights. So big, so strong and solid and hot, and he tasted so damn good.

I gasped and pressed back at each grinding shove of his erection against me.

He circled against that crazy, hot, delicious, writhing sweet spot, and oh . .. God.

Bursts of pleasure rocked me, jolting me into a new way of being.

When I opened my eyes, I found his hand clamped over my mouth. He was grinning. He looked absolutely delighted with himself.

“Wow,” he whispered, slowly lifting his hand. “That was wild.”

“Oh, my God,” I squeaked, mortified. “Did I ... make noise?”

“Oh, yeah. So hot. Hold on a sec.” He pulled away, wrenched the door open, and my legs snapped together as a blade of light sliced into the room and assaulted my eyes.

Duncan poked his head out the door, peered around, and closed it, plunging us into darkness again.

“They’re all gone,” he said. I heard the click of the door lock engaging.

“Thank God. Not a sound out there. But just in case. Since you’re a screamer. ”

A thread of cold unfurled in my belly. I slid off the table, tugged my skirt over my legs. He moved swiftly to block me. “Oh, God, no,” he said. “Don’t panic on me now.” There was a pleading edge in his voice.

“I just ... the locked door, it, ah ...”

“I’ll unlock it if you want. I just didn’t want any surprise visitors, that’s all.” His hands slid under my skirt and gripped the tops of my thighs, sliding slowly up toward my mound. “Making you come is not a spectator sport.”

“Uh, no, of course not. But I?—”

“Shhh.” He seized me, and we were off again, kissing wildly.

Oh, hell with it. I gripped his arms and gave in to it.

Our mouths melded with the abandoned sureness of well-matched dancing partners, as if we’d known how to kiss each other senseless since time began.

All the excitement of novelty, all the sureness and grace and ease of familiarity.

I wanted to claw his shirt off, to feel every detail of that big, solid torso, to smell his sweat, to feel the texture of his chest hair, the shape of his nipples, the contours of his muscles.

And his cock. I wanted to grip it, test it, pet it, squeeze it.

Make him gasp and moan and shiver. I pressed my hand against his flat belly and slid it down over his belt.

His hand covered mine and pressed it against the bulge in his crotch.

He stroked the gusset of my panties and a low murmur of satisfaction vibrated against my shoulder as he found me slick and wet.

He kissed me again, his tongue venturing into my mouth to dance lazily around mine, and both of us moaned as he explored my tender folds with a gentle finger, sliding into my slick opening.

I clenched around him in shocked delight.

“Oh, God,” he said roughly. “I think my hand is going to come.”

“You think you’ve got problems,” I said unsteadily.

Then there was no more talking. Just deep, ravenous kissing while his finger delved my tender, secret places, and my hand appreciatively stroked and squeezed the hot, stiff shaft of his cock.

My legs twined around his thighs for balance, and we shuddered and gasped, tongues twining, wrapped in a tight, trembling knot of desire.

Tension rose, until the sweet, keening ache of anticipation shattered.

Molten pulses of delight throbbed through my body.

I sagged against him. I was made out of liquid now.

I was a pool of glimmering moonlight. He’d undone the fastenings of my gartered stockings at some point and was tugging my panties off my legs, but I was too limp to react.

I hung on to his shirtfront and tried to form words. “What ... ah, what are you going to?—”

“I don’t have latex. So I’ll do this instead.”

He dropped to his knees and put his mouth to me.

I almost screamed, the sensation was so intense.

He murmured something soothing and incomprehensible against my thigh and rubbed his cheek against my skin, petting and nuzzling.

He parted my sensitive folds, and I felt his tongue, warm and soft, fluttering, up, down, around, exploring me lustily. Tenderly circling my clit.

I collapsed back onto the table, and a tiny part of my brain stood apart for a moment, astonished at how my life had upended itself.

Yesterday, I was the sad girl, celibate and crushing on an unattainable man.

Today, I was spread-eagled and pantiless, getting marvelously tongue-lashed by that same unattainable guy.

It was an improbable sexual fantasy come to life. Too good to be true.

Yeah, and if I didn’t attain him all the way, I was going to implode. Collapse into a screaming, writhing human black hole. The hunger bit so hard. I pushed his face away. He looked up in silent question, wiping his mouth. I saw his grin flash in the dimness.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Good. More?”

“What about you?”

His soft laughter tickled my mound. “I’ll live.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Somehow.” He pressed his lips to me, fluttering his tongue around my clit in a way that made me cry out, writhing against his face.

I pushed his face away again, struggled up onto my elbows. “Make love to me.”

He lifted his head, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t used a silly romantic euphemism. It made my vulnerabilities so obvious. I should have just said, Fuck me. That would have been clearer, more honest. We’d both know where we stood. Or sprawled, as the case may be.

But I just couldn’t. Such a blunt, crude phrase wouldn’t come out of my mouth. Romantic, old-fashioned, poetry-addled idiot that I was.

He gripped my hips, fingers digging in. “No latex,” he repeated.

“I have some,” I whispered.

He froze. “No fucking way.”

“Um, actually, yes. In my purse. My co-worker bought them for me today as a joke. She was roasting me. I never thought I’d?—”

“Where’s your purse?”

“On the chair, I think, on the other side of the?—”

He’d already yanked it open and flung its contents onto the table.

He found the little package, and seconds later, he was back, opening his belt and tearing open the wrapping with a show of manual dexterity that would have been dazzling if I’d been in any condition to appreciate it.

I caught a glimpse of his big, thick cock as he sheathed it, and then he pushed me back down onto the table and folded my legs up high. No time to appreciate the view.

The bulb at the end of his cock seemed so big and blunt, pressing against my slick, sensitized opening. He slid it tenderly up and down my tightly furled seam caressing me until he was wet, and I was squirming against him, silently pleading.

And then he pushed slowly inside me.