Except it’s all me. He’s there. Waiting. Ready. Open. And I’m here. Hesitating. Not ready. Closed.

So wrong. So. Fucking. Wrong.

I hate myself for it.

My palms flatten against his cheeks, my fingers brushing his hair, and I bring his mouth down to mine. If I can’t talk, I can feel. And, God, he makes me feel. Everything. So many things I don’t want to feel.

His arms wrap around my body, and he adjusts himself until there isn’t a breath of space from our mouths right down to our feet. Our bodies are connected entirely, and I can’t get enough of this—of him. Of the feeling of his hot weight on top of me or his long fingers deftly massaging my side and my skull. Of his rough stubble as it scratches my jaw. Of his spicy lips as they explore mine thoroughly. Of his tongue as it battles with mine in a war so fierce that I don’t know if either of us will ever win it.

“Fuck!” he yells, shoving himself off me and grabbing his phone from his pocket. “What?” he roars into it. “Does it fuckin’ matter? … Thought not. Spit it out.” A long pause. “You’re kiddin’ me. You better be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Trent.”

“Uh-oh,” I murmur.

“Fine. We’ll be there as soon as we can get across town.” Drake takes the phone from his ear and drops it on the table.

It bounces off the pizza box, landing facedown. He spins away from me and leans forward, diving his hands into his hair. The messy curls curve around his fingertips as he slowly runs them through his hair to the base of his neck.

I, too, set my feet on the floor and sit up straight. My blood is still thrumming with the promise of his kiss, but the frustration tightening his shoulders is more than the slither of lust left inside my body.

I slide my butt along the sofa until we touch. Then I reach up, my hand knocking his out of the way as my fingers press onto the sides of his neck. I gently massage it, waiting with a tightly coiled stomach and twitching toes as his silence stretches further and further between us.

Finally, I drop my hand. “Drake.”

“Vince Fulton.” He looks up, rubs his hand down his face, and sighs. The way he turns his face toward mine seems to take forever, and I’d swear ten new species have been discovered by the time his eyes finally collide with mine. “The guy we were going to interview first thing tomorrow morning. Natalie’s regular dom.”

The words fall from my lips although I already know the answer. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

The blue lights sure do help when you need to make it across town in a quick dash.

We get from Drake’s house to D.O.M. in a matter of minutes. I did make a request to bring my wine, but he steadfastly refused while buttoning his shirt.

Personally, I think the wine would have been useful. For me, obviously, because what is it with people fucking dying during my investigations?

Our investigations. Whatever.

The dying thing is getting old.

And yes. I’m pissed. I’m really fucking pissed because I know for a fact that Vince Fulton could have provided me with some answers, and there’s no way his death was a freak one, even in the exclusive sex club.

Brody meets us as soon as we get out of Drake’s squad car and hands us both a pair of gloves. “Identification on him and the manager both confirm Vince Fulton as the deceased. No visible injuries on him aside from a welt on his left upper thigh. Tim is examining him now but assumes a different cause of death than with Natalie.”

“They’re connected?” Drake questions, holding open the opaque, black glass door for me to pass through.

“Right now, we’re saying yes. The connection between him and Natalie Owens is too deep to pass off as his death being coincidental.” Brody holds a second door open, scooting me through it before I can take the club in. “He’s been out of town on vacation for a week according to the club’s owner, so he had no idea about Natalie. He was due to meet her tonight, but who he got is anyone’s guess.”

“Vince is a big guy though,” I put in. “It would have to be a male at the very least to overpower him.”

“Not necessarily.” Drake glances back at me. “A regular like Vince could have entered this club without confirming Natalie coming tonight. A woman coming in could have easily convinced him she’d been sent in Natalie’s place and taken control.”

People swarm the corridor, but all of them are in official uniform except one man who’s dressed in a suit.

“Mr. Lawrence?” Drake asks, approaching the man and snapping a glove off. “Detective Nash. Tell me what happened.”

The man—Mr. Lawrence—is presumably the owner of the club, and as soon as Drake releases his hand, he wrings them together in front of his stomach. “I wish I could. I came in as soon as I heard myself. From what I can find out, my staff assumed he knew about Natalie and had switched her out for one of his other girls.”

“His other girls?”

“Vince has been coming here five nights a week for at least three years. Every night is a different girl. Each one is contracted to the club. He knows the rules, and so do they, Detective. They wouldn’t have broken them.”

“All due respect, but someone did, because you have a dead man in your club.”

Way to be nice, Drake.

“Mr. Lawrence.” I step forward, nudging Drake to the side. “Noelle—”

“Bond,” he finishes for me, his smile meeting in eyes. “Keep that one quiet, darlin’. I’d bet there ain’t a man in this club who hasn’t been waitin’ for the day you stepped in here.”

Brody steps behind me.

“Well, unfortunately for them, my clothes are staying on.” I smile tightly.

“I can think of four men in the bar who’d like to convince you otherwise.”

Wait for it.

“Enough,” Drake snaps, wrapping his hand around my wrist and tugging me behind me. “We’re here in investigate a murder, Mr. Lawrence, and she sure as hell ain’t here to be hit on.”

Holy shit.

Did he just beat my brother to the protective punch?

He did.

Holy. Shit.

That’s never happened before.

“Any and all security tapes you have from today would be appreciated,” Drake continues. “Perhaps you should go and work with your security team to ensure we get those as soon as possible.”

By perhaps, he means do it. Now.

See? I do listen. I’m learning.

“Drake?” I prod his arm, seeing Mr. Lawrence walk away. “You can let go of me now. I promise not to run away from the big, scary man in the scary suit, trying to hit on me.”

He turns around, narrows his eyes. And without saying a word, he drops my wrist and walks into the room where Vince’s dead body is.

I glance at Brody. “What did I do?”

He shrugs. “I’m still pretty stuck on the fact that he told him to fuck off before I could.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” I mutter, finally walking into the room.

Oooooeeee.

That’s the only thought I have as I focus on it.

Yeah. The men who come here are gonna be waiting a real long time for me to be here naked. Like another fifty lifetimes.

Whips. Chains. Floggers. Lots and lots of things I don’t know the names of and would likely give me nightmares if I did.

One particularly scary-looking clamp device makes me shudder.

I cannot imagine that being pleasurable on any part of my body.

“Uncomfortable?” Brody smirks.

“Are you not?” I shoot back. “What if that”—I point to the clampy thing—“is meant for your junk?”

He stops. “How about you stop creating new torture devices and get to work?”

“Pussy,” I whisper.

He hits me.

Honestly, it’s a wonder anyone in this family ever gets any work done when we’re together.

I worm my way in between Drake and Trent with a sweet smile. Then I focus on the man lying facedown on the bed in front of me, buck naked. “How long has he been here?”