An inch, maybe two, separated their lips. He wanted to close that distance and take her mouth. To plunge his tongue deep inside and taste her.

But he’d already crossed the line with her once. His hands fisted. She’d made it clear what she wanted, and what she didn’t want. No sex. No emotions. Just business.

He closed his eyes. Lust had his c**k twitching, rising and swelling, and she was so close.

Too close.

He spun away from her. “Stay inside,” he ordered, his eyes opening. “When I come back, we’ll take that note in.”

“You were right about me. Us. I didn’t want to remember, but—” Her voice, so soft, froze him. He had to strain to make out the words.

He glanced back. Big mistake. Monica’s head was tilted to the right. Her eyes were narrowed on him.

“Remember what?” Because he’d never had a problem remembering what it was like to be with her. To touch her and taste her and see the pleasure wash over her face.

No, that hadn’t been a problem. Forgetting, though, had been pure hell.

“Sometimes…” She licked her lips. “I want to feel.”

Oh, no, the woman could not be jerking him around like this.

She took a step forward. “When I’m with you, Luke, I’ve always felt so alive.” Monica shook her head.

Luke. His name, finally rolling off her tongue with that nearly forgotten hint of a southern drawl. Oh, Christ. If he wasn’t careful, she would drive him crazy. Or have him on his knees.

His c**k throbbed behind the fly of his jeans. He tried to keep his voice firm when speech was nearly impossible. “What am I, then? Some kind of convenient screw?”

Deliberately, he pulled out his gun. Put it on the sagging chair next to the wall.

Her eyes held his as her chin tipped back. “You’re many things, but convenient isn’t one of them.”

The woman had just made a joke. He was so stunned he almost laughed. Instead, he moved forward and caught her close.

Not getting away. Not now. “Just sex?” Yeah, he was losing the power of speech because those words were definitely more of a rumble than anything else.

Her lips parted. Ah, screw it. The hunger beat in his blood, the lust nearly blinded him.

Taste. Take. And he did.

She rose onto her bare toes and wrapped her fingers around him, clutching his shoulders and holding on tight. His mouth crashed onto hers, and she met him with wet lips, open and eager. Her ni**les stabbed at his chest. Hard from the cold? Or from the stark need between them?

Her tongue met his. A fast dart, then a slow stroke that had him shuddering. Monica had always known just how to use her mouth on him.

And just how to push him past control.

He caught her hips, yanking her closer. They stumbled a bit, and his leg bumped into her nightstand. A lamp hit the floor.

The bed waited. Two steps away. Monica, naked in bed beneath him. How long had that fantasy haunted him?

If she was willing, he wasn’t gonna be fool enough to walk away.

Just sex.

She wanted to feel? He’d make her feel.

They hit the bed. The mattress groaned, sagging beneath their weight.

Her legs came up, locking around his hips. Not good enough. Too much clothing between them. Way too much.

He tore his mouth from hers and kissed a path down her neck. Monica moaned, arching beneath him. Oh, yeah, he remembered what she liked, and he knew what she needed.

Her nails bit into his shoulders. “Luke…”

Shit. His back teeth clenched, and he fought to hold onto his control. That husky voice could break him if he wasn’t careful.

He lifted up, pushing his palms flat against the mattress on either side of her. That shirt would have to go. He grabbed it and yanked up.

Sweet hell. The woman had perfect br**sts. Tight, dark ni**les, firm and round flesh. If she still tasted as sweet…

His mouth closed around a nipple. She did. He licked, sucked, and her hips rocked against him as her hold tightened around him.

“Lose the jeans!” She managed, her breath panting. “Ah… I can’t—hurry!”

She’d always liked the sex fast. Fast and hard and in the dark.

But it wasn’t dark now. She’d forgotten the light, and he could see that pale flesh.

He bit her. Light, not too hard.

Not yet.

She shivered beneath him, and her hands slipped down, sliding over his back. Lower, going down to the top of his jeans.

Okay, the first time would be fast. His hand pushed between their bodies. Jerked open the snap on his jeans.

But the second time, he’d savor her. Savor and taste until she screamed.

Or came. Again and again.

A high-pitched jingle of sound exploded from somewhere behind him.

Monica’s breath caught. She stared up at him, eyes widening.

Ignore the damn phone. Ignore it.

He bent to kiss her again.

“No.” A whisper. Soft but certain.

Because his luck could never, ever be good.

Another loud ripple. She swallowed, and he saw the hard motion of her throat. “This late… could be Hyde. Or—or the sheriff.”

His hands fell away from her, and he rolled back onto the bed, clenching the covers in his fists. “Get it.”

He smiled when he saw the shadows part.

Really, they should have known better than to leave the light on. But Agent Davenport had kept her light on all night long.


Those who used lights usually feared the darkness.

This was going to be so much fun.

The ringing in his ear stopped. There was a click, then, husky, soft, “Hello?”

So. Much. Fun.

Monica swallowed and her hold tightened around the thin cell phone. This time of night—it had to be the Bureau. “Hello?” She said again. “This is—”

“Agent Davenport.”

A man’s voice, grating and hard.

Static crackled.

“Who is this?”

Behind her, she heard the rustle of bed covers and then the creak of the floor as Luke edged toward her.

Laughter flowed over the line, and her shoulders stiffened. She knew what was coming next, even before the bastard said—

“Tell me… what scares you, Davenport?”

Her breath caught in her throat. A vision of blood and a swirl of darkness flashed through her mind.

Trapped, waiting for death, just like Laura.

The blade slicing deep, over and over. Just like before.

Victims screaming, begging for help. Help that wouldn’t come.

“What scares you?” A whisper now, taunting.

Her teeth clenched. “Not a damn thing,” she gritted. “Not a—”