He moved in and out of me, long, measured strokes, my body aching with every outward pull. Then he slowed, burying his hardness inside so deep, so strong, and I clenched my eyes tight with the pain of his depth. Then he slowly withdrew, my muscles tensing, squeezing him tightly, feeling his girth as it traveled out and then I was empty, needing, gasping from the vacancy. I pushed back, wanting him again, desperate for the heat and sensation of his cock. But his hands held me, and he bumped me gently, teasing me with the tip. “Do you like me f**king you?” Brad’s voice, deep and dark in my ear, his breath hot. I met his gaze in the reflection, his face strong and in control, mine desperate and unrestrained.

“Yes,” I gasped. “I need it, dammit.”

“Louder.”

“Yes!” I screamed, the effort giving me a burst of adrenaline, and I shoved harder, searching for more of him, needing all of it, instantly, like an animal in heat.

He rammed, my tight wetness welcoming the invasion, squeezing the length of him as he filled every pore of me. I whimpered from the release, the feeling of his skin inside me almost painful in its perfection. He moved a hand, letting go of a nipple and wrapping his hand around my neck instead. He squeezed and my eyes widened, asking his reflection a silent question. He released my neck and instead grabbed my hair, wrapping my ponytail around his hand and pulled, hard and firm, on it.

I could feel my orgasm coming, my walls clenching around his thickness. “I’m close,” I gasped, and he grabbed my hips, f**king me without restraint, his balls slapping my cl*twith a furious rhythm. The orgasm came and took with it every ounce of my self-control. I lost it, crying out and bucking, my legs shaking and hands slipping, my reflection making a ridiculous face before my eyes clenched shut and pleasure racked my senses.

He f**ked me through the orgasm, pounding over and over until I could feel his c**k twitching, him close to his own explosion. He smacked my ass hard, and I cried out, my spent muscles liking the stimulation. He spanked me again, and then yanked out, jacking his c**k fast and hard.

“On your knees,” he gritted out, and I turned quickly, trying to navigate with my pants still bundled around my ankles. I knelt in front of him and grabbed his cock, peeling off the condom, taking over the motion, and looked up into his gorgeous, intense face.

His mouth opened and he groaned softly, looking into my eyes and my upturned face, then focused on my lips, his eyes intent.

“Open your mouth.”

I did and turned my eyes to his swollen head, bobbing in and out of my clenched hand. I added my second hand, wrapping both of them around him, and jacked him and his orgasm into my open and waiting mouth.

The first spurt came—hot and white and on my tongue. Tasting it, I dove onto his cock, sucking it hard and taking it as deep as I could. I continued jacking, sucking his come and gagging on the hardness filling my throat. Brad moaned and clenched his legs, grabbing the back of my head and pulling it to him. I continued sucking, sliding my mouth up and down. After a few seconds, his hand loosened, and he stepped back, resting against the island and sliding his c**k from my wet mouth. He leaned forward, grabbing me under the arms and picking me up. Spinning, me lifted, he set me on the island, sliding dishes and food out of the way and laying me down. I relaxed on the granite, a smile overtaking my face, and he leaned over, spreading open my shirt and laying soft kisses on each of my br**sts and then down my stomach, ending at the top of my legs. He breathed in my scent, then placed his mouth softly on me and I moaned, pushing him off with one foot. “Enough,” I breathed.

He laughed and traveled back up my body, kissing me and smoothing my hair back.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Back at ya,” I said, grinning at him, delirious with contentment. I closed my eyes, a smile stretching across my face, totally exposed to him, feeling his eyes on me as his fingers trailed off my skin.

“What do you have today?” Brad’s voice was muffled as he rounded the island, his voice changing in location.

I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Another twelve-hour day of secretarial duties.”

Brad tugged at my arms, pulling me to a seated position, my limbs lazy and unresponsive. I smiled at him while he buttoned my shirt, looking up into my face as he spoke. “My offer still stands. You could start next week in my wing. You can come to court...watch me work.”

I made my eyes as huge as possible. “Wow, really? You are so big and important, Mr. De Luca.”

He stole a kiss on my neck, nipping the skin gently with his teeth. “If you won’t let me steal you permanently, let me borrow you for a day. Let me speak to him. I’ll tell him I’m swamped on a case and need more help.”

I laughed, taking over my buttons. “Like that would fly. He’d accuse you of wanting another sex toy and would keep me under even more of a lock and key.”

He frowned, grabbing my waist and sliding me off the counter. “You’ve got to get over your hang-up on Broward. If you expect our relationship to have any type of a future, eventually he’s going to find out about us.”

“Regardless of whether we have a future, I need you to keep us secret for now.” I grinned at him, hoping my thoughts didn’t convey through my often-traitorous eyes. Did I expect us to have a real future? It was certainly something I wanted, but Brad was a wild card. He had professed his intentions, vowed that he could remain faithful as long as I participated in his lifestyle. But I wasn’t putting too much faith in him until I saw actions to back up his words. I leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the lips before pulling away, his frown deepening, and he grabbed my head, taking me back to his mouth, his tongue taking mine until he’d had his fill. With a confident smile he released me, crouching down and grabbing my pants, sliding them up my legs, his fingers teasing me the entire way up.

Somewhere in the background, a phone rang.

Nineteen

The call was from Hugo Clarke. Brad took the call from his partner in the living room, and I ate my cold breakfast while trying to redress. I glanced at my watch. Five till seven. I was good on time, assuming that I left in the next twenty minutes.

Brad appeared in the doorway, and I looked up with a smile. My face froze when I saw the somber fix of his features. “What’s wrong?”

“You should sit down.”

I paused, setting down my fork, my mind trying to figure out what Clarke could possibly have said that would have this effect on Brad. “I’m fine standing. What is it?”

“It’s Broward. He was found in the office this morning, dead.”

It took a moment to register his words, and I ran the phrase through my head a few times, the unfamiliar concept fading in and out of reality until my vision began to spot in front of me. Maybe I should sit down. I gripped the counter, reaching blindly out for a stool. Brad was suddenly there, his hand gripping mine, and he led me to a chair, my legs giving out the moment my ass hit wood. “Bullshit,” I finally whispered, a part of me hoping, wishing, that this was his sick version of a joke.

“No.” The tightness of his face made the situation real, and I physically swooned for a moment, fainting now a real possibility. He sat down across from me and held my face, forcing me to look into his eyes, to focus on him.

“Suicide?” I whispered, Broward’s strained face, his obvious stress, all of the signs, signs I should have seen, flooding my mind. Guilt settled on my shoulders, heavy and judgmental.

“No.” He leaned briefly away from me and rubbed his temples. “Murdered. Shot in his office.”

The guilt, for a brief moment, took a hiatus. It might have skipped Julia-town and landed in Brad-ville; he certainly looked as sick as I felt. His face pale, he stared forward, his body tense. Wherever he was, it was miles from here, miles from me. I reached out, touching his shoulder, and he turned to me, our eyes meeting, a sudden connection forming. I fought to stay still, to not react, but the look in his eyes when they met mine—it scared me. His face was dark and brooding, but his eyes? They were intense, fiery. They screamed pure fury, sparks flying from them, his temple jumping, and I realized, my eyes traveling over his body, that he was a tight coil of barely restrained rage.

Rage? Not the reaction I would expect when someone finds out his business partner is dead.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at me. And just like that, it was gone. The madness dissipated and he was calm and in control. The transformation scared me more than the fury had. He reached out, grabbing my hand reassuringly. “I’m fine. Just trying to understand it.” He stood, moving away from me, and yanked open a drawer by the door, grabbing his wallet and keys, his back to me.

My thoughts returned to Broward and the unexplainable situation. Murdered. In his office. My mind grasped at straws, trying desperately to convince itself that this was a random act of violence. “Was it a robbery?”

“They don’t know. I have to get to the office. The police want to talk to me.”

“To you? Why?” I stood up and walked over to my shoes, grabbing them and pulling them on.

Brad ignored my question and came up behind me, his strong arms wrapping around me tightly. “Are you okay?”

I turned to him and sank into his chest, gripping his shirt with my hands. “I don’t know. Yeah. No. I’m just trying to understand it.” I looked up into his worried face, searching it, the lines, his mouth, his eyes. They stared back at me, concern and compassion filling them, no hint of the fury that had monopolized them just moments earlier. I didn’t know what I hated more, when his eyes were unreadable or when I didn’t like what I read in them. I wiped away tears that were swelling and stood on my tiptoes, kissing him gently on the lips. “Let’s go.”

Brad turned to follow, his hand finding the small of my back, the slight support appreciated. He grabbed the door, pulling it closed behind us and locking it. “The police will probably want to talk to you, too.”

“Me?” I stepped off the porch, going carefully down the back steps. Why would they want to talk to me?

“Yeah. If he was shot last night, you may have been the last person to see him alive.” He paused. “Other than, of course, the killer.”

Twenty

We decided to just leave my car at the bar, my nerves way past the level of safe driving. Brad drove us to the office, watching me closely the whole time, as if I were a piece of china with a hairline crack.

We didn’t speak on the drive. I was shaken, trying to put the pieces of what was happening together. It was as if the last twenty minutes had uprooted my world and set it back upside down. I had too much to think about, too much to process. My mind flipped back and forth between an image of Broward’s body, and the words I had overheard on Monday. The Magianos. It couldn’t be, there must be some other explanation. Not in our office, not with Broward. I clenched my eyes shut and sat back in the seat.

“You okay?” Brad’s voice, coming through my thick cloud.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes closed, the feeling of his hand on mine, gripping my palm, a soothing thumb caressing my wrist.

The car slowed and I heard a turn signal. We must be close. I wasn’t ready to face the office and all this day would entail. My stomach tightened at the thought of being questioned. I needed to figure out what to do.

* * *

BRAD ENTERED THE East Wing of the fourth floor of Clarke, De Luca & Broward. The East Wing was his domain, the area where expensive marriages came to die. Divorce Central. He was God in this wing. He noted that, despite this morning’s events, business was still being conducted. Both conference rooms were full, and two groups of clients waited in the lobby’s leather seating clusters. He walked through the elegant space and up to the three elevated secretarial desks that were the focus of the lobby. The only sign of trouble glistened from the blotchy faces and red-rimmed eyes of his secretaries, who rose at his approach. The three women, who ran the wing with iron, liver-spotted fists, were all in their late sixties, and all had been with him for over ten years. He stopped at their desks and nodded a hello.

Carol Featherston, the center and head secretary, spoke first. Never one to mince words, she skipped over pleasantries. “There is a detective waiting to speak with you.”

Brad nodded. “Give me a moment in my office, then send him in.”

“Certainly.” She swallowed hard, her wrinkled neck stretching and straining. “Brad, we were so sorry to hear about Kent. Despite your history, I know this must be a difficult time for you.” Her two clones, Diana and Beatrice, nodded in unison, both murmuring soft condolences. Brad nodded and walked around their desks, entering his large office set against the east wall of the building, a million-dollar view of downtown stretching its length. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then walked behind his desk. Opening up a side cabinet, he set his briefcase inside, then sat in his dark leather chair. He closed his eyes briefly and collected his thoughts. There was a knock at his door, and Carol opened it, ushering in a tall, thin man, with short gray hair. The detective.

Let the games begin.

Twenty-One

The West Wing was chaos. Our front lobby was filled with employees, and I was stopped just inside the doors by one of the firm’s security guards. “Julia,” he said, recognizing me. “All employees are asked to wait here. The police are conducting interviews in the offices, and the hall with your office and Broward’s is closed for the investigators.”

I nodded and moved past him, into the waiting area. Looking around, I saw almost every employee of the wing, some huddled in small groups, some standing alone, and others pacing on cell phones. I sought out Sheila. Seeing her leaning against her desk, at the rear of the room, I walked over and touched her shoulder. She whirled at the contact, her elegant appearance marred by her tear-soaked face and shaking hands.