Stripped (9 page)

“Brandon.” Her voice was unsteady.

He rolled his thumb across her nipple, his own breathing shallow. He didn’t know what he wanted most—the certain sweetness of her mouth or that hard little bud against his tongue. Silence or needy whimpers. He took a moment to close his eyes and gave her breast a soft squeeze. Perfect. She fit against his palm like they’d been designed to match.

As if she could feel the torment of his indecision, Natalya dropped the back of her head against the wall, and a quiet mewl of pleasure slipped off her parted lips. The sound shot straight to his cock, answering his dilemma. More—he needed more of those delightful little noises.

He eased his body away from hers just enough he could dip his head and trail his tongue over the line of dark lace where it met her skin. Her back arched, thrusting her nipple forward, silently commanding him to close his mouth over it. Brandon complied without hesitation.

The feel of lace
against his tongue was strangely pleasant. But the way she lifted one hand and dug her nails into his scalp defied pleasure by leaps and bounds. It was fucking out of this world. His body threatened to surge into hers, his swollen erection demanding satisfaction. He closed his eyes to the faint scent of flowers that drifted off her skin.

He nipped and teased until Natalya let out another quiet moan. Her hold on his hair tightened, pressed him closer to her breast. He inched his free hand between their bodies and tugged at the lace covering her opposite breast. When he covered her exposed flesh with his palm, she wriggled into his fingertips.

“Brandon. God…”

Yeah, he was feeling it too. Just teasing her was driving him out of his mind, something that was wholly unfamiliar to him. With all the lovers he’d had before, not one had managed to make him this hard, this excited, this quickly. He could draw this out a little longer, but when he got her naked—and he was going to—he wasn’t going to last long. Damn… he wanted to savor Natalya Trubachev, not devour her in seconds.

Willing himself into patience, he shifted his mouth, dusted kisses across the lace-clad swell of her breast to drag his tongue through the deep valley between. She shivered beneath his hands. Her other hand found his hair, and she urged him closer to her uncovered nipple. Brandon opened his eyes to admire the pert little bud. He flicked his thumb over the turgid nub and smiled when she gasped.

“Pretty. So pretty,” he murmured absently.

He closed his lips around the dusky peak and sucked it into his mouth. Her flesh was warm, soft as the satin robe she’d worn earlier tonight. Natalya cried out as he drew on her firmly. Her hips thrust forward, and she rubbed against his aching cock. Sensation rocketed through him, pulling at his balls, threatening to send him over the edge right there. He dropped his hand from her breast to her hip to hold her still.

The door banged open, yanking Brandon out of the haze of desire. He jerked away from Natalya, and rationality slammed into him. Holy fuck. What the
hell
was he doing?

Natalya gasped at the same time she turned her back to the door. Her hands fluttered furiously at her blouse. Her long hair hid the blush that had hit her cheeks the instant the
thud
jarred them apart.

Brandon swiveled to confront the intruder. Regardless of what had cross-fired in his brain and what he was doing, he’d shut the door. No one had the right to walk in unannounced…

Except Mayer.

Brandon avoided Aaron’s bemused smirk. “What do you need, Mayer?”

Aaron glanced between the both of them, silent laughter dancing in his eyes. “After the way you dragged her out of the club, I figured I better come referee.”

Brandon sank down into his chair, stretching out his legs to accommodate the tightness in his groin. Damn, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d wanted a woman more. He looked to Natalya, surprised to find her blush absent, her countenance unshaken. Undisturbed. Nodding at her, he held her quiet stare. “We were just discussing this friend she wants me to hire.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” Aaron dropped into the chair across from Brandon and tossed his boots on the desk. Ankles crossed, he reclined. “We could use an extra guy on the floor. She’s right—the back room needs to be beefed up. You said so yesterday.”

Beneath the desk, Brandon once again clenched his fist. For the love of all that was holy, he hadn’t expected his best friend to override his decision. His
partner
would never dream of it. Unless…

He shifted his glower to Natalya.

Unless she’d used her tricks to get under Mayer’s skin as well. Damn it all! They didn’t know anything about her, or her friends.

But with his own words revealed, he could hardly refuse. He’d look like an ass. Worse, he didn’t have a single justifiable reason to not
hire someone who came with impeccable recommendations, like she claimed. And with Kate as Natalya’s reference, one of the few people he considered a friend, he risked the very real possibility of insulting his lead dancer.

“Fine,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

Natalya took a dignified step toward the door. The unmistakable gleam of victory shone behind her eyes, and her mouth pulled with the beginning of a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll tell him to come in with me tomorrow.”

“Natalya.”

She stopped, the door half closed. “Yes?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Lingering in the doorway, she held his gaze for several never-ending seconds. They both knew what he meant—the only question he’d asked was whether this Sergei character was her boyfriend. He didn’t have an explanation for why he pressed the question now. The moment was over. The need to know, insignificant. When she walked out that door, they’d once again be employer and employee. Come morning, he’d be back in control of himself, the events of today locked away in a corner of his mind where he could forget them.

She surprised him with a bright smile. “I don’t intend to.”

The door closed. Like a pop can shaken too much, his frustration bottlenecked. He slammed an open palm against the top of his desk, releasing the building explosion with a violent oath.

“Problems?” Aaron asked, laughter lurking in his voice.

“Get the fuck out, Mayer.”

B

He didn’t like the answer that rose.
Courage
. That woman, for all her lithe beauty, had more spine than any woman he’d ever met. She hadn’t uttered a single squeak, even when he’d been acting like a rabid dog, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his fingers had dug into her arms so tightly that tomorrow she sported bruises.

He couldn’t defeat her. Couldn’t burst her confident bubble or temper her persistence. Not to mention he was powerless against the pull she had over his body. He didn’t know what to do with that. Natalya infuriated him while she simultaneously filled his head with visions of spreading those shapely thighs and burying his head between her legs.

One thing was certain, he’d accomplished nothing since she’d waltzed into his office. He had intended to spend the night scoping the crowd, getting to know the regulars. Instead, he’d spent the whole damn evening dwelling on Natalya Trubachev and her too-sexy accent.

Shoving away from his desk, he straightened out his pants with a shake of his ankle. His dick still hadn’t fully recovered from that intimate brush with Natalya’s body, and the scrape of his trousers sent a shudder rolling down his spine. He flinched, uncomfortable with the
way she lingered in his office, though she’d physically departed almost an hour ago.

A glance at the clock above the door revealed the time as ten to five. He should be home, fast asleep, priming for an early morning with the case files. Rachel’s death changed things. She didn’t fit the MO at all, not beyond the autopsy findings that she’d died from an overdose of injected barbiturates. Which meant they’d missed something, or the killer had altered his pattern. Although the chances of his changing his preferences after so many neatly matched deaths was slim. Maybe if there’d only been one or two blondes. But seven? With another four missing? Not likely.

Had Rachel stumbled onto their man?

Too exhausted to consider all the angles, Brandon flipped off the light, tucked his gun into his back pocket, and locked up the office. Tomorrow, he’d run everything by Rory and Aaron. Maybe they’d discovered something useful tonight.

As he turned for the rear exit, his brain registered misplaced light. Glancing over his shoulder, he mumbled an inward curse that someone had neglected to turn off the main bar’s overhead rack. Tempted to leave the damn thing on, he changed his mind at the sight of a shadow tossing back a drink.

Brandon’s gut turned in on itself as he made the connection.
Rory.
Strong, always positive, Rory was back there drinking himself into oblivion. Christ! The bottom of a bottle never held answers. Brandon should know. He’d spent the better part of a year staring at that convex glass after his family’s murder. Sure it helped temporarily. But when it wore off, when the hangover set in, nothing changed. The aches still ached. The emptiness inside only deepened.

Seeing entirely too much of himself in his teammate’s silhouette, Brandon palmed his keys and approached the bar. Rory looked up. Behind his eyes, pain flashed. He gave Brandon a stiff nod.

Brandon gestured at the bottle of whiskey in Rory’s hands. Wordlessly,
a shot appeared before him. He picked it up and stared into the amber liquid. “How long, man?”

“Huh?” Rory’s features scrunched into a tight, unreadable line.

Tossing the drink back, Brandon swirled it over his tongue before swallowing. He grimaced at the burn as the alcohol rolled down his throat. God, he hated whiskey. His father had loved it…

Brandon shoved the thought aside with force. Another reason why he avoided whiskey—it always made him think of Dear Old Dad. The very same bastard who had blown up his wife and two youngest children, leaving his eldest, Brandon, to clean up the mess.

He studied Rory’s distant stare, recognizing the hollow vacancy reflected in his eyes. “How long have you been more than partners?”

Rory recoiled like he’d been slugged. His gaze shifted to the bar, to his feet, the ceiling overhead—anywhere but Brandon’s face. “It’s not—”

“Bullshit.” Brandon gestured for another drink. Obligingly, Rory filled his glass. This time, Brandon sipped his shot like a mixed drink. “If you think I give a rat’s ass that you violated protocol, you’ve misjudged nine years of friendship. Now cut the crap, Neal, and answer my question.”

“Four months.” The answer came in a rough whisper.

Longer than Brandon had suspected. Long enough to forge something much deeper than a good-time roll between the sheets.

“It just kinda happened. One night we were talking casework. The next morning I woke up in her bed.”

Sensing Rory needed to talk, Brandon remained silent, sipping on his shot and pretending he liked the pungent flavor.

“I met her folks. We got a dog—” His voice cracked as he dropped his head into one hand. On a shuddering inhale, he dragged his fingers down his face and looked beyond Brandon to the empty stage. “I’m gonna kill that bastard, Bran. Swear to God, you better hope you find him before I do.”

In that moment, Brandon realized he’d lost a team member. He could keep Rory on the case—hell, his drive would probably push them closer than they’d ever been. But his all-over-the-place emotions posed a risk they couldn’t afford. One wrong word spoken by the wrong person, and Rory’s need to avenge Rachel’s death could drive them all down the wrong path.

Maybe it was a good thing he’d agreed to hire Sergei after all.

Brandon reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and withdrew the money he kept on hand in case he found himself in a position to hob-nob with Fantasia’s wealthy elite. He fanned five hundred-dollar bills on the bar and pushed them at Rory. “I can’t let you do that, bud. Go home. Go see your mom. Didn’t she break her hip?”

“Fuck that.” Rory’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “You think I’m gonna sit back and do nothing? Fuck you. I was going to marry Rachel. She’s
dead
, because of that sick bastard.”

Keeping his voice level, Brandon chose his words carefully. “I know she is, and I hurt too. But she worked too hard on this case to take any chances. She’d tell you the same thing, Rory.” He tapped his finger on the money, never taking his eyes off Rory’s. “Let me take you home. I’ll keep you in the loop, but I’m not
asking
you to visit your mother.”

Rory’s knuckles whitened as he curled his fingers around his glass. His arm tensed, along with the hardening of his jaw. Brandon counted to ten, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

It came with an anguished cry, and the glass shot past Brandon’s ear. Behind him, it shattered against a tabletop. Rory crumpled against the bar, giving over to grief he’d rather die than yield to. Ugly, pitiful sobs choked out of his throat. His shoulders heaved.

Inside, Brandon grieved with his friend. He didn’t know which was worse—losing a partner he considered a sister, or watching one of the toughest guys he knew crack into pieces. A fine sheen of moisture filled his own eyes, and he rapidly blinked back the unwelcome tears. Rachel deserved a better end. Deserved a whole hell of a lot more than
what her short, twenty-nine years provided. They’d find the bastard—he wouldn’t quit until he dragged the sack of shit into the station and turned the key on his cell. If he had to, he’d spend the rest of his life hunting this monster.

He swallowed hard and made his way around the bar to set a supportive hand on Rory’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Rory swiped the back of one hand over his eyes. He grabbed the money and stuffed it into his pocket. A short nod expressed both willingness and unspoken gratitude.