Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
And, fuck, if it wasn’t hot when a woman knew what she needed and wanted, and immediately went for it.
Her movements were fast but short, and it wasn’t long before she was whimpering again, getting closer and closer.
My hands went to her hips, just holding on as I started to thrust my legs up into her, matching her movements, but increasing the sensations.
It wasn’t long before her pussy was getting almost painfully tight around my cock, making it harder to move.
“Come, baby,” I demanded as my hand shifted from her hip to toy with her clit. “Come for me. Let me feel you squeeze my cock,” I said, thrusting a little faster as her breathing started to catch. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” I growled as the orgasm slammed through her, making her walls clench my cock over and over, taking me with her as she came.
She fell forward after, burying her face in my neck as she struggled to even out her breathing.
“Thank you for the lesson,” she said, tone a little saucy as she pressed a kiss to my throat before sitting back to look down at me.
“Anytime you need a lesson from me, you just let me know,” I said, my hands sliding up and down her thighs. “But you’re going to be late now,” I reminded her.
“Shit,” she said, eyes going wide. She gave me a guilty look before sliding off of my lap, then off of the bed.
Grabbing her panties, she disappeared into her bathroom to freshen up.
I went ahead and took off to the guest bath to get dressed, meeting her back in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“You don’t need to walk me out,” she insisted as I slipped on shoes.
“Of course I’m walking you out,” I told her, pressing a hand into her lower back as we headed out the door.
I was going to head out too, figuring it was best to get going early if I was going to try to track down the woman.
“Call me before you head home. I want to meet you outside,” I told her as we spotted her car a few spots down the street.
“Will do. We might do some shopping after lunch, so don’t be waiting around. We haven’t bought shoes in too long.”
I knew better than to mention the new shoes she’d gotten for the benefit.
“Okay. Just let me know,” I said, pressing a kiss to her temple, then watching her walk away and disappear into her waiting car.
My gaze slid to the doorman, Frank, who was trying to direct some lost tourists to some destination.
I felt a little guilty about tracking down his daughter, but had to remind myself of the scar on Miranda’s arm, the intention behind that.
She was relatively easy to track down, since she was still living in the second-floor walkup she’d been at when she’d been working for Miranda.
Maude, judging by her file, was twenty-seven.
She looked younger in person with her long, golden-blonde hair, heart-shaped face with pouty lips, and big blue eyes.
I seemed to catch her on errand day, and I followed behind her as she bopped from one store to the next.
Yes, bopped was the right way to describe it.
The woman seemed to almost bounce on her feet as she move around. Light, carefree.
Not, in my experience, the kind of person who tries to kill another human being.
But, hell, who the fuck knew.
Most serial killers were described as nice, normal people. Good neighbors. Steady employees.
Maybe she was hiding a shitton of crazy under all that upbeat, behind all those smiles she gave to the employees of the stores as well as random strangers on the streets.
She even stopped to drop change to a couple of houseless people along the way.
It was all just… very normal.
The bank. Pharmacy. Groceries. Then a quick stop into a coffee shop to get some fancy iced drink to have on her walk back home.
I looked away just for a minute, wanting to check the time.
And I lost her somehow.
“Shit,” I hissed, rushing forward, wondering if she’d hopped into a cab, or had gone down into the subway or something.
At least, that was what my mind was on until she suddenly stepped out of an alley and in front of me, her chin up, her gaze fierce.
“Why the fuck are you following me?” she hissed.
Gone was the soft and sweet and bouncy, a girl who seemed more like a transplant than a native.
But this woman in front of me—her bags gone, her coffee out of her hand, and in their place, an expandable baton and an eye-gouger—with her shoulders drawn back and her stance wide, ready to beat the piss out of me? Yeah, this was a native New Yorker.
“I need to talk to you about Miranda Coulter,” I said, figuring direct was the best idea. If for no other reason than to see her reaction to her former boss’s name.