Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [72]
Breathless, she asked, “Like this?”
“That’ll do.” Now that she’d positioned herself, Murray stood back to look at her. He could see her getting wetter, and it incited his lust. “So you want to talk to Priscilla?”
She went still, then began panting. “Yes.” Her flesh shimmered with excitement. “I could make her tell me things.”
“With your drugs?” Helene loved to test the effects of various narcotic blends on unruly women who dared to fight their fate. And he had to admit, it was usually more effective than beating or starving them.
“Yes,” she moaned. Her hands curled against the desktop; her thighs tightened. Now writhing, she whispered, “I have the perfect formula for her. She would be pliable, pathetically agreeable…”
Murray chuckled. Helene enjoyed anything and everything he did to her, and if she could be cruel to someone else in the bargain, that was enough to send her into an orgasm.
“I sometimes wonder, Helene.”
Eyes closed, she concentrated on breathing. “About what?”
“What type of warped, abusive upbringing you must have had.”
“What?” Surprised, she twisted to see him, her lust temporarily abated. “Me?”
“Don’t move.”
She went still again, her body radiating heat. “No, it wasn’t like that, Murray. My parents adored me. Everyone adored me.”
And then her parents had died, leaving her alone, spoiled rotten, left to her own devices to find a way to remain pampered. Maybe that explained some of it. Not that he really gave a shit. Her sickness was her own, and it complemented his.
“You’re a fucking princess, is that it?” He stroked himself against her ass, teasing them both.
“Yes,” she whispered on a breath of sound. “A princess.”
All but begging for it, she wiggled her ass, and Murray gave in. He clasped her hips and with one hard stab, surged into her.
They both groaned harshly, and after only a half dozen strokes, he felt himself boiling toward release.
Helene didn’t realize it, but much of his lust stemmed from knowing things she didn’t know.
Things about Trace, about Priscilla.
He had a certain way of doing things, a way guaranteed to give him the perspectives he needed to judge loyalty. Helene would discover his true methods soon enough, but for now, she served her purpose.
He didn’t care about her pleasure, never had and never would. But when she cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him, it pushed him right off the precipice of control. He pounded into her one last time. Objects toppled, and Helene gasped at the pain in her hip bones as they connected with the edge of the desk. They both went quiet in that suspended moment of orgasm.
He collapsed over her, sweaty, limp, sated.
Done with her.
Already his mind moved on to other things. With his pants drooping and his cock now limp, he stumbled back and fell into his chair. Kicking it around so he could look out the window, he let out a long lazy breath.
Helene understood the dismissal.
As silently as she could, she straightened her clothes and, wobbly on her high heels, slipped from the room.
He didn’t notice her satisfied, gloating smile—and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. To his mind, Helene posed no real threat. Not to him.
And no one else mattered.
ADRENALINE CONTINUED TO RUSH through his blood, obliterating common sense and sound reasoning.
Playing havoc with his conscience.
Filling his hand with her soft breast, Trace found her nipple with his thumb and knew he had to taste her.
Right now.
Pushing her shirt up and pulling her bra down, he bent and covered her taut nipple with his mouth.
On a soft moan, Priss sank her hands into his hair, trying to get him closer.
It wasn’t enough.
But what would be?
The second he’d seen the men in the slick car, he’d known who they were and what they wanted. The dressing didn’t matter—he always identified trouble. Years of trailing the most