Lie With Me (Stonewall Investigations Miami 2)

I wrapped my arms around him and stood. He squealed in surprise, his eyes opening wide, his lips curving into a smile as he continued to kiss me. I could feel his rigid length against my belly as I lifted him, turning so that I could sit him down on the couch.

He dropped onto the soft cushions, his hunger obvious in the way he looked at me. It felt like a reflection, the same hunger chewing through me, shouting out for Oliver and his body.

I started on his shirt, lifting it up over his head and putting it aside. He sat there, his milky soft skin mine for the taking. I was ready to see him flush red as the heat spread through his veins.

“Now it’s my turn to say you’re so bloody sexy.”

Oliver sat back, his legs spread, his bulge on full display. It throbbed against his jeans, causing the fabric to move and strain, as though he were about to tear right through it.

“Come over here and show me how much you mean that.” He started to rub himself through his jeans. Suddenly, I was extremely jealous of his hand, which was exactly where I wanted my mouth to be. I liked how confident Oliver was being, and how he wasn’t scared to let the moment carry us away. There were no reservations. No hesitation. This felt so natural, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I found out we were being filmed for some kind of nature documentary.

Planet Cock.

I’d TiVo that in a heartbeat.

I didn’t waste a second longer. I got down on the floor, my knees popping loudly, and opened Oliver’s legs even wider. There, I took a moment to admire the scene. I wanted to paint this memory into the permanent fixtures of my brain. The sight of Oliver, his hair messy from me running my hand through it, his transfixing sky-blue eyes that seemed to have all the answers to every question I’d ever asked, the way his breaths filled his lungs and made his chest rise and dip, the subtle beat of his pulse in his neck, the trail of light brown hair that led down past the band of his jeans.

Everything about him was pure perfection. Everything about him made me want to rip my heart out and hand it to him on the spot. His to hold, his to keep. Of course there was a fear that he’d mug me off, that he’d find someone newer and shinier and leave me in the dust, my heart bleeding out into the dirt. It was a very real fear, and one I couldn’t put to rest for some reason.

That’s when it happened.

Crash.

The window shattered. Glass went flying all across the living room. Instinctively, I used my body to shield Oliver, who let out a frightened shriek and started to tremble.

“You all right?” I asked, looking him over quickly.

“Yeah, yeah. You?”

I nodded and turned my attention to the window. Mason and Jar were both inside Oliver’s bedroom, so neither of them was hurt from the glass. Oliver lived on the fourth story of his apartment building. His living room window looked out to the backside of the complex, where there was another development being built. I went to the window, glass crunching under my trainers.

“I’m calling the police,” Oliver said, more to himself than anyone else. And then he shouted, “I’m calling the police!” probably to scare off whoever was outside.

At the window, I looked out. The night had fallen and there were no lights outside. The skeleton of the apartments next door stood tall and bare, offering plenty of places for someone to hide behind.

“Beck, don’t stand there. Please, come back here.”

“I need to see who it was.”

“What was it anyway? What broke the windo—Oh my God, Beck, look.”

I couldn’t spot any movement outside. I turned to whatever Oliver was pointing at. “What the…”

On the floor, sitting next to the coffee table on top of a bed of broken glass was a brown paper bag, torn up and wet with something. Pink was showing through the tears in the bag.

With two fingers, I delicately turned the bag so that I could open the top. “Wait, Beck, let’s call the police. Let’s just call the police.”

I had to see what was in the bag.

I opened the top, the brown paper crinkling. It didn’t take me long at all to recognize what I was looking at.

“Jesus,” I said on an exhale.

“What? What is it?”

I didn’t want Oliver to see. I didn’t want his nightmares fueled with more gasoline.

“What is it, Beck?”

But he had to know. This involved him as much as it did me. I decided to be as vague as possible in my description. “It’s a pig’s head.” With its eyes bulging and red. “It’s facing up and there’s a note snagged on its tooth.” An artificial grin given to the poor pig with some kind of knife. “The note says, ‘Call off the Hunt.’”