Either the men in Lodal didn’t have it, or had it but couldn’t crack it, or were purposefully keeping from Thomas that it existed and what was on it. Each of those eventualities was worrisome.
With feigned nonchalance, Thomas said, “If that’s it, please tell our man in common to stop whining to me about his own failures, and Trapper.”
Before Jenks could offer a comeback, Thomas disconnected. He crossed to the bar, poured a scotch, tossed it back, and poured another, something he rarely did. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself, Jenks’s call had upset him.
If the men in Lodal were in possession of Trapper’s flash drive, they wouldn’t be overly concerned about his snooping around the crime scene or creating ruckuses.
But if they hadn’t raided Trapper’s office and taken the flash drive, who had? Who had it now, and just how incriminating was the evidence on it?
Thomas had gambled on making a preemptive move, but possibly, in his eagerness to get justice for Tiffany, he had left himself vulnerable. Trapper might yet go to the authorities with no intention whatsoever of negotiating a deal for Thomas, with or without his flash drive, with or without anything substantive.
Thomas didn’t believe he would. He was still smarting too badly from the humiliation he’d suffered three years ago. He wouldn’t risk ridicule again by making unprovable claims.
But Trapper was unpredictable. He might surprise him.
Fortunately, Thomas had safeguarded against surprises and unpredictability.
He still had his insurance policy, and it was brassbound. Even to Trapper.
Chapter 28
Trapper didn’t know what Kerra saw in his “look.”
Whatever it was, it aroused her. The second time was as intense as the first, the only difference being that he pulled out just before he came. Now they lay belly to belly, idly stroking, nibbling kisses.
“Your skin tastes salty,” she said.
“Price you pay for keeping this room like a sauna. My sweat’s drying.” He rolled off her. “Let’s shower.”
She complained as he took her hand and pulled her off the bed and into the bathroom. “That shower stall isn’t big enough for both of us, and, besides, I like salty.”
“I’m not showering to get clean.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “I do some of my dirtiest play with soapy hands.”
She laughed, and, although he enjoyed that husky sound, he loved the sighs and moans and whimpers she made when he proved it wasn’t an empty boast. He examined her with the precision of a diamond cutter.
Her body still bore bruises and scratches from her fall. Those he could reach within the confines of the minuscule shower stall, he kissed. Those he couldn’t touch with his mouth, he gently caressed with fingertips and palms, being especially careful with the two stitches on her thigh. Facing each other as warm water sluiced over them, they kissed endlessly, the notch between her thighs nestling him, her nipples small and hard against his chest.
He washed her hair and turned her away from him as he rinsed it just so he could watch the shampoo suds slide down her back and funnel into the cleft of her amazing ass. She didn’t quite believe him when he told her it was necessary for his hands to be there to ensure that all the soap had been rinsed away.
Nuzzling her ear through her wet hair, he whispered, “However, the only truly reliable way to know for sure is by tasting.” Reaching around her, he turned off the taps, one with each hand, then stayed that way, holding the levers. Drops of water plunked from the showerhead. The drain gurgled its last swallow.
Kerra turned within the circle of his arms and looked into his eyes in that slumberous way that made his cock rigid and his knees weak.
He pushed open the shower door and assisted her out. Maintaining eye contact, he dragged the two towels from the bar. With them in one hand and taking Kerra’s with the other, he pulled her back to the bed.
Trapper guided her down onto the two towels, which he’d spread end to end on the bed before going to his knees. She lay with her hands palms up at shoulder level, thighs together. With his index finger, he again traced the V, ending at the point. Just that was enough to spread a fever upward from beneath his fingertip. She became full and achy, yearning.
He curved a hand around each of her thighs and, as he drew them apart, bent down and kissed her between them. His lips were closed and soft and, after that first contact, unmoving. They remained like that until she thought she would die from wanting to squirm, move, indicate in some subtle way that she craved more.
When she didn’t think she could stand the anticipation for one more heartbeat, his lips parted and she felt the first touch of his tongue. It was a swirl of caresses, a thrusting invasion as though staking her as his, followed by a succession of French kisses, the last one deep and searching and ending with a slow withdrawal that left her melting.
She bowed up, seeking—
But he knew. He slid one hand under her and tilted her up, his strong fingers kneading her bottom. The other hand he splayed wide between her hipbones, his thumb perfectly placed to gently pull back the softest of skin. Then his mouth was on her again, hotter, wetter. His tongue was in turns fervid and
barely there, still and firm, then fanning and feather-light.
She sank her fingers into his hair, a silent plea.