Sting

“Can Kinnard hear me?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“He could be faking it.”

“He’s still under anesthesia. In any case, you must wait until after the doctor has checked him in the morning, and only then will he determine if the patient is up to being interrogated. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. Are these restraints really necessary?”

Somebody tugged on Shaw’s hand. It didn’t move. Not that one. The other one was stroking Jordie in that softest of soft places on a woman’s body. She was pressing herself up into his palm with want and invitation. He extended his middle finger down into the cleft, collected her moisture on the pad of his finger, and tantalized that most sensitive spot. Dipping his head, he did the same to her nipple with his tongue.

Teasing strokes in perfect concert. Pleasuring by painting small circles.

She clutched handfuls of his hair, chanted his name in gasps and sighs, implored him not to stop.

“The restraints stay on. Both hands. Be sure the rest of the nursing staff understands that. Don’t be taken in. He’s dangerous. Two nights ago, he shot a man in the back of the head.”

“Well, he’s not going to shoot anybody tonight. Please, Deputy. I’m the one who’ll get into trouble if I allow you to stay in here. Please leave. He won’t be fully conscious for hours yet.”

They left. Thank Christ. Now he could enjoy this erotic dream in peace.

Jordie’s breath had turned uneven. In shockingly explicit language, she begged him to put his fingers inside her. He was all too happy to oblige.

Holy hell. He’d thought her mouth was wet and hot and snug.

She clenched, drawing his fingers deeper. He eased them back, and when she whimpered in protest, he pushed them into her again. Higher. She clenched tighter.

And then in the miraculous way of dreams, he was suddenly on top of her, and it wasn’t his fingers but his cock embedded in her. She was squeezing it each time he thrust into her. God, it felt good.

Never one for prolonged foreplay—or kissing, for that matter—he’d always just as soon skip the preliminaries and get on to the main event. Not this time. Not with Jordie. He was in no hurry. He liked this unrushed fucking.

Best of all, he wasn’t going anywhere. He could keep at this for a long time. Till morning. Hours yet.

Jordie came awake as suddenly as though someone had shoved her out of sleep.

She expected to find herself reclined on a cloth-upholstered backseat, her hands and feet bound. It took several seconds for her to remember that she was in a hotel room. Creature comforts included fresh bedsheets and a pillow stuffed with the softest down. The temperature wasn’t sweltering; instead, she was chilled by air-conditioning.

However, while she was no longer a hostage in a nasty garage, she wasn’t in this hotel suite by choice.

According to the clock on the bedside table, it was four thirty a.m. Throwing off the covers, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. After using the toilet, she closed the lid and sat on it, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

Was Shaw all right? Would he recover? Was he even alive?

Not knowing his current condition or prognosis was sheer torture.

Gwen Saunders, the U.S. marshal with whom she was sharing the suite, had received calls at various times throughout the long afternoon and evening, but she had never divulged the nature of those calls to Jordie.

When Jordie had pretended to nap, she had intentionally left the bedroom door ajar, hoping to pick up enough tidbits of the one-sided conversations to piece together some solid answers to all the questions plaguing her.

But either Gwen was aware of her eavesdropping or she had an unusually soft speaking voice. When Jordie had given up the pretense of napping, emerged from the bedroom and asked the marshal point-blank if she had received any word on Shaw Kinnard’s condition, her answer had been “The last report, he was still in surgery.”

That was all Jordie had gotten from her, and she had no way of knowing whether or not that was the truth. “Still in surgery” could mean that he had died on the operating table and they had left him there.

The marshal was no more forthcoming about Josh. After Jordie had asked several times if there had been any further contact with him, the marshal told her that Agent Wiley had repeatedly called the number from which Josh had called him. “He hasn’t answered, and he hasn’t called back.”

The story of her rescue hadn’t been reported until the last news broadcasts of the night. Maybe Josh, wherever he was, had learned of it by now. Perhaps he’d tried to reach her directly. With that possibility in mind, she’d asked Gwen if her cell phone had been recovered.

“It was found in Kinnard’s car.”

“But I searched that car. Thoroughly.”