My Killer Vacation
Apparently I’m the only one making a mental pro/con list, because the bounty hunter reaches out and grips the waistband of my shorts, the heat of his touch searing my hips, and he drags me forward. Fast enough to make me stumble a little. His hot breath curls in my belly button and I reach for his hair, tangling it around my fingers, exhilaration pouring through me like a mile-high waterfall. And then he licks me. He licks across my exposed belly from one hip to the other. Then bites down on my abductor. Hard enough to make me gasp.
“I’m Myles,” he says hoarsely. “That’s my name.”
“Myles,” I whisper, my knees seconds from giving out.
“Taylor,” calls Jude from downstairs, beginning to sound alarmed. “You good up there?”
“C-coconuts,” I try to say, but it comes out sounding like gibberish—and that gives the bounty hunter pause. With a rocky sigh, he rises to his full height and looks down at me through narrowed eyes. He takes my chin in his hand and tilts it up, scrutinizing every inch of my face. “You might feel unsatisfied after being treated with kid gloves. But…at least there was affection there. I don’t have any of that in me. None. Trust me, you’d feel a lot worse after us sleeping together. Being respected is better than empty sex. That’s what I’d give you.”
“Maybe that’s what I want.”
His pupils dilate a touch more and he steps closer, eyelids drifting down, his fingers sliding up into my hair and gently fisting my hair. “And goddamn, I’d like to provide it. That mattress would never be the same if you put on those red panties for me. But it’s the worst idea I’ve had in years, and believe me, half pint, that’s saying something.” With a visible effort, he drops his hand from my hair and backs away, dragging a shaking hand down his open mouth. “Stay out of trouble, Taylor. I mean it.”
Does that mean he’s not coming back?
I nod absently, trying to hide my immense disappointment that he’s no longer touching me. My body is hot and exposed and I’m twisted up in knots in the most intimate of places. And he’s leaving. My brain tells me there is no other choice. He’s right. I can’t just have a fling with a bounty hunter. A mean one who looks—and acts—like he just escaped hell, no less. Maybe I’m overestimating my ability to have a wild fling? Maybe I’m just on a high from this new courageous behavior, but I’m not actually built for meaningless sex?
“The neighbor won’t bother you again. Sing Kelly Clarkson as loud as you want.” He looks like he feels stupid for saying that, cursing under his breath and wheeling around on a booted heel to leave the room. A moment later, the door slams downstairs. Without thinking, I cross to the window and look down, watching Myles climb onto his bike—a Harley Davidson, I notice now—and strap a helmet on. He looks up at me and kicks the engine to life, and God help me, I have to cross my legs, the ensuing clench of my sex is so intense and prolonged.
Finally, he breaks eye contact and roars off down the street.
I drop down on the bed and stare blankly into space, willing my libido to shrink back down to the usual, reasonable level. Something is off in the room, but I don’t quite realize what it is for several moments. Not until Jude walks in to check on me and I automatically reach for the suitcase lid to close it, so I don’t have to explain my frivolous purchase twice in one day.
And that’s when I realize the red panties are gone.
Myles’s business card sits in their place.
Chapter 5
Myles
I’m missing something.
Not quite sure what it is, but I’ll know when I see it.
It’s just after sunrise on Friday morning and I’m back at Oscar Stanley’s house. Last night, I took a ride to Worcester to lay my own set of questions on Judd Forrester, the trucker who assaulted Stanley, but he was on a long-haul job and won’t be back until late this afternoon. From my motel room last night, I made a preliminary timeline, ran a few background checks on the neighbors on Coriander Lane and any known associates of Stanley from the postal service—though he mostly kept to himself. I went through the guest book and determined that yeah, Taylor was right, Stanley had been living in his own rental for ten months prior to the group of girls arriving. No prior issues with any renters. All stellar reviews.
There’s just something…off. Can’t put my finger on it.
Tossing an antacid into my mouth, I circle the living room, my eyes straying toward Taylor’s place. Not for the first time. Far from it. A few more trips to this window and I’m going to wear a path in the floorboards.