His broad palm locked on her hip, holding her steady. As Mae was suspended on the brink, she heard hoarse words leaving her mouth and had no idea what she was saying. But he was rubbing her faster and faster, and the fact that it was his sex on her sex, the two of them so close to being joined, meant everything was magnified.
Just as she began to come again, she heard a clicking. A fast clicking. One of his arms was going back and forth—and then he was bracing himself on the mattress with the opposite palm, looming over her, about to—
The first of the hot jets lashed across her sex and the heat of them made her explode once again. As she came for—how many times had it been?—whatever, as she came again, he ejaculated all over her, covering her core, her inner thighs, her lower abdomen.
In the darkness, she could hear him breathing hard, a curse escaping what she knew were gritted teeth.
It was a while before the letdown came.
As hot as this was, as right as it felt, as careful with her as he had been . . . she came to realize that he was not going to take it any further than this.
He was not going to have her.
Not really.
Not . . . ever.
At six p.m. the following evening, Erika parked her unmarked off to the side of the Commodore’s main entrance. Putting her laminated CPD parking permit on the dash, she got out with her laptop and her bag.
Inside the lobby, there was a security guard station and a concierge desk. Both were empty, and she could hear some kind of argument around the corner, two men going back and forth about some FedEx package that had been misplaced.
Bypassing the whole check-in thing, she took the center of three elevators, and as she rode up, she stared at herself in the mirrored panels lining the inside of the car. Wow. She looked like she was a hundred and eight, the bags under her eyes dark, her skin sallow, the fact that she’d pulled her red-and-brown hair back and clipped it at the nape of her neck making every minor crease in her face like something that had been carved into her skin. And jeez, her navy blue blazer was also really wrinkly.
Maybe it was just the overhead lighting.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered.
Somewhere along the line, she’d read that the manufacturers of elevators had done a study and found that if people could look at their reflection as they went up and down, they felt like they were stuck inside the cars for less time.
Well, she had to give that one a big nope.
Sick of her reflection, she looked to the seam in the doors, but because this was a fancy building, every square inch except the goddamn floor was covered with tinted reflective stuff.
“Great.”
Ding!
The elevator bumped to a stop, and the double doors opened on the top floor of the building. Stepping out, she left’d and right’d it, and then went down to the triplex of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert C. Cambourg.
Which was what the engraved brass plate over the doorbell read.
’Cuz why would you put your wife’s first name on her home, too.
Then again, everything was hers now, wasn’t it.
Erika rang the bell and took a step back so that the peephole could do its job—
As the door opened, she braced for a maid in a gray-and-white uniform with sensible shoes and a bun. But no, the lady of the house was doing the duty.
“Detective,” Mrs. Cambourg said. “Come in.”
No silk robe and nightgown this time. Black leggings, black turtleneck, the brown hair long and loose and shinning. This was a woman who never looked bad, no matter the lighting. And Jesus, she was tall.
But her eyes were as bloodshot as Erika’s were.
“Thanks.” Erika nodded and walked forward. “I know it’s late. I appreciate you seeing me.”
The triplex’s top floor had a foyer that was big as Erika’s entire apartment building, or at least it felt like that. And there was so much marble, the browns, creams, and black separated by brass—or, shit, maybe it was even gold—curlicues.
“Would you like to come down to the sitting room?”
As Mrs. Cambourg waited for an answer, it was like she was used to holding up for the opinions of others to frame her own choices. Or maybe she was completely fried, and who could blame her.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
“It’s this way.”
As of the night before, Mrs. Cambourg had sealed off this top floor and stayed in the panic-apartment within the condo. She’d promised not to go to the collection rooms downstairs. Then again, why would she want to?
“Here.” Mrs. Cambourg indicated a silk sofa. “And can I get you anything?”
“Can,” not “may.” Plus no maid. This was new money—and a woman who wasn’t used to it at all. Not that Erika judged. She didn’t come from anything and it had never bothered her or been the kind of thing that had gotten in her way.