His fingers grip my thighs. His body nails me against the door. My hands seek any part of him I can reach, digging fingernails into his shirt, biceps, and neck.
He’s fire and ruthlessness, and I’m desperate to be burned and consumed. Together, we’re a heaving, grunting, hungry battlefield, hunting and raiding, chasing and pillaging.
Fingers scratch. Lips ensnare. Muscles contract, and bodies bend. We give and take and fuck with abandon.
When his hand returns to my throat and presses down on my windpipe, a new sensation ignites beneath my skin. Shameless and wanton, my body pulses harder, flooding adrenaline through my veins, roiling my blood, and tightening the deepest parts of me.
“Jake.” I stare into his eyes. “I’m going to—”
I come suddenly, violently, and with such great force I clamp down around him, causing him to choke on a breath.
He pounds into me, rattling the door as he gulps for air and climaxes on his exhale. His hand slides off my throat, and hips thrust, slowing the rhythm and milking every last drop.
“You’re wrecking me.” He tucks himself away and goes to work on my clothes, straightening and zipping. “You know what I’m going to do every night for the rest of our lives?”
“Get wrecked inside my body?”
“That’s the plan.” He snatches his hat, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. “Let’s go home and do it again.”
In every person’s life, there’s a point of no return. Honoring our teenage pact is that point for me. I weighed the risks. Poured over the plan. Considered every angle. There’s no way I can stop myself from seeing this through.
But Levi Tibbs can.
All he has to do is pass our test.
He was released this morning from a correctional facility an hour’s drive from Sandbank. His freedom was the first thing on my mind when I woke, and the ache that amassed in my throat has persisted into the afternoon.
Am I scared?
Fucking petrified.
Will I chicken out at the last minute?
Not a chance in hell.
I sit on a wobbly wooden chair in a decrepit shack on the outskirts of town. My leg bounces restlessly as Jake and Jarret move around me, checking weapons and making minor adjustments to the musty furniture.
They told me about this place a week ago when we discussed the plan. Surrounded by woods in the middle of nowhere, the tiny one-room house was bought and paid for by their dad years ago.
John Holsten never told his sons about it. Jake discovered the property during his investigation into his dad’s secrets.
The significance of this shack is the duffel bag of money hidden under the floorboard.
When Jake searched the place a few years ago, he found the bag. Ten grand in cash. Left behind by two hitmen the night they went to the ravine to commit murder.
We know it’s their money because the bag includes photos, personal belongings, and other identification. We know John Holsten let them stay here to prepare for my murder. And we know Levi Tibbs will return for that cash.
As a registered sex offender, he’s not allowed outside after dark. He’s not permitted within two-thousand feet of a child, and he only has the cash that was on him during the time of his arrest. That severely limits where he can stay the night. The shack is his only option.
Beyond the grimy window, the sun begins its downward arc, sinking an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“He should be here by now.” I clamp a hand down on my knee to stall the nervous bouncing.
“There’s only one Greyhound bus to Sandbank.” Jake leans against the wall, hat tipped downward and legs crossed at the ankles—the patient, sexy slouch of a confident man. “An hour walk from the bus station puts him here in about twenty minutes.”
“Unless he hitchhikes.”
“He might.” Jake nods. “Though I don’t think he’ll want anyone knowing he’s here. Witnesses lead to questions, and questions could lead to the money he claimed he never received.”
“And you’re sure he won’t have a GPS tracker?”
Most states require sex offenders to wear ankle bracelets.
“I’m certain.” He nudges up the Stetson to meet my eyes. “Oklahoma only puts those on habitual offenders. This was his first offense.”
And last. Sucks for him. A monitoring device might’ve saved his life. Hard to bury a body with a tamper-free GPS tracker attached to it.
“You can still back out.” Jarret lowers into the chair across the table from me. “We’ll get him, Conor. You don’t have to be here when it happens.”
“I’m not freaking out. I would just feel better if we were all in position.”
“All right.” He rises from the chair and ruffles my hair. “Remember, whatever that fucker says to you—”
“I know. I’ll be fine.”
If I can survive what Levi Tibbs did to me that night, I can survive his hateful words.