Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (19 page)

The sight of his surrender to ecstasy—seed erupting in milky strands to decorate his sweat-slicked muscles—forced her over the edge. She screamed when her whole body curled inward then exploded into a million rainbow colors more beautiful than she could have imagined.

Pleasure crested in wave after wave of euphoria until she found herself held tight in Razor’s arms. She’d fallen from her perch, but he caught her. Kept her safe through the storm of passion they’d generated together.

Had it been real, or an amazing dream?

When Isabella regained some semblance of control, her breathing returning to normal, she swiped her finger through the evidence of his release. She brought it to her lips, devouring the salty sweet taste of his come and humming her approval.

“That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me, Izzy.” Razor squeezed her shoulders in a bear hug. “You’re amazing.”

She tried to answer. Twice. Exhaustion glued her mouth shut, preventing her from admitting how much their sharing had meant to her. How much he meant to her.

Even if she had to abandon him come morning.

Chapter Thirteen

Razor stretched to work out the stiffness cramping his muscles. Would there ever come a day he woke up pain-free? When his chest flexed, the unmistakable weight of a woman curled asleep there shifted too.

Izzy
.

She’d damn near drained him with her innocent seduction and the uninhibited achievement of her own pleasure for what he would bet was the first time.

How could someone as alluring and sensual as her never have had an orgasm? It boggled his mind despite her midnight sharing, which had helped to unravel some of the mystery. Some. She hadn’t divulged everything. He’d swear to it.

Guilt tainted the stunning memory of her education.

She’d had too much to drink. Hell, he’d purposely taken only tastes of the cheap wine. It didn’t affect him as much. Used to drinking, he also weighed twice what the pixie did and he’d gorged on tons of steak. Shit, it had been delicious.

Encouraging her to spill her guts under the circumstances had been reprehensible enough. Allowing her to jerk him off after claiming to support her no-cheating edict had his dirtbag-o-meter pegged at an all-time high.

As punishment, he forced himself to sacrifice quality snuggle time. He bundled Isabella under his comforter, trying not to jostle her too much. Maybe his imagination and ego teamed up to play tricks on him, but she looked rested—healthier—this morning. She could use all the sleep she could bank.

Razor couldn’t say how long he watched her curled in his bed despite his fairly urgent need to piss, made worse by the cool morning air seeping into his crummy apartment. A rustle from his living room caught his attention. On instinct, he crouched then grabbed his Louisville slugger from the closet before investigating.

What kind of idiot left his gun out of reach when trouble lurked nearby? Izzy had consumed his focus, no matter how he’d coached himself to remain aloof.

He choked up on the wooden handle before peeking into the living area. Someone had slung the contents of Izzy’s purse across the coffee table where the two of them had shared their amazing meal. The intruder wouldn’t barrel past him. No matter what they wanted from Izzy, they were about to have a hell of a fight on their hands. Failure was not an option where his girl’s safety was concerned. He’d go down swinging if he had to.

Sometime during the night his instincts had roared to life. What had Mason called it? Claiming his edge? His confidence, which had disappeared for half a year, returned in a rush. Isabella’s innocence could not be questioned. Not after what they’d shared. He’d move heaven and earth to eliminate any threats to the amazing woman he’d discovered.

The trespasser switched on the ugly fluorescent overhead in the kitchenette, blinding him for a second. He raised the bat, prepared to knock the bastard’s head for a grand slam. Except he recognized the voice mumbling uncharacteristic curse after curse. The profanity shocked Razor more than the identity of the man who’d entered uninvited.

“JRad? What the fuck?” he whispered to avoid waking Izzy. The lack of volume didn’t hinder his annoyance from flashing out loud and clear. Though Razor meant business, the absolute dread on the other man’s face had nothing to do with the rookie’s threatening stance or the near bludgeoning he’d almost bestowed on his mentor.

“Sorry, kid.” JRad’s head tipped back until it banged into the freezer hard enough to scoot the appliance a fraction of an inch closer to the wall. “I didn’t want to find these.”

“What are you talking about?” Unease slithered up Razor’s spine.

“You two looked so good together yesterday, asleep this morning. You fit. Isabella seemed like such a sweet girl. And it was cool to see the old Razor put in an appearance. I don’t blame you for falling for her after meeting her. I just thought I’d cover your ass. You know, be extra cautious after…”

“Snooping again?” The revulsion instigating his nausea had little to do with his friend’s legendary penchant for gathering info through whatever means necessary. It stemmed from the certainty he would hate the fuck out of what he was about to hear.

“I didn’t think I’d find anything. Not a scrap. I swear.”

When JRad glanced away, Razor noticed the manila folder open on the counter. He snatched a glossy photograph from his friend, ignoring the slight crumple his fist made in the heavy paper.

“Is this…”

“I wasn’t sure either. Had to flip on the light for a better look. Now I wish I hadn’t.” Jeremy scrubbed his knuckles over his scrunched lids.

A grainy, black and white version of Malcolm Carrington knelt, naked, at the feet of a petite woman. Latex boots with mile-high heels encased her shapely legs. Her pale, pale thighs glowed in drastic contrast at the top of the frame. The quality of the image made it difficult to say for sure but Razor thought the man might have been in the process of licking her soles. A studded collar encircled the guy’s neck. Chain linked him to the leather loop encircling his Mistress’s wrist.

“No!” Razor clutched the phantom pain zinging through the scars on his chest with one hand as he scanned the half-dozen damning images littering his countertop. In each, Isabella dominated her husband, humiliating him while doling out extreme punishment. Even worse, she got off on it. Big time.

How else could he explain the picture of her honey drenching the leather whip-handle embedded in her pussy while Carrington supported the other end with his teeth?

No rationalization he manufactured could will away the worst scene—her slave, face down, his back welted and oozing blood in several spots, while the knotted tips of her cat-o-nine dangled, ominous, between the man’s legs. Nothing could horrify him more. Or so he thought until he uncovered the shot featuring Malcolm in a sling, his asshole stretched around the tiny wrist of the woman fisting him.

Holy fuck!

Well, at least she hadn’t lied about one thing. The man’s cock looked more like a giant clit than a penis. Razor gagged as he catalogued the hysterical rapture on Carrington’s face. He forced himself to avoid studying the woman abusing Malcolm’s trust, taking advantage of his condition.

His pride couldn’t handle admitting his faulty judgment.

Razor had nothing against kink. Serious forays into the darker side of passion intrigued him. Yet, something about the man was off. Really off. Even in the pictures, Carrington’s dementedness jumped out at him. Any Dom, or Domme, who capitalized on the situation couldn’t hold his respect. And they sure as hell couldn’t be the innocent the little witch had convinced him she was.

Isabella had been crafty, avoiding including any identifiable features in the photographs. It didn’t matter. He recognized her build. The photographs seared his eyes. No wonder Carrington had resorted to such desperate measures to search his wife’s—his Mistress’s—shithole hideout and annihilate what remained when he hadn’t found what he sought.

The pictures slipped from his fingers. He stood rooted to the floor, wondering at the rapid gasp of his hyperventilation.

“Razor…” JRad took one step toward him, kicking his limbs into motion.

“Need some air. Fuck. Should have searched her stuff.
Mistress
Isabella.” He met the man’s gaze long enough to reject the pity lurking there before groaning, “Thank you.”

He limped from the apartment. Sparks shot through his thigh with every staggering lurch. Jeremy would keep her from leaving and he couldn’t stand to occupy the same space as her for a single minute more. He burst out his door then crashed down the stairs.

Mason leaned, arms crossed over his chest, one hip against the retaining wall at the edge of the parking lot.

Shit!
Avoiding the man would prove impossible.

“What’s up, Razor?” His friend hailed him from across the vacant lot.

“I fucked up. Again.” Despite the stiffness in his joints, he spun around. He punted Mrs. Crabczyk’s obnoxious garden gnome a solid forty feet through the air. The damn thing bounced before landing right side up with a friendly wave that had him pulling his hair while trying to ignore the pounding in his toe.

“Jesus H. Christ! I can’t do anything right. Fuck it, I quit. For real this time.” His throat tightened. He dropped to his ass on the brown grass, which hadn’t begun sprouting quite yet, his fury morphing into something less manly.

Great, like I need something else to be ashamed of.

When the scuffed running shoes Mason preferred filled Razor’s downcast vision he closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. A pounding headache coalesced behind his temples.

“I take it JRad found more than he hoped to on his little look see?”

“You have no idea.”

“It caught you off guard?” Mason surprised him by plopping onto the dewy lawn beside his knee.

“Clark. Don’t turn shrink on me. This is all your fucking fault.” He sat on his hands to keep from waving them at his fellow officer like his grandmother in a fit.

“Huh? How do you figure?”

“Your bullshit about my edge. You got me pumped. Might as well have played ‘Eye of the Tiger’ before running me up the
Rocky
steps.”

Mason barked out a laugh. “That movie rocks.”

“Figures you’d think so.” He scrubbed a hand through his bed-head hair.

“What’s your problem, Razor?”

“In real life, Rocky would have had his ass kicked. And every time he staggered to his feet they’d have taken him to the mat again and again until he learned his fucking lesson. There’s no coming back.”

“So you’re saying my pep talk worked? Sweet. Ty’s been ragging on me to develop my interpersonal skills. Guess I showed him.”

There was no help for it. Razor threw his arms over his head then crashed to his back, sprawled on the lawn. He prayed for a freak meteor strike to put him out of his misery.

“Look, Razor. Kidding aside, every guy on scene yesterday jumped to help your girl. It’s in our nature or we wouldn’t work these shit jobs. Yes, it makes us susceptible to being played, but I’m okay with my hero complex. We’re extra cautious these days. Especially you, me, Ty and JRad. Despite that, she didn’t trip any one of our feelers. And I don’t believe for a second the heat shimmering between you was an act for this assignment. Maybe there’s another explanation…”

“No way. I saw…”

He didn’t have the chance to fill the other man in because Tyler shouted from around the corner. Mason scrambled to his feet, bolting toward his partner before Razor had moved a muscle. Sort of like his foolish ass had leapt to Izzy’s defense less than an hour ago. Must be nice to love someone who deserved it.

He struggled to follow, dreading what they would find.

Isabella never slept past seven. So when she rolled over and squinted to protect her throbbing head from the rays streaming in the roadside window, she panicked. Until she recalled the night before and the man who’d made it the best of her life. Her distress morphed into dread. It had bile burning a path up her esophagus. Or maybe her upset stomach was a side effect of all the wine she’d imbibed.

Either way she might have already blown her chance for escape.

She nuzzled the indentation in the pillow next to hers, dropping a light kiss to the center of it before rolling to her feet. She tested her sprained ankle, much better today.

Checking around, she couldn’t locate her clothes. Although they’d been ruined by the fire, she couldn’t risk sneaking into the living room for Lacey’s replacements. She’d have to wing it in her borrowed pajamas. She imagined Razor rounding up breakfast when she heard movement in the kitchen. Without much time to decide, she reviewed her options. She could stay. Every second she associated with James put him in more danger. She could run. Without the pictures in her purse, or her car keys, she’d be screwed.

Not that she wasn’t already there.

No cash, no lawyer, no place to hide… The odds weren’t in her favor.

Her lack of money rendered the photos useless. Plus, her car screamed for attention no matter where she went—not exactly conducive to living on the run.

Footsteps neared the bedroom.

Isabella braced herself, prepared for her opportunity to slip away.

The steady stride faded once more.

She had to act now. With less than she’d had the last time she’d fled her home, she scurried to the window, eased it open then popped the screen. When the light aluminum frame bounced onto the pavement twenty feet below, she winced.

Good thing she had practice climbing out. Unable to roam far, she’d entertained the need for a moonlit stroll in the gardens on the occasions she couldn’t sleep. She craned her neck, grinning when she spotted a beefy oak tree about five feet away. If she could lean a little closer…

The downspout bolted to the siding less than two feet from Razor’s window would make an ideal handhold and stepping stone. As long as her weight didn’t rip it apart. Without much to lose, she evaluated the drop. Worst case, if she could slow herself at all on the pipe, she might have a slender hope of surviving in one piece.