Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (7 page)

“It’s not what you think. I have to go. Now. Please, be there.”

He tried not to glance over as she peeled out, but he couldn’t fucking help himself. The misery in her expression made it impossible to deny what he’d already known. He’d show up at the damn mall, or anywhere else the princess requested his presence. Because he had to figure out if Ms. Isabella Carrington was the devil in disguise or the woman of his dreams.

The cool metal of the gun settled into his grip like an old friend as he trained the crosshairs on his target. He’d been instructed to frighten. Wound but not kill. How many times had he been given that exact order when someone lacked the balls to ask for what they really desired? Stealing the life of something so beautiful seemed almost a shame. The prospect made him feel like a great safari hunter taking down a cheetah. Isabella Buchanan would be a prize kill.

His prey stepped into his line of sight. The man’s finger curled, tensing on the trigger as he drew a steady breath. In the fraction of a second he needed to eliminate her, a crash sounded from below, breaking his concentration.

The fucking cop. The do-gooder raced from the building, heading for the target. When the sniper looked back, she’d already hidden behind the cover of her car. Even if he could be sure the bullet would stay true through the sheet metal, or that he’d hit her behind the tinted glass, destroying the vehicle seemed crude. They’d only made four hundred of them and half of those had probably been crashed by now. Maybe, after she had been terminated, he’d buy the car and keep it as a momento.

Being wasteful wasn’t his style. There’d be plenty of other chances to complete his assignment. He’d promised his employer he’d finish the job by the end of the week. Time enough to make it perfect for them both.

Chapter Five

Razor rode until his arms and legs went numb enough he worried he might crash his motorcycle. When the freezing evening air finally registered, he headed for home. Day one of his new life had been a hell of a reintroduction to undercover work.

At the apartment, he parked then hopped off his bike. At least he tried to. His thigh had stiffened beyond belief. It took some working over the scarred area, plus two more attempts, to clear the seat. Once he had, he found himself gazing at the twilight sky, smiling as he recalled the highlights of the afternoon.

Terrorists could rip his fingernails off one by one before he’d admit it to the guys at the station, but he’d enjoyed the hell out of dancing with Izzy. Even when she’d tried to shut him out, electricity had sizzled under the surface, ready to arc between them when she let her guard drop.

Every time he’d mastered a difficult step she rewarded him with those delicious dimples and serious approval. By the mid-point of their session, she’d upgraded the choreography to incorporate more advanced tricks.

Razor danced up his sidewalk, practicing her precious rise and fall with the heel-toe action inciting his muscles to cry uncle. It’d been a while since he believed he could succeed at something. So what if it was a stupid contest—one he wasn’t a true competitor in?

He had no idea why it mattered, but he needed to give his partner a chance at her dream. It must be the way she looked at him, as though she noticed the wounds no one else could see. The ones on his soul.

She empathized because she had scars too.

He’d swear on it.

What he couldn’t decide was how they’d shaped her. Or him for that matter. What did either of them have to offer the world after sustaining irreparable damage? How would they act now that their ideals had shattered and reformed?

Razor swung wide as he practiced the dip Izzy had taught him. Without her weight to counterbalance him, he staggered a little.

“It could use some polish, kid.”

He fumbled when he caught sight of the familiar man loitering on his steps. Jeremy Radisson sat on the landing with his legs stretched out over the stairs. From the glint in his friend’s eyes, Razor knew he’d been busted big time.

“Shit. You’re not going to keep this to yourself, are you JRad?”

“Oh, hell no.” He grinned. “What fun would that be?”

Razor would have taken a whole load of crap instead of the glum resolve that coalesced on the computer whiz’s face, dampening his teasing.

“Fuck me.”

“No thanks. You’re not my type. But, yeah, you’re probably not gonna like this.” JRad climbed to his feet and made things worse. “Why don’t we head inside?”

“That bad?”

“I respect you. I think of you as my little brother on the force. That’s why you should hear the truth from me before you face it in front of the chief and the other guys. I can wait until the briefing tomorrow morning, but then I have to share what I found.”

Acid clawed at his stomach as he fished in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door, waiting for JRad to pass. The older cop went straight to the fridge and removed four beers as though he lived in the apartment. He joined Razor in the connected living room where he’d plopped onto the hand-me-down couch he’d inherited from Mason and Tyler when they moved in with Lacey.

“You planning to start on that?” Jeremy nodded to the bottle Razor had nearly broken in his grip. “Or you want the news fast?”

“Both.” He used the edge of his coffee table to pop the top off his beer before downing half the contents in one long swig. “Go.”

“I…uh…hacked into her phone today.”

“Before you had the carrier’s permission?” Razor rubbed the knot of tension in his neck.

“We have a warrant, but…yeah.”

“JRad, that kind of shit is going to land you in trouble one day.” They’d had this conversation before. Right now, he didn’t care. He needed facts. Enough of all this emotional guesswork.

“I know.” JRad looked chagrined. Still, the rules never stopped the nerd. He loved a challenge when it came to breaking and entering on virtual premises. “Anyway, I hate to tell you, but I think she might be dirty.”

The serious concern on his friend’s face deflated Razor. He crashed into the cushions of the sofa, flinging a forearm over his eyes as though he could block out the world. As an afterthought, he snagged his beer. He drained it before exchanging it for the full bottle.

“Why?” The question sounded more like a croak to him. JRad understood.

“It sounds like she has a handler.”

“Fuck!” The vehemence of his anger and disbelief combo-special surprised them both.

“Tell me you aren’t invested after a single day.”

When Razor didn’t answer, JRad cursed. The hiss of Razor’s second beer opening ricocheted through the room.

“Damn it, I should have come down there. I tried to call. Your cell went straight to voicemail. I should have stopped in as soon as I intercepted the text messages.”

“When did they come in?” A sinking suspicion grew in his gut.

“Around eleven.”

“Son of a bitch!” That had been right about the time of their meltdown, when he’d bolted from the room and left her reeling. “I should have realized something had changed. She acted funny when I came back in. Fuck, she seemed terrified. I thought I’d startled her…you know, that she’s jumpy after whatever shoved her from the nest last week.”

JRad permitted him to ramble without asking for unnecessary details. “I could see her being frightened. The tone definitely threatened with a hefty dose of jealous asshole, ‘Don’t get too cozy with the cop. I’m watching.’ The dude also talked some shit about scoping her ass. Felt like he knew her. Maybe not. Maybe it’s a psych out. I wouldn’t put a lot of money on it, though.”

Razor thought of at least a dozen scenarios that could paint Isabella innocent, then shook his head. He refused to wear rose-colored glasses. “If she were clean, she would have showed me that shit, right? I’m a cop for God’s sake. I could help her if she were in trouble. Right?”

He peeled his arm from his face to glance at JRad, willing his friend to provide the barest shred of hope. Both men had stood in their friends’ house and bought a psychotic woman’s story hook, line and sinker. Neither cared to make such a grievous mistake again. JRad had answered Lacey’s frantic call that night while Razor had lain in a pool of his own congealing blood, terrified—not for himself, but for the brothers he had failed. And their woman.

Instead of false promises, JRad asked, “Want another beer?”

“Bring them all.”

The slave trembled with anticipation as he knelt in artificial darkness behind the satin and fur of his blindfold. Gentle hands guided his shoulders to the raised section of the padded bench. Leather restraints bolted to the far reaches of the contraption encircled his wrists. His cock throbbed, releasing a stream of pre-come that trickled toward his thigh.

Familiar scents—leather, sweat and sex—perfumed the air. He dragged in a greedy lungful and held it. The assistant shoved his knees further apart as she positioned him in the ideal pose. She lodged a spreader bar between his legs to ensure he remained where she’d placed him. He arched his spine to present himself for her approval. She always cared for him when he behaved and doled out appropriate punishment when he deserved it. He understood he reflected on her—her training, her handiwork.

“Very nice, slave.” She patted his ass, her hands trailing along his flank to cup his balls in her supple palm. Her dainty hand had no trouble gripping all of his junk at once.

He knew better than to move, though he yearned for nothing more than to thrust himself into her grasp. He must save his arousal for the Master. Perhaps if the Master was pleased, he would allow the woman to bring his slave satisfaction as he sometimes did. If not, the slave would be made to wait, to suffer unbearable lust that rose inside him like leavening bread until the next session when it would erupt in raw desperation.

God, how he loved those times. He would do anything—had done unspeakable things—to be escorted to a plane of existence where nothing mattered except submission, soaring on endorphins boosted by the manufactured ecstasy the Master doled out so sparingly.

He whimpered behind the ball gag stretching his jaw. Surely he had earned satisfaction.

“Quiet. You’ll have something to cry over soon enough.”

The slave stifled a moan when the blunt tip of a smooth device probed his asshole. He couldn’t decide if it would be worse for her to shove it deep in one stroke or take it away. His muscles went slack as he relinquished his fate to her.

“Ah, yes. You
are
my favorite pet. So obedient.”

Pleasure swamped his senses when she daubed lube against his tender hole in reward. Slick gel stole his breath with its coolness. The promise of heat to follow had his fingers clenching into fists where they lay, trapped.

He was not disappointed.

The pressure returned at his ass. He pushed out, welcoming the intrusion. It stretched him wider and wider as it sank to the base and yet he yearned for more.

“That’s all there is for now.” The woman crooned in his ear. “You know the Master likes to destroy some of your resistance himself.”

And the slave loved it too. The bite of pain along with penetration made the act so much more intoxicating. He couldn’t deny his implicit surrender then. Nothing made him hotter faster.

She checked the fit, her gloved finger teasing his anus around the imbedded object. When she was satisfied, he heard the familiar glide of nylon accompany her motions as she wove the attached straps through the loops on the modest cock ring strangling his straining erection, ensuring he could not eject the plug. His equipment paled in comparison to the Master’s, but he hoped it at least plumped to its full capacity in a display of his rampant eagerness to please.

Although, the Master did delight in belittling him for his shortcomings.

The Dom would often fuck him harder after teasing him about his tiny prick or his inability to please his wife.

He had no chance to will the stubby flesh to subside when the rattle of chains rang through the quiet room. Knowing what would come next, he still cried out when the teeth of chilly metal clamps latched on to his sensitive nipples. If he squirmed, he could force the links connecting the pinchers to his cock ring to brush the nub of his dripping hard-on. The stimulation coupled with the pain generated by the motion would be enough to set him off.

But he didn’t dare move.

His trainer verified the grip with one firm yank on his chains that set his cock swaying. When everything held, she whispered, “Prepare yourself. He’s coming for you now.”

The woman petted his hair until the initial shock of adrenaline subsided. He could hear the clink of metal, as he shivered, over the pounding of his heart.

“Please him so I may take care of you afterward. I would enjoy that very much today.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She would understand his garbled response through the gag. After all, she was an expert.

The moment the Master entered the room, the atmosphere changed. Though the slave couldn’t see, the steady clomp of heavy boots approaching in a familiar gait told him all he needed to know. The man arched his back, flattened his shoulders and held the perfect posture as steps ringed him. The Master observed and critiqued his possession.

“Very nice job, Lily.” The Master’s tone resonated. Full of smoke, it reminded the slave of fine, aged whiskey.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You may observe from behind the mirror if you wish.”

“I will, Sir. Enjoy.”

“Don’t I always, dear?” The Master chuckled, waiting for the woman to retreat to her observation post before proceeding.

The slave tensed when footsteps neared his head, grateful for the straps anchoring the plug in his ass when he clenched on it. The Master unbuckled his gag, letting it fall to the floor. In the next instant his blindfold vanished, ripped away with one wrench.

The dim lighting of the dungeon seared his pupils for several moments. When his sight returned, the hard length of his Master’s veiny cock—framed in crotchless leather chaps—filled his vision, front and center.

The man lunged forward as far as his restraints would allow to engulf the delicacy with his salivating mouth. He swallowed the shaft to the root, reveling in the growl his Master made.