Page 38 of Sawyer
I soak in his praise like heat after a winter plunge, each honeyed word pouring over me until my skin prickles and my muscles go loose and heavy. The warmth spreads from my chest to my fingers and toes, a slow, sweet tide that leaves me boneless and bright, even as my lungs still chase breath. I’m wrung out and trembling, yet every nerve is lit—vibrating with the echo of his voice, the thrum of my pulse, the lingering spark of every place his hands have been.
And then he kisses me. A full, soul-searing kiss that owns me in every sense of the word. His body stills slightly as his release hits him. He grips tight…then lets loose. Each pump of his hips slams into me, his dick pulsing as his release floods inside me. “You’re everything,” he whispers. “Every-fucking-thing.”
15
Sawyer
Morning should smell like fresh espresso and lemon polish, but the Kingsley House reeks of the stale aftermath of a gala. Orange Team operators pace the grounds in daylight patrols. A mobile forensics van idles by the portico, CSU techs collecting one last round of any evidence they can find before shipping it upriver to Quantico.
Fortresses, it turns out, can bleed.
I rub my sternum—phantom ache where Cam’s heartbeat slept against mine only hours ago. The memory of her satin skin, her breathy moans still ghost across my senses like aftershocks. Focus, Maddox. You promised her the world at dawn. First you have to keep her alive to see the sunset.
Rae hands me her overnight incident log as we stride toward the command trailer. “Drone captured a black SUV circling the perimeter at oh-three-twenty. No plates. Disappeared west on Cedar.”
“Forward footage to Hartley.” I flip pages. “Any chatter on police frequencies?”
She grimaces. “Media leak. KRX News aired‘Heiress Horror: Bomb at Kingsley Charity Gala.’They’re speculating internal sabotage.”
“Perfect.” I toss the packet on the desk as we step inside. Screens bloom with live feeds; headlines crawl across one monitor:
Insider Tips FBI to Kingsley Bomb!
Charity Catastrophe: Is the Blue Princess a Target?
Somewhere, someone is feeding the vultures.
“Malik,” I bark through comms, “pull today’s domestic staff roster. Cross-check against comms logs. I want to know who had phone access last night after the lockdown.”
“On it,” he replies.
Riggs enters carrying two coffees and an expression that saysintervention.He slides a cup my way. “Double espresso. Figured you’d need intravenous.”
I grunt thanks, take a scalding swallow—bitterness matches the acid in my gut. Riggs leans back against a gear case, arms folded. “You heading off a cliff, brother.”
“Cliff looks like?”
“Emotional free-fall. Eyes glazed. No sleep. And…” He gestures vaguely to my torso. “Paint smudges?”
I glance down. A faint streak of cobalt blue arcs across my black shirt—Cam’s mark from when our bodies collided into dawn.Heat flicks under my collar even as adrenaline spikes. “Working case,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” He studies me. “You love her?”
The question detonates in my chest. “Don’t go there.”
“Too late—you’re alreadythere.Just make sure your heart doesn’t override the mission.” He turns serious. “Whoever planted that bomb knew our sensor grid, Sawyer. This isn’t a star-struck fan. It’s strategic.”
“I know.” I rake a hand through my hair. “We’re missing a link—someone inside feeding intel. We lock tighter, we flush them out.”
Before Riggs can push further, my phone buzzes with Gregory Kingsley’s number. I pick up. “Sir?”
“Mr. Maddox. Meet me in the west library.” The tone brooks no delay.
I hand the coffee back to Riggs and head out.
07:35 — West Library
Sunlight slants across rows of rare first editions. Gregory stands at the window, phone in one hand, Wall Street Journal in the other. Headlines about the bomb glare from the business section.
