I want to touch you. Your face, your skin, your thighs, your eyes. I want to feel you shiver as my hands explore every part of you.
I want to hear you. Your voice, whispering my name. Your breath in my ear. Your soft moan as I give you everything you want, and so much more.
I want to taste you. Your lips. Your kisses. Your beautiful flower, opening to my touch, my mouth, my tongue.
I want to take in the scent of you. I want to smell the perfume of your hair. The musk of your desire, bringing us closer, always closer.
More than anything, Gwen, I want to see you. Face to face. Body to body. I could pour my heart out with words forever, but words will never be enough.
It’s time we finally met, don’t you think?
Please say yes.
THEY TOLD ME ahead of time to prepare myself for the dead bodies. But nobody told me how.
When I pulled up outside of 95 Geary Lane in Lincoln, all I knew was that a family of five had been killed and that I was supposed to report to Agent Keats for further instruction. Talk about jumping into the deep end, but hey, this was exactly the kind of assignment I’d been jonesing for. On paper, anyway. Real life, as it turns out, is a little more complicated than that.
“Can I help you?” a cop at the tape line on the sidewalk asked.
“I’m Angela Hoot,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said.
“Oh.” I’d forgotten to show him my new temporary credential. I held it up. “I’m with the FBI,” I said.
I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. Me? With the FBI? Not something I ever saw coming, that was for sure. I certainly didn’t look the part, and I didn’t feel like I belonged there for a second.
Neither could the cop, apparently. He eyeballed me twice, once before he even looked at the ID, and once after. But that seemed to take care of it. He handed back my card, gave me an if-you-say-so kind of shrug, and lifted up the yellow tape to let me into the crime scene.
“Watch out for the smell,” he said. “It’s pretty bad in there.”
“Smell?” I said.
“You’ll see.”
It hit me on the porch steps, before I was even through the front door. I’d never been anywhere near a dead body, much less smelled one, but what else could that acrid nastiness be? A gag reflex pulsed in my throat. I switched to mouth breathing and fought the urge to run back to my safe little cubicle in Boston.