“Obligated?” He laughed. “I want the taste of you on my tongue.”
Shivers.
No man had ever said that before, most acting as if giving her head was just the price they had to pay for receiving, a sexual quid pro quo.
Quinn drew her hard against him and kissed her, his tongue doing wonderful things to hers. Then he turned her so that her back pressed up against the cold tile wall and knelt before her, lifting one of her thighs over his shoulder.
“God, I love the look of you—so fuckin’ sexy.” He parted her, explored her with a few slow licks. “Mmm.”
Her fingers slid into his wet hair, and she watched as he tasted her, flicking her clit with his tongue, the sensation and the intensity on his face making her belly clench. Then he took her clit into his mouth and suckled her.
Her fingers balled into fists, the pleasure of it almost unbearable, his head moving in and out, his lips stroking her, his mouth maintaining suction. “Fuck!”
She fought to hold onto her self-control, but what he was doing felt so fucking good. She cursed, cried out, called his name. “Quinn!”
Then he slid two fingers inside her, thrusting to match the rhythm of his mouth and she couldn’t speak at all, every exhale a moan, her thighs quivering, pleasure drawing tighter and tighter inside her—until it exploded.
She cried out, arching against the tile, climax flooding her, drowning her in bliss.
Quinn drew out her pleasure, making it last, staying with her until she was weak and breathless. Then he lowered her foot to the shower floor, stood, the raw emotion in his eyes making her pulse skip. “Lilibet.”
He claimed her mouth in a deep, hard kiss, his lips wet with her taste. Then he cupped her ass with his hands and lifted her off her feet, bringing her face to face with him. “I cannae get enough of you.”
He thrust into her, fucking her slowly, sending her over the edge again, his gaze never leaving hers, not even when he came.
* * *
Quinn readthrough the files Elizabeth had pulled up for him, all of them relating to the risk of renewed violence as a result of Brexit. “JTAC—that’s theJoint Terrorism Analysis Centre—has set the threat level at severe in Northern Ireland.”
“I remember seeing that.” She lay on the sofa, resting to fend off a headache brought on by spending a fruitless hour online researching all the businesses surrounding the alley where Jack was killed. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves again. We have no evidence that he’s involved with terrorists. Leo has Irish workers? So does this hotel. He favors Scottish independence? So do you. He doesn’t like the fact that I used to work for the CIA? Neither does my sweet old hippie grandma.”
“Your gran is a hippie?” Quinn grinned.
“Woodstock, protests, teach-ins—you name it.” Elizabeth stood, walked to the white board. “Jack has a bad night on October eighteenth. He comes home upset and seems tense to Ava. Jack calls you ten days later using a phone he told Ava he’d lost. He’s found murdered the following Saturday in the early morning, killed by a single slash wound to the throat. Investigators find cocaine and heroin residue on his hands and in his suit pocket.”
“Aye, but neither I nor that fucker Grant believe Jack was dealin’. If he and I agree, that has to mean somethin’, aye?
“Grant might say that to deflect suspicion. How could he be selling drugs with Jack if he doesn’t believe Jack sold drugs?”
“Aye, I can see that.” But Jack hadn’t been selling drugs.
“We’ve talked to Clive MacDonald, who had an adrenaline reaction when I asked about Jack but who could not have killed him. There could be reasons for his reaction.”
“He disnae like the police.” Of that Quinn was certain.
Elizabeth nodded. “His daughter tried to cover for him, helped him make up a story for why he’d done what he’d done. She was afraid, too.”
Aye, he’d seen that. “Could she no’ simply be afraid of her da?”
“Possibly. I wish I could talk to her again without him present.”
“You want to go back there?”
She didn’t answer, focused instead on her train of thought. “We’ve also met with Leo, who is grieving Jack’s death and pissed off about what he saw as Jack’s betrayal. But his grief doesn’t necessarily mean he was sad that Jack was dead. Itcouldmean he feels sad about having to kill Jack.”
“What about what he said—about putting the killer at the bottom of the Irish Sea. You said he meant that.”
“I did, but I could be wrong.”