I snort a derisive huff of a laugh. “Is this your weak attempt at seduction, Jack?”
He leans a fraction closer, his arm mere millimeters from my shoulder. “If I wanted to seduce you, I’d have you on your knees right now in the cold room with that treacherous little mouth of yours wrapped around my cock, begging me for more,” he whispers.
For a heartbeat, everything in the room disappears.
Everything except Jack.
All that remains is his cool gaze trapped on my neck, my pulse answering with a surge of blood in my jugular, drumming like Morse code. A cruel smile tips up one corner of Jack’s lips as his shoulder lifts with a disinterested shrug. “Perhaps your throat is just better suited to other carnal pleasures.”
Jack steps away from me, sidling up to the table to pour his coffee.
An ember twists in my chest like it’s burning through wood. I should want to take my drink and pour it down the front of his pants. But I don’t. An entirely different kind of scenario plays out in my head, one where we’re in the cold storage room, where my knees are numbed by the frost on the floor, where my nipples are painfully tight against my bra. One where I own Jack Sorensen’s pleasure, no matter how tightly he grips my hair or how hard he fucks my mouth. One where he bows to me, even though I’m the one on their knees.
I take a long sip of my scalding coffee to burn that imagery right out of my mind.
He’s a dick. He’s a dick he’s a dick he’s a dick. You like dicks but not that kind. So bust out your arsenal and get the fucker back.
“Brad,” I call above the chatter of coworkers. Jack’s presence at the table behind me is as biting and cold as the aura of a glacier. Brad looks up from his favorite spot at the conference table, his second danish suspended at his open mouth. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Brad’s eyebrows raise in question. I don’t have to turn around to feel the icy kiss of Jack’s gaze land on my skin.
“Your proposal for the joint field research trip on the effects of groundwater recharge on the distribution of skeletal remains for the ICFS grant…? It was accepted, didn’t you know?”
Of course he didn’t know. I know, because my friend Dr. Hargrave is on the review committee and she told me yesterday. I may have also persuaded her to not accept Jack’s much superior proposal on burial depth and decomposition rates.
Words of congratulations flow around the room and Brad looks genuinely delighted by the news. He catches my eye for just a moment and I smile, but it’s only Jack who seems to notice the devious glint in my eye when he stops at my side.
“No trip to Madrid for me this year, I assume,” he whispers.
When I turn my smile toward him, it’s fucking dazzling. “I guess not. Suck my sweet pussy lips, Jack.”
I walk away and take my place at the table just as Hugh calls the department to have a seat. Jack sits across from me, his expression unreadable. If he’s anxious about what’s coming, he gives nothing away.
“Thank you all for meeting on such short notice,” Hugh says as he takes a seat at the head of the table. The ever-present bags under his eyes seem a little puffier, their shadows a little deeper. His brows furrow as he casts his gaze around the table. “We have a serious issue to discuss this morning. One of our master’s students, Mason, has been reported missing.”
Murmurs and gasps rise around the table, my own among them, with Brad’s voice loudest of all. I catch his gaze and mimic his expression. Wide eyes. Open mouth. Touch of fear. I take it one step further and put my hand over my heart. I don’t dare look at Jack, whose presence looms across the table with the gravitational pull of a small planet.
“When was Mason last seen?” Brad asks.
“Thursday afternoon,” Hugh replies. “He’s been working part-time at Louie’s and didn’t show for his lunch shift on the weekend. When he didn’t appear for his shift last night either and no one could reach him, he was reported missing. A public announcement is going out now.” A heavy sigh passes from Hugh’s lips. He leans forward, lacing his fingers, his gaze passing over the room of whispers and worry. “A missing persons search will commence here at the Bass Fields, among other potential locations where Mason frequents. There will be no field research until further notice. I’ve spoken to the police department, and search parties will be arriving any moment. I’ve offered the use of Lecture Hall B as a location for their base of operations.”
“The other students, what should we be telling them?” Joy asks, her eyes glassy beneath the unforgiving lights.
“If they have any information about Mason’s whereabouts, anything, they should alert the police immediately. Two counselors will also be here shortly for mental health support for students and staff.”
Questions and murmurs volley through the room, discussion turning to how to best look after the other students when it becomes clear that Hugh can’t or won’t make further comments on the nature of Mason’s disappearance. The weight of Jack’s gaze beckons me like witchcraft, summoning me to meet his eyes, but I don’t submit. The more I avoid looking at him, the heavier his presence looms, and I relish every delicious moment of his tension. But I’m not the only one aware of his polar aura across the table. Brad darts scrutinous glances in Jack’s direction until some sugar-induced frenetic energy spurs him out of his chair and he starts pacing by the windows. I think he’s about to put a voice to all his suspicions about the discrepancies in the body donation program and Jack’s potential involvement when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Hugh calls, weariness already creeping into his voice with the stress of this meeting.
The door opens.
My past comes crashing into my present as Eric Hayes enters the room.
And I finally meet Jack’s eyes.
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The conference room plummets a noticeable few degrees cooler in temperature as the man wearing a cheap suit and gun harness enters, and Kyrie’s wide gaze locks with mine.
I’ve never witnessed her purposely avoid another person before. She’s always the first to seek notice, a beaming smile sent to disarm and bait before that person realizes they’ve been ensnared.
Curiosity crawls along my senses, and I give my attention to the man holding up an FBI shield.
“I’m Special Agent Eric Hayes with the Violent Crime division,” he says. Placing his badge back into the inseam of his ill-fitting blazer, he pans the room with a shrewd gaze. “I appreciate your director giving me this time to address the matter at hand.”
Brad has stopped pacing and now directs an anxious look toward the agent. “Violent crime? Has there been an update about Mason?”
It’s Hugh who addresses the outburst. “No, I’m sorry, Dr. Thompson. Nothing yet.”
“Don’t be alarmed, folks,” Hayes follows up promptly. “My branch has been notified in response to another closely related matter. I’m just here to ask some questions.”
Despite his attempt to downplay the FBI’s involvement, no one here is convinced. Hands wring on the table. Eyes blink rapidly. Nervous twitching and shuffling of positions adds a thick layer of unease beneath the already tense silence. As if every single person here has some sinister secret to hide. Police and government officials have a tendency to make even a saint question their morals.
I sneak a glimpse at Kyrie directly across from me at the table. Her gaze is now aimed at the pale wood, a curtain of her dark brown hair draped over the side of her face. My eyebrows furrow in question, but she avoids me just the same.
