saying all this to please him. He shook his head, said, ‘Just kiss me,’ and she did, leaning forwards, bare breasts pressing against his chest. It felt good; she felt good; so why couldn’t he fully relax?
Because when she ran her hands over his torso, he saw them shaking Bonnie.
When she wrapped her fingers around him, he pictured those fingers encircling their daughter’s throat.
He must have made a noise in his throat because Gill stopped kissing him and sat up, staring at him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
He tried to smile, to say, ‘Nothing.’ He was still hard, his body so starved of this, so desperate for fulfilment that nothing, no images, no doubts, could stop him. He rolled Gill over onto her back and, with eyes closed, entered her, concentrating on the feeling, the pleasure. Pushing away the pictures in his head.
‘I love you,’ Gill said, and he was sure he said it in return. Because he did. He still did. And this had to get easier, didn’t it? They just needed time.
Chapter 16
Day 4 – Wendy
W endy sat at her desk in the half-deserted office, one of the strip lights flickering in a way that made her glad she wasn’t epileptic, and wondered what DI Lennon was doing right now. Snuggling up on the sofa with his wife, probably . Or reading his little girl a bedtime story. She knew all about Lennon’s wife and her heart went out to the poor cow. She hoped he was kind to her . . . Actually, she couldn’t imagine him being anything but. Despite the tattoos, the hair that needed cutting and that serious face, he was, well, he was lovely .
Lovely and gorgeous. The kind of man who was sensitive and empathetic but strong enough to be protective and sexy.
Jesus, listen to her! Sexy? She laughed, drawing a curious look from Martin two desks down, and reminded herself that it was a bad idea – a bloody terrible idea – to have a crush on her superior officer. Especially one who was married. Wendy’s dad left them after a younger woman he worked with tempted him away, moving to the other side of Wolverhampton, and Wendy would never, ever be a homewrecker. Never be like that scutter who made her mum bawl her eyes out for months. Not that she was the type that men left their wives for. She hadn’t even had a boyfriend for three years. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she had the body of a teenage gymnast – flat as a pancake, straight up and down, like an ironing board, and only five foot two. Twenty-five years old and she still got ID’d any time she tried to get into a club, and pretty much every time she bought drinks in a pub. It was deeply irritating . Unless she wore a ton of make-up – and often even then – she looked younger than her fourteen-year-old sister, Lucy.
Her latest attempt to appear her age was to have all her dark hair chopped into the shortest of pixie cuts because most teenage girls had the obligatory long, artificially straightened curtain of hair, but it hadn’t made a lot of difference. Pat – as she’d heard Carmella call him, not that Wendy would dare to herself – hadn’t appeared to even notice that anything was different about her.
Wendy really wanted to impress him, and the best way she could possibly do that, she thought, would be to find the bastard who had killed those two poor girls.
She gazed again at the photo of Rose Sharp on the whiteboard across the office. Even if it wasn’t about gaining Pat’s admiration and respect, she’d do anything to get the scumbag murderer off the streets. This was her chance!
Rose reminded Wendy of her little sister, Lucy, who still lived at home. Lucy actually thought OnTarget were a bunch of twats, preferring Jake Bugg and cooler indie music, spending her weekends hanging around the horse statue in the city centre with the alternative kids. Lucy thought that her older sister was ‘well sad’ for being into pop music, though she would happily join in with a game of Just Dance if none of her friends
Because when she ran her hands over his torso, he saw them shaking Bonnie.
When she wrapped her fingers around him, he pictured those fingers encircling their daughter’s throat.
He must have made a noise in his throat because Gill stopped kissing him and sat up, staring at him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
He tried to smile, to say, ‘Nothing.’ He was still hard, his body so starved of this, so desperate for fulfilment that nothing, no images, no doubts, could stop him. He rolled Gill over onto her back and, with eyes closed, entered her, concentrating on the feeling, the pleasure. Pushing away the pictures in his head.
‘I love you,’ Gill said, and he was sure he said it in return. Because he did. He still did. And this had to get easier, didn’t it? They just needed time.
Chapter 16
Day 4 – Wendy
W endy sat at her desk in the half-deserted office, one of the strip lights flickering in a way that made her glad she wasn’t epileptic, and wondered what DI Lennon was doing right now. Snuggling up on the sofa with his wife, probably . Or reading his little girl a bedtime story. She knew all about Lennon’s wife and her heart went out to the poor cow. She hoped he was kind to her . . . Actually, she couldn’t imagine him being anything but. Despite the tattoos, the hair that needed cutting and that serious face, he was, well, he was lovely .
Lovely and gorgeous. The kind of man who was sensitive and empathetic but strong enough to be protective and sexy.
Jesus, listen to her! Sexy? She laughed, drawing a curious look from Martin two desks down, and reminded herself that it was a bad idea – a bloody terrible idea – to have a crush on her superior officer. Especially one who was married. Wendy’s dad left them after a younger woman he worked with tempted him away, moving to the other side of Wolverhampton, and Wendy would never, ever be a homewrecker. Never be like that scutter who made her mum bawl her eyes out for months. Not that she was the type that men left their wives for. She hadn’t even had a boyfriend for three years. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she had the body of a teenage gymnast – flat as a pancake, straight up and down, like an ironing board, and only five foot two. Twenty-five years old and she still got ID’d any time she tried to get into a club, and pretty much every time she bought drinks in a pub. It was deeply irritating . Unless she wore a ton of make-up – and often even then – she looked younger than her fourteen-year-old sister, Lucy.
Her latest attempt to appear her age was to have all her dark hair chopped into the shortest of pixie cuts because most teenage girls had the obligatory long, artificially straightened curtain of hair, but it hadn’t made a lot of difference. Pat – as she’d heard Carmella call him, not that Wendy would dare to herself – hadn’t appeared to even notice that anything was different about her.
Wendy really wanted to impress him, and the best way she could possibly do that, she thought, would be to find the bastard who had killed those two poor girls.
She gazed again at the photo of Rose Sharp on the whiteboard across the office. Even if it wasn’t about gaining Pat’s admiration and respect, she’d do anything to get the scumbag murderer off the streets. This was her chance!
Rose reminded Wendy of her little sister, Lucy, who still lived at home. Lucy actually thought OnTarget were a bunch of twats, preferring Jake Bugg and cooler indie music, spending her weekends hanging around the horse statue in the city centre with the alternative kids. Lucy thought that her older sister was ‘well sad’ for being into pop music, though she would happily join in with a game of Just Dance if none of her friends
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