This is by far the stupidest thing he’s ever had to be a part of: mixing in with the crowd, undercover, at some posh sex party.
Pretentious smut, he reminds himself, feeling out of his depths. But there’s a killer at large, and if there’s a chance this will protect people, he’ll take it.
“Just pretend to be one of them voyeurs,” his boss had said.
Still, there is something undeniably enticing about the glow of the candlelight against the honey-colored stone, the chimes of champagne glasses, the brush of satin and velvet and silk on his touch-starved skin as he walks though the room.
When he sees her, she’s sitting on a widow seat, a book in one hand, a man’s head between her legs. She takes her eyes off the page and looks back at him. His heart stutters. She loses her composure for a fraction of a second but it’s enough to know she has recognized him.
