Preston arrived thirty seconds after the Xings left, when Ashley was still sitting on the bed, reeling from everything she’d just heard. He closed the door behind himself and frowned at her.

“You okay? You look a bit shaken.”

Shaken was one word for it. Overwhelmed was another. Absurdly, she felt the violent urge to walk over to him and pull him in for a tight hug, bury her face in his neck and breathe in the strength of him. She didn’t know where that urge came from, but she was almost powerless against the powerfulness of it. “Yes, I just…”

“Hey, you okay?”

She gave into it—stepped forward and snaked her arms around his waist, pressing her face to his chest. “I’m just being stupid,” she mumbled, feeling him hug her back without hesitation, the warmth of his hand flat against the small of her back.

She didn’t know why she was so affected by the Xings’ story, why she felt such echoes of pain for a couple she’d never met before this trip. But she did know that seeing such a palpable display of love between two people had shone a spotlight down on her own loneliness, had brought to the forefront of her being the part of herself she kept locked safely away in a cage in her mind—the part that had allowed her to love once, and had that love so cruelly discarded, thrown away like yesterday’s trash.

And she had loved her husband, so very much. The day she’d married him, she’d been the happiest woman in the world. After saving for months, she’d been able to buy her dream wedding dress at the last minute, and walking down that aisle, heading to meet the man she loved more than any other human on the planet, was like floating through a dream—Cinderella and Prince Charming, dancing in clouds of color.

She said “I do” that day and meant it with every fiber of her being, felt it so keenly down to the bone that she couldn’t imagine how anyone could hold so much love inside them.

She’d noticed him eyeing up the cocktail waitress that night, of course she had, but he kept telling her how happy he was to be her husband now, how proud he was that she’d managed to lose enough weight to fit into her dream dress, that she didn’t see the point in creating a situation. It was only a look, after all. All men look, don’t they?

“And when we get back from the honeymoon,” he told her as they undressed that night in the wedding suite—carefully, so as not to ruin the expensive dress and tux, “we can get you signed up at my gym. Fun, right? You and me?”

That night she was the slimmest she had ever been in her whole life, and still he saw more weight for her to lose. She should’ve known, then, that there was no way she would make it through in one piece.

Why marry someone you weren’t attracted to? She’d never been able to ask him, not after he shut down and directed all communication through the lawyers. Why choose to take someone’s heart in your hands, and then try to change everything about them?

It took her a long time to realize that was the point: he was a control freak, and it manifested in him trying to control her appearance. He took a woman who loved him wholeheartedly, who he knew would be vulnerable to his whim, and did all he could to mold her into something he deemed worthy of his love in return. And when that didn’t work, when she allowed herself to drift comfortably back to her natural weight, he traded her in for someone ready-made.

And the collateral damage was Ashley, discarded and alone, all of her time and effort and years spent trying to be the best wife possible, thrown to the wayside and swept up with the rest of the trash.

Street garbage, that was how she’d felt for so long. And then numb. Cold.

Until Preston.

He wrapped her up in his arms and made her feel like the most cherished, beautiful, desirable woman in the world. When he touched her, he made her heart beat with heat, with confidence. When he touched her now, in this quiet hug of support, her heart beat for him.

And she lifted her head to kiss him.

She felt his surprise, the frozen moment of confusion, and then he melted into it with everything he had—always so willing to give her all she needed, easily and without question.

She kissed him with deep, languid intensity, licking into his mouth and tasting his tongue, her eyes shut and her breathing slow, arms locked around him like she didn’t want to let him go, and she didn’t—in that moment, in that embrace, with the taste of his desire for her on his tongue, she wanted to hold onto him for as long as he’d have her.

She brought hands up between them to unbutton his shirt, letting the whole world fade into the background as her fingers met skin and hair, as she felt the thunderous beat of his heart in his chest. It hadn’t been long since she’d last felt his skin, let him touch her, felt the shape of him inside her body, but she didn’t care, and she didn’t think he did, either. She needed him right now, all of him; needed him to fill her, deep and warm. Needed him to claim her as the woman he wanted.

She didn’t say any of it out loud, but he sensed it anyway—she knew it in the way he peeled off her clothes, kissed the trembling skin of her throat, sucked a stiff nipple between his lips as he shook off his pants and stood before her naked and hard, so ready for her.

Then he kissed her again and lifted her up, walked her back towards the couch and sat on it, settling her in a straddle over his lap and tearing open a condom wrapper. She watched him, open-mouthed and aching, and felt such a violent urge to taste the wet, glistening head of his cock that she stilled his hand as he moved to sheathe himself, and slid down onto her knees.

He threw his head back against the couch and groaned, like he couldn’t deal with the sight of her there, the anticipation of what she was about to do.

She took him in hand and licked a path up the underside, dragging her tongue along the silky, hardened skin and teasing the vein just below the head. He hissed, dug his fingers into the couch cushion beneath him, and dropped his head forward to watch her. His eyes were so dark and full of promise that it made her pussy spasm.

She licked away the pearl of pre-come and sucked him down, closing her lips around him and fluttering her tongue along his length. He said something between gritted teeth, something unintelligible, and gathered up her hair in one fist, keeping it off her face so he could watch her every move.

The taste of him was intoxicating, the shape of him in her mouth, the way he brought his other hand to the bare skin of her neck in a gentle hold and pushed ever so softly, down further on his cock—she couldn’t help but slip her own fingers between her damp thighs, pressing against the delicious ache there.

She opened her throat for him, trying to suppress her gag reflex as the thickest part of him slid over the back of her tongue and beyond, and the groan he released sent shockwaves through her body, straight to her clit. She pushed her thumb against it and slipped her middle finger inside herself, and he pulled her back off his cock before guiding her back down again.

She felt possessed by him, but in a way that made her want to roll over and beg him to take it all. He was slowly, torturously fucking her mouth in measured strokes, and she was thrusting her finger inside herself and strumming her clit with her thumb, and the noises coming from him combined with the pleasure spiraling through her gut had her racing towards a climax she hadn’t planned on, not yet.

And neither had he, judging by the way he suddenly yanked her off his cock and slung her back up onto his lap, taking the finger she’d had buried inside her pussy and sucking it clean.

She whimpered, whole body singing for him, and nearly started begging when he reached for the condom and rolled it on.

Then he guided her up and forward, positioning his cock at her entrance, and they both released shaky sighs as she sunk down on him.

It was different this time—no stretch, no burn, as if her body had already committed the shape of him to memory. She hurtled straight into pleasure without pause and had to hang onto his shoulders lest she crash. They were barely rolling together yet, and still she felt as if her entire world was tilting on its axis.

“Kiss me,” he said, and she did—swallowed his groans as they started grinding into each other’s bodies, her clit dragging over his pelvis with each frenzied, barely coordinated thrust.

There was something animalistic about it, something primal in the way they rutted together, mindlessly seeking pleasure, mouths open and sloppy and skin moist with sweat. He bared his teeth on growls, and she scraped nails against his shoulders, and they were almost pulling each other apart with how close they tried to get, pushing and thrusting, guided by nothing but inhibition and the bone-deep need for each other.

She found her orgasm first, clinging to him as her entire body shuddered around him, as her mind tumbled into blackness and pleasure shot to every inch of her, molten-hot and almost too much in its intensity. He yanked her back and forth on his cock five, six more times and then he stilled, holding himself deep inside her, face freezing in ecstasy and a red flush spreading all across his chest.

They sat slumped together, entirely undignified in the wake of their mutual pleasure, sweaty and sloppy and probably looking a little worse for wear. When he gathered his energy, he picked her up and took her to the bed, left her there to recuperate for several minutes while he disappeared. Her mind was too blessedly blank to worry about where he’d gone, but when he returned with a tray full of snacks, she immediately perked up, sat and pulled the sheet to her chest, then spent the next little while sharing fruit and cheese with him, drinking glasses of wine and chatting about everything and nothing.

She kept the discussion away from herself, not entirely sure why. He asked her about her past, about her job, her home—and while she was happy to talk about the hospital and the girls and the things she did in her spare time, she deflected questions about her previous marriage this time. Those kinds of details were not for people who flitted in and out of her life, and all she had with him right now was this bed, in this hotel, in a bubble of intimacy that didn’t feel wholly real.

She couldn’t believe there was anything more than that, and so she couldn’t trust him with the deeper parts of herself—where her heart lived, safely inside the fence she’d erected to protect herself.

“You’ll have to show me your favorite shows,” he was saying as they got dressed, after she’d finished waxing lyrical about her Netflix account. “I never really have time for TV, but with you—”

She was saved from embarrassing herself—or souring the situation—by the sudden rise of voices nearby, unmistakably angry. She met Preston’s frown with her own. “What’s going on?”

Together, they left the room and followed the sound of the argument, finding Maude Fregel standing with Frank in the foyer, verbally tearing chunks out of him.

“You told us all about the note you found, Frank!” she was screaming at him. “You’re the only one who’s been in there since—”

“I didn’t steal the damn lighter!” he shot back, red with rage. “Why would I need to?”

“You tell me!”

Preston and Ashley descended the last steps, and Preston cleared his throat and said in his smoothly charming voice, “Can I help with something?”

Maude drew in a deep breath and turned to him, jabbing her finger in Frank’s direction. “This man stole my property.”

“I really didn’t,” Frank drawled.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“For the last forty years I’ve carried with me a solid gold lighter,” Maude said. “It’s worth a lot of money—” She shot a pointed look at Frank, who turned his eyes skyward, so clearly done with the accusation. “And I leant it to Larry before the poker game, then forgot about it. When I asked for it back, he said he left it in his room—tried to get me to go up with him, you know, dirty pervert… Anyway, he went up to get it, and then—well, you know what happened next.”

And then he died, was what Ashley presumed she meant, which was interesting to her. Maude had known Larry’s last location before he was killed and hadn’t said anything.

“I still don’t see how that puts me in the frame,” Frank said, not entirely unreasonably.

Maude, huffing, said, “I searched Larry’s room. It’s not there. And it wasn’t on his body. And you are the only other person to have gone in his room,” she added in a hiss, jabbing her finger at Frank again.

It wasn’t on his body…

Ashley’s blood ran cold, and she exchanged a knowing glance with Preston before asking Maude, “You searched Larry’s body? When?”

Maude waved her off. “Earlier. Before he disappeared.”

Ashley understood the importance of a sentimental item, but what she didn’t get was why Maude would search the dead body without informing any of them. That she would silently creep back out to the foyer when the rest of the party had left and feel around inside his clothes, across his body, mindless of his dignity in death and caring only about her possession.

Before he disappeared, she said. Immediately before? Perhaps while Karen had been distracting them all with her histrionics about the person she’d supposedly seen?

Was it possible that Maude herself had moved the body?

She couldn’t have. She was as thin as a rake and almost frail with it, and Larry would’ve been dead weight—literally.

Although she could’ve had some help, in the form of the man with whom she was currently mid-argument.

Maybe this was all a ruse to draw away the scent…

“I’ll look through Larry’s room,” Preston was saying, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Maybe you missed it.”

“Search his things, too,” Maude said, indicating Frank with a look of disgust on her face.

“I don’t think—”

“It’s fine,” Frank said in a bored tone, gesturing vaguely to indicate permission. “I don’t care. Anything to shut her up.”

Turning an icy-cold glare on him, Maude growled, “Don’t try me.” There was such a distinct note of pure, unadulterated threat in her voice that Ashley’s stomach flipped over.

“Okay,” Preston said, sounding tired of the whole thing. “Frank, you give us permission to have a look in your room?” he confirmed, receiving a nod. “And we’ll look through Larry’s things too.” He put a hand on the small of Ashley’s back to lead her away, while Ashley tried very hard not to show how thrilled she was to be automatically included in this bit of sanctioned snooping without having to fight for it. “Why don’t you two…get some coffee or something. While you wait.”

They jogged back up the stairs, Preston sighing as if to release tension, and once they were out of earshot, halfway down the corridor, Ashley muttered, “What do you think?”

“I think Larry got drunk and lost it,” Preston said, stopping in front of a door and retrieving the master key from his pocket. Ashley snorted.

“Don’t tell her that.”

Larry’s room turned up nothing of note. He’d brought one holdall and one laptop bag, neither of which contained anything more than clothes and paperwork, a laptop and an iPad. He hadn’t bothered unpacking anything, and his bed still lay clean and tight, untouched. Shaving equipment and toothbrush littered the bathroom counter, a used cloth lying beside the sink as if he’d come in to freshen up at some point, and a snuggly sweater lay thrown over the chair that, for the briefest of moments, made Ashley feel quite sorry for his death. The guy was a creep, inappropriate and racist, but he was also an old man who’d worn woolly sweaters and surely had people who would miss him.

They moved on to Frank’s room next, tucked away in the staff quarters. The room was basic, with two single beds, a small bathroom, and a rickety old wooden closet, which Preston opened and peered into.

“Huh,” he said.

Ashley looked up from the small bag she’d found on the chair, which held Frank’s toiletries, and said, “What?”

“Nothing. Just…his clothes are knock-offs.”

She frowned, standing up straight and putting her hands on her hips. “What do you mean?”

Shrugging, Preston straightened the suit jacket he’d been looking at and closed the closet door. “For a man with so much personal wealth, it’s strange that he’s still shopping in the cheap racks.”

“You think he’s lying about his money?”

“I’d never heard of him before this event, but my staff said he came highly recommended as a potential investor,” Preston said pointedly, after a moment of hesitation.

Strange indeed, Ashley thought, storing this new information away for later consideration. A man supposedly labelled the new Mark Zuckerberg, attending an investors’ ball with the idea of injecting potentially millions of dollars, and wearing cheap polyester-blend suits?

It didn’t make him more likely to be a killer, but it seemed like there was a story to hide all the same.

“There’s nothing here,” Preston said a minute later, when it looked like they were done. They left the room, and right there, in the darkened staff hallway, he came to a halt and whispered, “Come here.” The wicked glint in his eye made her freeze—and then flood with heat.

He wasn’t serious…?

“What?”

“I said come here,” he drawled, but he came to her instead, smirk fully in place, the images in his head clearly evident on his face.

“Preston,” she warned, but he was undeterred.

“I can’t stop thinking about how wet you were for me,” he said, gripping her hip and pushing her back against the wall, none too gently. She gasped at the shock of pleasure she received from it. “How much I want to taste it…”

Flipping open the button and zipper on her pants, he caught his tongue between his teeth as he gave her a cocky smile and then shoved her pants down around her thighs, leaving her pussy exposed, her bare ass pressed against the wall.

“What if we get caught?” she breathed, but not moving to stop him. God help her, but the dark, forbidden element of the act thrilled her. “He could come back at any moment.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s half the fun.” Then he dropped to his knees and pulled her pants down to her ankles, making her step one foot out and lifting it, perching it on the edge of a small side table nearby.

She stood leaning against the wall with her legs spread obscenely wide, her wet and achy pussy on full display for him, and all she could think about was how she’d never been more aroused in her life.

“I can smell me on you,” he murmured, leaning close to press his lips to her inner thigh. “Can smell us, and what we did together.”

“Please,” she said. “We don’t have too much time.”

“What can anyone do? It’s my hotel.”

The idea of it floored her, that Frank—or anyone—could walk up and see them, with no power to stop it. That all they’d be able to do was leave, or stay and watch—

“God, Preston, please…”

He raised his hands to part her folds, that slight touch alone enough to make her toes curl, and then licked a long, hot stripe from her entrance to above her clit. And then again, and again. Until she was thrusting with the movement, rolling her hips to match his rhythm and gasping, begging, not knowing what she wanted but needing something—

He pushed two fingers deep inside her, a sudden unrelenting move that left her breathless, and focused in on her clit. He sucked it between his lips and flicked his tongue over it, a precise attack on her overstimulated nerves while his fingers pumped in and out and dragged along her inner walls, and it was all so quick and narrowed down to her two points of pleasure that she was almost screaming within minutes, knuckles of one hand stuffed in her mouth, the other clinging onto his hair as she spasmed against the wall, grinding her sex into his face and falling apart around him.

She was wrecked with it, losing count of the number of orgasms she’d received today and no longer able to find any part of her body that didn’t hum with pleasure. Her mind was spinning, breath trapped in her lungs, but he didn’t give her time to recover as he stood and tugged out his cock, wrapped her lax fingers around it, used their combined hold on him to jerk off, nearing his own climax as she gasped against the wall, dizzy and still shaking.

“I want you to swallow it,” he said on a groan, and she had enough wherewithal to know what he meant—falling to her own knees and letting him feed his cock into her mouth, press the head against her tongue as he stroked himself, moaning on a bitten-off hiss, spilling his seed over her taste buds, and there wasn’t enough of it from his multiple orgasms that day but it was enough, and she savored the taste as she swallowed and sighed.

“You’re a filthy girl,” he told her once she was back on her feet, his voice brimming with pride. She laughed, and almost wanted to remind him this was his idea, but she liked this new side of her he’d unlocked, so she decided not to argue the point, instead accepting the bruising kiss he gave her, swapping each other’s tastes on their tongues.