Somewhere in Paradise, Phei was balls-deep in his goddess.
Somewhere in Paradise, the Ashford Madam arched beneath him like a living sacrifice on silk sheets, her broken cries swallowed by plush pillows and the sacred privacy of a hotel room that had become their altar of ruin. Pleasure was being worshipped the way it deserved — slow, thorough, merciless — the kind of attention that made powerful women forget their own names, forget their legacies, forget everything except the stretch and the heat and the way he owned every inch of them.
But here, in a cell that reeked of regret, and the sour despair of a man who had finally been caught, Chief Morrison was trying to sleep.
The cot was too thin. The blanket was too rough. The cellmates — three low-level dealers and a drunk driver who had wiped out an entire family of four — snored in a grating symphony of human failure that scraped against Morrison's nerves like sandpaper on exposed bone.
