The woman beneath him writhed, jerking her arms hard enough to make the handcuffs clang against the bedstead whenever he touched her.
He’d woken up that morning in a fug. The facts, the pictures, wouldn’t coalesce for him the way they usually would. Nothing would fit together for him. Sick of trying and failing to work, he’d ordered Moran to bring him a woman, any woman, and as usual his henchman hadn’t disappointed.
She was tall, a head taller than him, with endless legs and a slender waist. She had a beautiful neck, long and pale, and a mass of red hair.
She’d been quite charming too, when they’d shared a drink, not that that mattered to him especially. He was more interested in her body.
Her eyes had widened in a way that pleased him immensely when she’d seen the handcuffs attached to the headboard, but she’d been willing enough to let him fasten her into them.
He straddled her slim hips, looking down at her body stretched out beneath him. Humming happily to himself, he picked up his knives.
He was going to enjoy himself.
Later, once Moran had disposed of the body, Jim lay on the sofa and watched the facts and ideas slot into place. All he’d needed was a bit of me time.