Tuesday night, Micah confiscated Kylie’s phone and tied her to the bed with several of his neckties before he left for a short stroll down the Boardwalk.
As he’d wrapped the silk around her curvy ankles and wrists, splaying her spreadeagled in the center of the bed, he’d stroked her clit and found her slippery.
So he licked her a few times just to get her wound up and crazy, and then he’d left her like that.
Micah’s heels thumped on the wooden boards, and the Atlantic Ocean crashed against the beach in the distance. The autumn air was cool for late October, so he left his suit jacket at the hotel and wore a brown leather bomber jacket instead.
While standing in front of the Tropicana, Micah leaned on the wooden railing, looking out into the darkness over the salt marsh plants and the sea beyond.
A man stood next to him and leaned on the railing.
Between them, a bag thumped hollowly on the wooden boards.
The man said, “Nice night,” his posh British accent detectable even with those two words.
“As it always is in Atlantic City,” Micah replied, indicating that he hadn’t been followed and the coast was clear. If anything had gone wrong, Micah would have scratched a chalk mark on the left door leading out of the Tropicana Marketplace earlier to abort the meeting. “Any word on the sister?”
“Kylie Miller doesn’t have a sister,” Arthur Finch-Hatten said.
Yeah, she did. That was weird.
Or just another lie.
They chatted for a few more moments. Anyone listening to them would’ve thought they were two acquaintances who might’ve met at a conference and were indeed just discussing the weather.
A few moments later, Arthur Finch-Hatton left, continuing his stroll down the boardwalk.
Micah hoisted the leather bag over his shoulder and walked back toward his car parked on a side street.
The equipment inside clanked on his back as he walked.