Death on the Rhine

Folsom pinched himself hard on the arm and willed himself to slow down his breathing and the racing of his mind. Breathe in and let it out slowly. Again. Must become calm.

And when he had become calm, he started to work the problem out. Roman had thought that he, Folsom, had killed Meister—or at least purported to think that—and was willing to help him for that very reason. And he would have killed Meister if someone hadn’t beaten him to that. That’s what he had come here to do in the first place. Had he let Roman know that? No, maybe not. If he did, and if Roman killed Meister, there would be no real reason Roman would kill him too. They still could cooperate. It wasn’t Folsom’s place to bring Meister’s killer to the bar. He was an American cop off duty, not a German cop. It was Sigmund Frist’s responsibility. No, not that either; that Manfeld guy was investigating the death. Frist made clear he wasn’t on the cruise in his official capacity. But why then was he seeming to take charge? And then he disappeared. But of course if the German police didn’t know of his preferences and that he’d be on a cruise like this, of course he’d have disappeared as soon as the police showed up. And Frist had made quite clear that he had joined the cruise at Rudesheim so he would be noticed joining the cruise in Mainz, which was in his jurisdiction. And why had he been arguing with Meister in that café in Rudesheim? The thoughts and fears were pressing—were becoming oppressive.

Folsom was hyperventilating again—both his mind and pulse racing at an increasing rate. Calm down. Breath slower. Purge your mind. Let your mind work on this subconsciously. Think of something else. Roman’s cock stroking in and out of your ass, filling it, rotating in it, mining your insides as only a mature, experienced top can do. And the maddening variety of it. At first forceful and vigorous from anger and frustration and then turned to a tender, languid fucking. The way he played your nipples and stroked the curves and crevices of your body. The sensuous sucking on your toes as his cock pulled out and then stroked back into you to the hilt. . . . Your sighing and moaning. This is how you liked taking it—rough and forceful and then slow and totally possessing you. It was the way Brad had given it to you. The best of orgiastic deaths.