The Feel Good Factor

by Blakely, Lauren

  Arden smiles warmly as she scans the book. “I’ve known her since we were six. She’s one of my best friends.”

  “Yeah?” I want to ask a ton of questions, but I’m not sure where I’d start. Except I’m damn curious what the hell makes that woman tick. “Hope she said nice things about me.”

  Arden simply smiles, her eyes roaming over my arms again to the sunbursts and arrows on my skin.

  That makes me think that Perri did indeed say nice things about me. I have a hunch I know exactly what she told her friends.

  And that reminds me that I do know what makes Perri tick—a helluva lot.

  She told me so herself.

  I’m going to have some fun with Miss Ten-Four.

  Oh yes, I am.

  17

  Derek

  Her car is outside, so I know she’s home. But I don’t look for her. That’s not our deal. I head to the back door, unlock it, and peer down the hall. I don’t see her in the kitchen.

  That’s fine, especially since my first order of business is a shower.

  It’s almost always a shower. After the gym, after work, whatever. I need the time to wash away the day and let it go. Too much goes on in my life, too many things I can take home with me. It’s best to find a way to shed them.

  For me, that’s a hot shower.

  After I dry off, I grab a pair of basketball shorts and tug them on, then hunt for a T-shirt. I snag a gray one from my duffel and pull it over my head, then I stop.

  I know this woman’s weakness.

  And I’m going to exploit it.

  Because I fucking can.

  Tossing the shirt to the bed, I make sure the waistband of my shorts rides low, and I go downstairs. When I open the door to the kitchen, I call out playfully, “Honey, I’m home.”

  I swear I can hear her roll her eyes.

  “Hey.” Her voice is emotionless.

  “Can I come into the witch’s den?”

  “Lair. It’s a lair.”

  “May I enter?”

  “At your own risk.”

  I walk into the kitchen first and see my note is still up on the board. What the hell? How could she not like this note? It’s fucking adorable, and I am not an adorable man. Huffing, I grab the chalkboard and carry it to the living room where she’s curled up on the couch in yoga clothes, her hair in a ponytail, her knees up, and her head bent over her laptop. I brandish the chalkboard in front of my chest. Let her wait before she can see the twelve-pack I’m packing. “You working?”

  She doesn’t look up. “Yup. Reports. Trying to work on this jewelry store—” She glances up, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Did you not see my awesome note?”

  She licks her lips. “I saw it this evening when I grabbed an apple.”

  I eye her suspiciously. “You. You, who are addicted to coffee? You’re telling me you weren’t in the kitchen this morning?”

  She shakes her head. “No, Detective McBride. I was not at the scene of the chalkboard crime. I had to leave quickly. I grabbed coffee at the station. I didn’t even go into the kitchen.”

  “But you saw it tonight?”

  “Yes, I saw it a little while ago when I returned home, and I’m also seeing it now, since you’re shoving it in my face.”

  My gaze drifts down to the words I wrote in pastel yellow chalk. “Read it to me.”

  She sighs, as if thoroughly annoyed. “Why do you want me to read it to you?”

  “Because you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder, Miss Ten-Four.”

  “My text reply was warranted. You’d only sent me a heads-up message.”

  I tap the chalkboard. “And this is not a heads-up message. This is fucking flirty. Read it aloud.”

  A smile tugs at her lips, and she seems to fight to rein it in. She draws a breath and reads. “Sorry I didn’t make it back in time to whip up a delicious chicken and broccoli dish for you. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Also, I know what sound giraffes make. Ask me. :)”

  I stab a finger against the board. “I used an emoticon. I hate emoticons.”

  She smirks. “Okay, what sound do giraffes make?”

  “I’m not telling you till you say you’re sorry.”

  She laughs. “For what?”

  “For assuming I was a dick.”

  “I did not assume you were a dick,” she says, challenging me.

  “A little dick?”

  She gives me a sassy look. “Oh, I don’t think it’s little.”

  I laugh. “It’s not little at all. It’s exactly the size you want.”

  “Is it?”

  “Kitten, you know you want to ride me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That is not what we’re talking about.”

  “We’re talking about how you thought I ditched you.”

  “I didn’t think that,” she says, defensively. Too defensively.

  “You did. You thought I stood you up and didn’t leave a note, and you gave me the cold shoulder at the hospital, and then the cold text.”

  “I had to take a report on a three-car crash! My colleague who’s up for the same promotion had just walked in ahead of me. We were working.”

  Fine. She makes a fair point. But still, it’s time to pull out all the stops. I drop the chalkboard, and she gasps.

  It worked.

  I walk closer to her, half-naked, giving her the full view of my chest, abs, and V-line. Maybe I’m cocky, maybe I’m overly confident, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve worked my ass off to look good shirtless. Pretty sure Perri likes what she sees a lot, judging from the way those green eyes eat up my chest, stroll over my abs, and linger on my hips, where a flock of silhouetted birds flies up the V-line and around my hip.

  “You . . .” she says, like there’s sand in her throat.

  “Me what?”

  She points at my birds. “Your . . .” It’s like she’s having heatstroke.

  “You okay? Need CPR? I can help.”

  “No,” she says, swallowing roughly.

  “You see something you like, then?”

  She shakes her head, but she doesn’t stop staring at my abs. I put my hands on the arm of the couch and lean in. “Now, admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You were annoyed that I was home late, because you wanted to see me.”

  She scoffs. “I just wanted your food.”

  Defiant creature. “Nope. I don’t buy it.”

  She lifts her chin. “I like chicken and broccoli.”

  “And you want me to cook for you, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. One less thing I have to do myself.”

  “Then admit you wanted to see me.”

  Her voice softens to an embarrassed whisper. “No. Yes. Derek, it’s stupid, okay?”

  “So you did?”

  She shrugs, her eyes vulnerable, her smile guilty. “Fine. I was having a fun evening with you and your nieces, and I thought dinner would be nice, and then you weren’t here, and I was hungry, and it’s dumb to get annoyed because we’re just housemates, and it’s fine.”

  Her sincerity hooks into me, reminding me that I did break a promise. “I really am sorry I didn’t make it back in time to cook you dinner like I said. I left the note when I came downstairs, but you were already in your room,” I say softly.

  “I went to bed early.”

  “And I had to shower because the baby spit up all over me.”

  “Oh no. Is she okay?”

  I wave a hand. “Babies will do that.”

  “You’re really good with her.”

  “I adore that little chunk of love.”

  Perri smiles. “I can tell.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, it was silly. I wanted to have dinner last night, and that was a stupid thing to wish for. Then I rushed out this morning, so I didn’t see your note, and when I saw you at the hospital, I was trying to be all business-like since Elias was there, and plus, I should be business-like. When I came home, I d
id see your note, and it was sweet, and it made me feel stupid for having been annoyed at all. I was annoyed with myself.”

  “And then you saw my ink.”

  She shoots me a saucy look. “More like you thrust your abs in my face.”

  I give her a dirty grin. “Pretty sure you liked it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The way your eyes went all glossy and hazy. The way you’re staring shamelessly at me. The way your nipples are poking through your shirt.”

  Her jaw drops, and she looks down at her chest then crosses her arms. “My nipples are not hard.”

  “Must just be an optical illusion,” I say offhand.

  “Exactly. Also, back to more important matters. What sound do giraffes make?”

  I stand up, move around the couch, and sit next to her. “They hum.”

  “Giraffes hum?”

  “They do. And that’s the sound you’re going to make when I kiss you again right now.”

  I grab her hair and devour her delicious lips.

  18

  Derek

  Maybe she doesn’t sound exactly like a giraffe.

  More like a pent-up, turned-on woman who wants what I have to give her. It’s a kiss to drive her wild. A kiss she can take to bed tonight, that she’ll bring under the covers, replaying every touch and taste so she can get herself all the way off in mere minutes.

  That’s how I kiss her.

  Like I want to fuck her. That’s the only way this woman ought to be kissed. Her back is against the couch cushion, and I lean into her and crush her lips, claiming her with my mouth. With my hands. With my body.

  I bring her closer, letting her know that when I kiss her, she’s all mine.

  She moans into my mouth as I grapple with her ponytail, yanking it down, letting the lush strands fall over my fingers.

  As I do, she murmurs, sinking into the kiss, letting me guide her head back to expose that seductive neck. A neck I’ve wanted to touch from the second I met her.

  As I kiss her senseless, she melts under me. I tug harder on her hair, and she moans louder. Her head falls against the pillow, and I let go of her lips, traveling to the V of her shirt.

  She whimpers as I kiss the hollow of her throat.

  “You like that?” I flick my tongue over her skin, and she nods, panting a hot, breathy yes.

  I give her more of what she likes, mapping her neck with my mouth, kissing the column of her throat, making her squirm with every touch of my tongue and brush of my lips. Her hands inch up my chest, her fingers playing over my abs, my pecs, the waistband of my shorts.

  But I know this woman’s needs. I grab her hands, thread my fingers through hers, and pin her wrists at her sides. The sound she makes is one of bliss as I grip her like that, kissing her neck, her ears, her hair, until she bows her body up off the couch.

  “You’re so turned on,” I murmur.

  “It’s your fault.”

  “I’ll take all the blame.”

  Then I grip her hands tighter, and in a flash, I shift positions, sinking to half recline on the couch and pulling her on top so she straddles me, knees on either side of my thighs.

  “We can’t do this.” Her green eyes are wide with hunger and questions. “Remember? No mercy, no sympathy?”

  I let go of her hands and run my fingers up her neck and into her red locks. I tug her hair. “I’m not breaking any rules.”

  She grinds her pelvis against my erection, and a shudder racks my body. She dips deeper, rubbing against my hard shaft, creating a delicious friction even with my shorts and her yoga pants between us. Lust rolls around inside me, flooding every corner. “Feels like you are,” she whispers.

  “Is it a crime to be turned on in the presence of a beautiful woman?” I jerk her against the outline of my cock, moving her hips so she rubs and drives me out of my fucking mind. Pleasure grips me in a white-hot blur of agonizing desire.

  “No crime here,” she pants as she rocks against my erection. Her eyes float closed and her shoulders sink, and she grinds. Dipping, rising, swiveling . . . It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and somehow it’s even more erotic as I watch her face, cataloging her expression as it shifts from deepening pleasure to wild need to exquisite torture.

  “Fuck, kitten. You’re going to look so good riding my cock.”

  She nods slowly as if she’s in a haze. Grabbing her wrists, I move them behind her back and grasp them tighter. She breathes harder, letting me know she likes it when I take control.

  “Yeah, just like that, kitten. Keep doing that. Keep rubbing against my dick. Get yourself off.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “You don’t think what?”

  Her lips part. Her lids are heavy. “I don’t think there are kisses like this in the contest.”

  “Fuck the contest. Fuck me instead.”

  She opens her eyes, and I’ve never seen a woman more on the brink. “We said . . . we wouldn’t . . . do this.”

  “Do it once. I won’t tell you broke the ‘no foreplay’ rule. Ride me till you come hard.”

  She sinks against my hard-on again, grinding herself on me, rubbing harder.

  Then she squeezes her eyes shut and pauses mid-grind. She counts to three aloud and snaps open her eyes.

  She’s a different woman now. Cool, calm, in control. How the hell does she do that? She’s like the clap-on-clap-off device.

  “Can we rewind? Go back to the chicken and broccoli?” she asks, calm as a yogi.

  “Seriously?”

  “This is too dangerous when we’re living under the same roof.”

  I groan, releasing her wrists. My head drops, falling to her chest.

  Oops.

  Bad idea.

  I’m in her tits.

  Wait. Nope. Good idea, great idea, best idea ever. I’ll just curl up and spend the night in the valley between these two perfect globes. Except there’s something I want to know. “How did you go from nearly riding me to kingdom come to wanting broccoli?”

  She pats my head, threading her fingers through my hair. “I’m a hard-working woman, and I’m hungry.”

  I raise my face. “You can work hard on my dick.”

  She laughs. “Where’s that restraint, McBride? Where’s that whole let’s-follow-the-ground-rules attitude?”

  I cup her cheeks hard, loving the way her eyes fill with flames in an instant. “That was your idea, kitten.”

  “You went along with it. We agreed.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Plus, to answer your question, I have excellent restraint.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  She smiles proudly. “I do. It’s impressive, my resistance.”

  “What a cocky babe you are.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  I laugh then groan in frustration. Because my brain and my heart know she’s right. I can’t let the overwhelming lust I feel for this woman carry me away. I’m living with her. I desperately need a place to stay. And fucking would absolutely fuck it up.

  So I can’t screw resistance.

  I collect myself, gently move her off me, and affect a good-boy smile. “Look, I’m not even aroused anymore.”

  That’s a lie. I’m sporting huge wood.

  Her eyes drift to my lap. “Yup. Not even aroused in the least. Nor am I.”

  I roam my eyes over her. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Beaded nipples. “Good. Because you don’t seem turned on at all.”

  “I’m so not turned on. I totally wasn’t about to orgasm.”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “I definitely wasn’t on the cusp of coming in my shorts like a teenager.”

  She laughs, letting her head fall into her hands as she cracks up.

  When the laughter subsides, she stands, her hair messed up, her cheeks rosy. “Listen, we need to behave. We both want and need the same thing. We need each other as roomies, not as lovers. Besides, neither one of us wants anything more.”

  “Exactly. Screw rela
tionships. Let’s have some grub.”

  And on that cock-blocked note, I head into the kitchen and cook for my woman.

  I mean, my landlord.

  The hot, sexy landlord who nearly came on my lap.

  19

  Perri

  I do have excellent resistance.

  Well, most of the time.

  I’m not winning any medals in restraint tonight, but I’m disciplined in general and always have been. In college, at the academy, at work now—I get in, do the work, go the distance.

  But there’s always temptation to lose focus, and Derek McBride is the strongest temptation I’ve ever known. But temptation doesn’t pay the bills. That’s why I used the trick I learned ages ago to yank myself out of nightmares—count loudly to three and wake myself up. Making out with Derek, and riding his hot, hard ridge, was a flirty, dirty dream rather than a nightmare, but the same trick worked.

  One, two, three.

  And I was out of the zone.

  Now here I am, in the kitchen, watching him cook.

  The sight of him making my dinner is testing me, and I’d like to snake my hands around those abs, explore his twelve-pack, and trace all his ink.

  Must resist . . .

  One, two, three.

  There. Better.

  But still, there’s just something about a man who can make a meal.

  Double points if that meal is for me.

  And triple points if he surprises me, which he’s doing. He’s not just throwing together the basics. He’s whipping up a chicken stir-fry, adding in asparagus, carrots, and peppers then tossing in spices, and my mouth is watering.

  “You might be the perfect roommate,” I say as I pour myself a glass of wine and offer him a beer.

  He arches a brow as he sautés the chicken. “How do we have beer? Pretty sure I forgot to pick some up when I was at the store. I bet I was undressing you in my head in that aisle, and that’s how it happened. Slipped my mind when I slipped off your shirt.”

  Laughing, I grab a bottle of pale ale. “I snagged some myself. I had a feeling you were a beer man. Was I right?”

  He looks over at me, a smile edging his lips. “You picked up beer for me?”