Hands streaking under the cotton, Clay groaned when he encountered skin. He plied the ins and outs of each of her curves, learning her with his fingers.
Tate’s breath caught when he grazed the undersides of her breasts, brushed his callused palm over her nipples.
And when he eased a finger down, slipped inside, she was already slick with wanting.
“Ah, Tate.” He said it reverently, like a prayer. And pushed another finger into her.
“Clay… we need…” The words stuttered out between searing kisses. The response he made was incoherent, and his muscles tightened beneath her hands when she grasped his arms. But she pushed him back with just enough force to let him know he needed to stop.
“Not here,” she gasped when he lifted his head, the warm chocolate of his eyes unfocused. “I can’t make love to you in the hall.”
Clay pulled his hand from beneath the gown, slipped it around hers. Tate was startled by the wetness there, and even more surprised that it heightened her arousal.
She started to move toward the stairs, but Clay caught sight of the sofa in the front parlor.
“This is quicker.” He pulled her with him.
“Clay, we can’t –”
But he moved with single-minded determination, leading her toward the Victorian settee. It was an antique, hard and uncomfortable, and had been in Tate’s family for years. Clay didn’t seem too concerned. He closed the door behind them.
“Clay….mmmpf.”
Tate found herself pressed against the smooth wood of the door, much as she had the night he’d fought the mugger in the alley. Only instead of his hand, his mouth covered hers, and instead of fear, her veins pulsed with excitement.
From somewhere beside her, she heard the lock turn with a soft snick.
His hand manacled her wrists, stretched her arms over her head so that she was well and truly pinned. Hot and hungry, he clamped his teeth against her neck.
“Oh God,” she breathed, suspecting that if he wasn’t holding her up, she’d just slide right down the wall. When his other hand, impatient, pushed inside her panties again, Tate marveled that she didn’t simply dissolve.
“We… oh.” Suddenly her feet were off the ground, her legs wrapped around his hips.
“We what?”
“Huh?” she said as his teeth found her ear, his tongue the sensitive spot just behind it.
“You said we need to do something.”
She could feel him, the shockingly hard length of him, pressing against her center. “We need to hurry.”
He made a noise, something guttural, then strode across the room. Shoving aside the toss pillows, he dumped her on the settee.
And muffled her gasp of surprise by closing his mouth over hers.
The kiss exploded into frenzy.
Open-mouthed, hot, wet – it wasn’t the least bit polite. Tate felt the rasp of beard stubble against her chin, and shivered at the rough thrill. This was Clay, defenses down. No more cool-eyed agent or charming player.
He was raw. Open.
Hers.
For however long it lasted.
“Clothes,” he breathed, when they had no choice but to come up for air. Grasping the edge of her gown, he pulled it over her head. “You’re wearing entirely too many.”
And at the sight of her bared breasts, feasted like a man starving.
Everything in Tate went hot, fluid and rushed toward the promise of more. She clasped his head, heart swelling as she gave herself over, because she knew that this was right. This night, this man, hell, even this sofa felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Until the elastic of her panties yielded to Clay’s fingers with a resounding rip.
“You… tore my underwear.” She twisted around, watched the ice blue nylon fall to the floor.
“I’ve lost the ability to be civilized.”
When she looked back, she saw he was right. His tousled hair, the feral gleam in his eyes, gave the impression of something untamed.
And something a little wild, a little untamed in Tate knocked against the gate of her desire. “Guess I better go get my whip.”
With a strangled sound, Clay practically ripped open his pants. She barely had time to appreciate the sight when he pressed forward with his hips, pushing the tip of his erection against the entrance to her body.
“Condom.” He strained the word through gritted teeth. Fumbling his wallet from his back pocket, Clay tossed it aside, opened the foil wrapper with his teeth, then hastily covered himself.
Before she could touch him, kiss him, say his name, do something to add to the proceedings, he drove into her so fast and hard that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.
CLAY held himself still as Tate’s liquid heat surrounded him, trying not to weep with gratitude.
The noise she’d made when he entered her nearly made him explode.
He wanted to take it slow, wanted to do everything exactly right, but she felt so good and he craved her like air, and he thought he might die if he didn’t start moving.
So he pushed her legs wider and drove himself deeper, again and again, giving into his baser instincts.
It was so unbelievably erotic – her totally naked, still damp from her shower; him totally clothed and smelling vaguely of sweat. He couldn’t slow down even if he’d wanted to. She was…
Light, and goodness, and beauty.
Everything that had been missing from his life.
It was… mind blowing.
With the certainty that he was only going to last maybe three seconds longer, he reached down between them to help her join him.
That was all it took – just his touch in the right spot – and she proceeded to shatter around him.
It triggered his own personal explosion.
He saw lights. Hell, he saw stars.
He saw Tate, head thrown back, damp hair spread like black silk against the brocade cushion, eyes closed tight against the surfeit of pleasure, and gathered her into his arms as he climaxed inside her.
He never – never – wanted to let her go.
Spent, he collapsed on top of her.
When he came to his senses, he was pretty well embarrassed, because he’d lasted all of about two minutes. It was a personal all-time low. Hell, he’d even performed better in Sara Carlson’s bedroom closet when he was sixteen.
Way to make a first impression on the lady, Clay. Tie one on, ravage her in her living room, and then barely make it worth her while. He lifted his head, met her dancing eyes, and was relieved to see her smiling.
“Sorry,” he said. Mortified. “I’m not entirely sure what happened.”
Tate tilted her head to the side and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m pretty sure we just had sex. You know – tab A goes into slot B?”
“No.” Clay shook his head, loving what she was doing to his hair, loving the feeling of still being inside her. “That was more like spontaneous combustion. I’d like to blame it all on the alcohol, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually your fault.”
“My fault?” One perfect brow arched heavenward as a lazy smile curled those lips.
“Yep. Your fault entirely. You’re just too damn sexy for your own good.”
She laughed, and Clay found himself smiling. He could listen to her happiness forever.
“I’m also very, very naked. Dicey, when there’s a houseful of paying guests upstairs. Speaking of which, you’re fresh out of luck, Speedy. The only bed currently left unfilled is mine.”
“Well now, it seems to me that that’s actually quite convenient. You’re naked and you have a bed. What more could an inebriated traveler ask for?”
“So you think you’re going to just sweet talk your way into my bed, all drunk and smelly?”
“As a guest, I could offer to pay you for the pleasure, but you might find that offensive.”
Tate shivered as he kissed her, made a little mmmm in the back of her throat, and Clay felt like a king.
<
br /> “We should probably go upstairs,” she whispered.
Looking around, Clay realized how very badly he’d behaved. Some king. This was the public parlor, for heaven’s sake. He shifted his weight so that Tate could scoot out from beneath him.
Suddenly the smell of his own sweat didn’t seem quite so erotic. “I could use a shower.”
“No kidding.” Casting her gaze around the floor for her nightgown, Tate scooted over to pick it up.
Clay divested himself of the condom, admiring the view of Tate’s backside as she leaned over the couch.
When he considered taking her again, just like that, he could only shake his head. More like the court jester.
He put the condom in his pocket. It wouldn’t do to have a guest find it tomorrow. Not to mention Tate’s mother.
Or Max, God forbid.
“Clay?”
He looked up.
“I could use another shower. Unless…” she let the word drag out.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you’re too not precisely drunk to try that standing up.”
His crown had been reinstated. Clay decided it was good to be king.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“OW. Shit.”
Bright morning light seared Clay’s eyes, lids scraping like sandpaper as he dragged them open. He slammed them shut, hoping his other senses kicked in so that he could discover the source of the incessant buzzing. But when the bed revolved and his stomach dipped, he cautiously forced one back up.
And determined he’d gone colorblind overnight, because the room he was in was pink.
Fuchsia, he guessed you called it, screamed at him from the walls, while a lighter shade laughed amongst the white and yellow flowers rioting on the tangled sheets. Confused, cautious, he sat up gingerly and held a hand to his head.
Which pounded like the entire Marine Corps band was using his brain as a bass drum.
When the buzzing started again he vaguely recognized it as his cell phone, probably still lodged in the pocket of his pants.
His pants – as with the rest of his clothes – appeared to be MIA.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, which caused the whole room to spin a slow circle, he peered down toward the floor, locating a pile of discarded clothing. His pants were lying in a crumpled heap under a small pile of colored confetti. The kind of confetti that came lubricated and ribbed.
Bringing memory flooding back in a rush.
Well. At least he’d proven that he was capable of providing more than a scant minute’s worth of entertainment.
And Rogan – damn him – should be pleased to note they’d used protection.
Memories, both hot and lovely, drifted in and out of focus like an old reel of film.
Tate, in the shower, laughing as he took her against the tile.
Tate, moving beneath him, whispering words he didn’t deserve to hear.
Tate, warm against him, feeling like salvation in his arms, while the air went soft with dawn. Sometime very early this morning, he’d finally fallen asleep, and she must have slipped out to see to her responsibilities.
Speaking of which, he reached down to grab his phone.
“Copeland.”
“I take it your lazy butt is still in bed?”
“It’s in bed all right, but I can assure you it’s been anything but lazy.”
Spotting a glass of water on the nightstand, Clay snatched it up, trying to dispel the boll weevils that had knitted a fine new sweater for his tongue. Tate – bless her – obviously predicted how he’d be feeling. He popped the analgesics she’d left for him before attempting to read the clock.
There were several more digits than necessary, but he was pretty sure it read six forty-five. When Kim had said first thing in the morning, she apparently hadn’t been kidding.
Through the silence on the other end of the line, Clay could practically hear the wheels turning. “Think a little bit louder, Kim. My supersonic auditory prowess is a little impaired this morning.”
Kim laughed, and he knew it was because he’d finally gotten into the swing of his vacation. “Are you alone,” she asked saucily, “or do you need to call me back in a few minutes?”
“I’m good to talk,” he assured her, casting his gaze about in search of his shorts “as long as you do so in dulcet tones.” Giving up on underwear, he pulled his pants up off the floor, wincing as the smell of alcohol hit him like a bare-knuckled punch. “Your people are evil,” Clay informed her, thinking of Rogan and his insidious drink. “It’s no wonder the Irish need so many patron saints.”
“I’m guessing that sometime last night you ran afoul of a bottle of whiskey.”
“At least.” He pulled on his pants and tried to muster enough brain cells to focus on work. There was an investigation that needed his full attention. “But more to the point of your call, I’m thankful that you’re here. We’re still awaiting positive ID on the vic uncovered yesterday, but after comparing my visual against the descriptions in the missing persons files, I’m thinking that it was possibly a fourteen-year-old by the name of Janie Collier. I’ll go over her file with you at the station, but she was reportedly seen with a man loosely matching our perp’s description, aside from coloring – which we both know is easy to fake.” He wandered into Tate’s bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror.
Ouch. Not a pretty sight. Red-rimmed, scruffy, a little gray beneath his tan, and a victim of hit and run bed-head. He needed a shower, coffee, and a definite change of clothes before he could even think of meeting Kim at the station. “After I get a look at the footage, if it looks like there’s a connection, you might want to talk to the agents at the Charleston RA and get them on board with the local investigation. That stack of files I went through yesterday stem from a number of jurisdictions, so this will definitely be a cooperative effort.”
He pulled down one of his lower eyelids, studied the roadmap of crisscrossing blood vessels, and wondered absently if Tate owned any Visine. Feeling a little bit like a snooper, he opened up the medicine cabinet to check.
Toothpaste.
Face cream.
Mouthwash.
Kim yapped in his ear, and he made the appropriate noises to show he was listening. Something about a jerk at the local RA whom she’d had the displeasure of working with before.
He pushed aside a tube of hand lotion with his finger and found a bottle of Visine. Dropping the liquid in his eyes, he blinked heavily while Kim wound down her tirade. He swished a little mouthwash around, trying to dispel the Godzilla breath he had to be harboring, and winced as the potent liquid stung his lip.
He’d opened up that damn cut again, no doubt from overenthusiastically sucking Tate’s various body parts last night.
A toe here. A breast there…
But, damn, it had sure as hell been worth it.
“So how long do you need before you can meet me at the sheriff’s office?” she wanted to know. “It would probably be politic of me to let you make the introductions, since you’re the invited party guest and I’m the crasher.”
One thing that Clay had to give Kim, she never threw her federal weight around unless circumstances forced her to do so. “This is one party that I’m sure Sheriff Callahan doesn’t mind you crashing, but if you’ll give me an hour to, uh…” Say goodbye to Tate, run back to Justin’s to shower and change, try to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Tate’s mother this morning…
Morning, ma’am. Hope my shagging your daughter all through the night didn’t disturb your sleep. God. What exactly was the protocol for this type of situation?
“… get ready, then I’ll do you one better than meeting you. Tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll pick you up.” She did, and Clay plugged the address into his phone. “Got it. We’ll look the footage over with the locals, and then decide where to go from there.”
Clay ended the call, splashed some water on his face and finger combed his hair. He looked
exactly what he was – hung-over, sleep deprived, and gluttonously sated – but as time was of the essence there wasn’t much he could do.
He went back to Tate’s room in search of the rest of his clothing.
He dressed – man he really couldn’t believe he’d had any success with Tate last night, because his clothes smelled truly awful – and then steeled himself for facing whatever scene he was going to walk into downstairs.
Not only with regards to Tate’s mother, and Max, but also with Tate herself. Things had been said and done and implied last night that he had no business saying or doing or implying. As crazy as he was about this woman – and facing facts honestly, he was pretty much totally gone – it still didn’t change the fact that she lived here and he did not.
He’d do whatever it took to see her again, and work it out, but before everything was said and done he’d probably hurt her. Not so much by commission as by omission.
Such as why haven’t you bothered to come see me for the past six weeks?
Yeah, he was pretty sure she might notice he was never around. And that the weekends they planned got cut short when he had to fly out of town, and that he was spending her birthday in Santa Monica with Ted Bundy Junior, instead of her.
Yup. He was prime relationship material, all right.
Grade A, USDA choice.
His presence in her life would be kind of like an F5 tornado: rare, and almost impossible to predict.
And it would probably do just as much damage.
He was chewing over that unhappy thought as he started down the stairs to the second floor.
And wouldn’t you know it? He caught Mrs. H on the ascent.
She halted, mid-stride, but smiled before too much awkwardness ensued. “Good morning, Clay. I was actually on my way up to see if there was anything you needed.”
Like fresh towels, Clay wondered. Maybe a smack upside the head…
“Uh…” Which was a brilliant comeback. And no less mortifying than when she’d seen him naked the other morning. “I’m, um, fine. Thanks.” He glanced down at his soiled clothes. “I figured it would be easier if I showered when I got to Justin’s. You know. Since my, um, clean clothes are there.”
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