Lie in the Moment

by Nicole Camden

  He turned away, releasing her from the power of his gaze. She exhaled slowly as he pulled two wineglasses down from a cabinet.

  “It’s a little late for wine,” she ventured. She wasn’t sure why he’d decided to open the bottle. She’d been perfectly willing. And she had to leave in a few hours.

  Amusement wrinkled the corners of his eyes as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against his countertop.

  “Yeah, but you seemed a little tense,” he agreed lazily. He seemed to be daring her. Daring her.

  She’d never backed out on a dare in her life. Lifting her chin, she removed her duty weapon and badge from her hip and set them on the breakfast table and then crossed the kitchen to insinuate herself between him and the center island, matching his stance and meeting him stare for stare.

  “I’m not tense,” she said slowly. She leaned forward until she was standing so close she could feel the heat of his body, smell the warm male scent of him.

  His eyes fell to her mouth. “My mistake.”

  He didn’t move; he just watched her, his eyes amused, curious. She wanted to shake him up, make him take her seriously.

  With slow, deliberate movements, she drew her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. It slid across a satiny wood floor, a sibilant whisper in the quiet room. Her bra, made of emerald-green satin strips and transparent mesh, was a recent impulsive purchase.

  He didn’t straighten, nor did the amused smile leave his lips, but a muscle in his jaw tightened and Maura relaxed. She didn’t have large breasts, but they were still firm, and the bra pushed them up and together. She knew her nipples—taut in the cool air of the kitchen—were mostly visible. Turning away from him, she took one of the wineglasses off the counter and poured herself a generous amount of the chianti that he’d opened before she faced him again.

  Swirling the red liquid in the glass, she eyed him over the rim. Dad would be so ashamed if he knew. The thought irritated her, and she banished it with an effort of will.

  He stepped forward, surrounding her without actually touching, caging her with the frame of his body. Her head came only to his collarbone. She tilted it back so she could see his face and realized with a gasp that he’d undone her jeans, and his hands had slid down to cup the cheeks of her ass.

  Gasping, she felt her hips jerk forward involuntarily against his thighs. His substantial erection pressed into her belly from beneath his pants. She knew he was big, really big. She felt heat wash over her face and chest and knew she was blushing again. Damn it.

  He held her there, not moving, and after a moment Maura relaxed somewhat. Sure. Relaxed. That’s what I am. His eyes were unreadable, calm, but she could see a pulse beat in his neck.

  She still held her glass of wine between them. She took another casual sip, as if his hands weren’t gripping the cheeks of her ass.

  “How’s the wine?” he asked.

  “It’s delicious,” she answered immediately.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Maura leaned back so she could see his face without getting cross-eyed. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  He slid one hand to the crease between her buttocks, snapping her thong.

  Damn. She felt her breath go. It didn’t hurt, but his fingers lingered there, sliding beneath the satin strip and venturing deeper.

  She closed her eyes.

  “The eyes are the brain’s fools,” she heard him say. His voice was soft, almost a whisper near her ear. She struggled to hold the wineglass steady in her hand. “Back in the days of man’s ancestors, when we were hunting on the plains, or in the jungle, our brains couldn’t process what we saw fast enough to keep us safe. So we evolved. Do you know what the brain does when you look at something?”

  His lips were skimming gently over her face, from her temples to over her closed lids.

  “What?” she murmured, curious, trapped in the spell he’d cast with his voice and hands.

  “It guesses. Sees something and anticipates rather than processing the reality. It’s the head start, the leap that let our ancestors survive, but it’s also our Achilles’ heel. When you only trust your eyes, you make it easy for men like me to fool you.”

  He shifted her upward and set her bottom on the center island to the left of the stove, bringing their hips level.

  “You don’t fool me,” she argued automatically, and opened her eyes, only to realize that she still couldn’t see more than a faint brightness. He’d tied something around her eyes without her realizing it.

  He chuckled. “Of course, given enough distraction, the rest of our senses can be fooled as well.”

  Oh, shit.

  SOMEHOW, HE HADN’T expected Maura O’Halloran to be so much fun. She was by turns bold and shy, and though she was attempting to hide how nervous she was, he could read it in her body language and in the blushes that covered her face and breasts. He bet she hated it, her body’s uncontrollable response. I wonder if she’ll hate the orgasm I’m about to give her, he thought with some relish.

  He leaned back, sliding his hands out from the smooth cheeks of her bottom. With quick, efficient movements, he removed his phone from the pocket of his pants and slid it into the silverware drawer. He doubted she’d try to go through his phone, or even access it, but he didn’t want to be interrupted by texts.

  Closing the drawer silently, he turned his attention back to the other project requiring examination: the slender redhead perched on his counter, her eyes covered by a linen napkin, her hand still holding her glass of wine. The bra was unexpected. She looked perfect, like a work of art, with her lightly freckled golden breasts rising from her green bra. He intended to savor the opportunity to put his mouth on that sweet, clean skin.

  Easing forward until he was once again in her embrace, he removed the wineglass from her hand and set it aside, far enough that they wouldn’t accidentally knock it over, and then he put both hands on her jean-covered thighs, spreading them wider.

  Her soft pink lips parted below the blindfold and he couldn’t help himself—he dipped his head and tasted her. Wine. Woman. Delicious. He didn’t push, just let his lips brush lightly over the smooth plump surface of her mouth, letting the feel and smell of her surround him. Her arms came up and slid around his shoulders, her fingers lacing tightly into the hair at the nape of his neck.

  He touched her lightly with his fingers, sliding them to the outside of her thighs and then to her hips. His lips trailed to her temples, down her hairline to her jaw and behind her ear. He could feel his own body respond, his heart rate increasing, his dick growing thicker and longer in his pants, but he was determined to remain distant this time, watching carefully for her responses, learning what she liked by her sighs and her shivers and the soft movements of her body.

  She gasped as he traced his index fingers from the swell of her hips in her jeans to the curve of her waist, lightly brushing his thumbs back and forth. Her stomach was flat and toned, like a kickboxer’s, and he had a brief vision of her standing in a ring in small shiny shorts and a sports bra, her face fierce with concentration as she took on her opponent. His fingers tightened reflexively in response, pulling her closer to him, close enough that her bra-covered breasts brushed his chest.

  She liked that.

  “Take off your shirt,” she ordered, tugging at his neck. “I want to feel you.”

  He didn’t want to take his hands off her. “You do it,” he replied.

  She cursed under her breath, making him smile, and released her grip on his neck with a small push. He expected her to start undoing the buttons, bust instead she gripped the sides of his open collar and tugged. Buttons ripped free and scattered throughout his kitchen, pinging on the floor.

  His shirt hung open, ruined. Her hands, flat against the muscles of his chest, slid over his nipples. She paused and let her fingertips press firmly, purring in approval.

  “Nice. I want to see you.”

  “Later,” he muttered, and tugged the straps of h
er bra down her arms, trapping them against her sides.

  “Take it off,” she begged.

  He ignored her and bent to trace his tongue along her collarbone, pausing at a small mole, which he tasted with the tip of his tongue. She sighed, and her hands moved restlessly over his chest, her thumbs stroking circles over his nipples. He knew that meant she wanted him to touch her that way, wanted him to stroke the soft pink tips that he could see through the lace of her bra. He would get there in due time. She was too sweet to rush, too hot not to savor while he had the chance.

  “Damn it.” She reached up and gripped the sides of his head, dragging it down to her taut nipples. One delicious bud popped into his mouth and he suckled fiercely, enjoying the sound of her loud cry of pleasure. “Oh, fuck yes,” she moaned.

  Tightening his arms around her, he suckled a little longer and then released her breast with a soft nip in parting, the emerald material dark and wet from his mouth.

  He turned his attention to her other breast, this time touching lightly with the point of his tongue and then lashing back and forth.

  “Bite it,” she said softly, and her skin flushed rosy gold. He could feel the heat of her against his face. My, my, so the fierce little detective likes a little pain with her pleasure.

  He bit down, gently at first and then a little harder while pinching her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  Her nails dug into his chest, and he grunted, his hips jerking involuntarily.

  She laughed, and he could have sworn he knew what she was thinking, or taunting, as the case may be. You like a little pain as well, don’t you, Roland Chandler?

  He did, but he didn’t like that she’d already learned that much about him.

  With a parting kiss, he released her nipple and slid his hands down her arms to her elbows, gripping her and easing her down until she was on her back on the island in his kitchen.

  She gasped as the cold marble touched her skin and arched upward, thrusting her breasts toward his face. Unable to resist, he tugged the damp fabric downward until her small, slightly rounded breasts were visible, perky and sprinkled with golden freckles, the nipples reddened from his attentions. He admired his handiwork, stroking a hand from her throat down between her breasts to the concave softness of her stomach, feeling the muscles tighten beneath his fingers.

  She moaned and arched upward against his hand. Bending over, he kissed the damp surface of her skin, feeling the muscles trembling beneath his lips. He curled his fingers into the waist of her jeans and thong and tugged downward.

  “Lift your hips higher,” he murmured, and traced her hip bone with his tongue. She obeyed, shifting upward, a picture of wantonness spread under the lights of his kitchen, her red hair fanned out behind her like flames. He slid one arm beneath her back to support her while he tugged her jeans and underwear down her hips and over her knees to her ankles. They caught there, on her shoes and what he guessed was an ankle holster with a small-caliber pistol.

  He didn’t bother to remove them. He wanted her restrained, just a little, and at the mercy of his tongue. Lifting his head, he let his eyes follow his hands as he skimmed them over her toned calves and delicate knees. She clenched her thighs together, prompting him to slide his palms up, thumbs in the crease between her legs, tugging them apart. She was pink and glistening beneath a thatch of red curls. He licked his lips, absorbed the softness of her skin, the briny smell of her arousal, and the small whimpers that escaped from her throat.

  She reached down blindly for him, catching his hair in her grip. “Enough teasing,” she demanded. “Fuck me.”

  He ignored her words but did move upward, stopping at the damp curls that seemed to beg for his tongue.

  “Oh, shit. Don’t—” she began, only to end on a strangled sound as he dipped his head and buried his mouth in the wet, juicy heat of her.

  He was no stranger to a woman’s body. He knew how to build the sensation, starting with a delicate touch and then getting rougher. He slid one finger inside her slick, wet core, moving gently back and forth before adding another, and all the while he teased her with his tongue, lashing at her clit and then rubbing gently, steadily, occasionally suckling on her as he had her breasts. Would she like a little pain here as well?

  Curious, he set his teeth on the aroused little bud and bit down just hard enough for her to know his intentions. She tensed beneath his hands, just for a moment, but then spread her legs a little wider, as wide as she could with her jeans still around her ankles, a clear invitation for him to continue. So he did, using his teeth just this side of too much, until she cried out, and then he soothed her, rubbing gently. He did it again and again, until her head was thrashing and her grip on his hair was painfully tight. He ignored the pain and lifted her higher, sent his fingers inside her deeper and faster.

  “Oh, fuuuuuck,” she yelled as she came, a long drawn-out sound that seemed to come from her depths. He continued to use his fingers on her until every last ripple faded and her body relaxed back down onto his counter.

  He waited a moment before straightening and then gingerly adjusted his cock inside his pants. The smell and taste of her lingered on his lips, inescapable, and he didn’t see himself calming down anytime soon.

  She lay where she was for a moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but then she used her arms to push herself upward. With a jerk, she removed the linen napkin he’d used to blindfold her and tossed it aside, leaving her hair a tousled, tangled mess around her face.

  She looked thoroughly fucked, her nipples red, her jeans around her ankles, and her eyes satisfied. He memorized the picture she made and knew he wouldn’t be able to look at her ever again without imagining her like this, sated with pleasure from his lips and hands.

  Her gray eyes were puzzled as she studied him. “Why?”

  With a shrug, he moved forward and helped her pull her bra back in place and then lifted her up off the counter.

  “I can get down by myself,” she muttered, shoving at his hands as she reached for the waistband of her jeans. “I want to know why you did that instead of fucking me.” She zipped and fastened her pants with an irritated twitch of her fingers.

  He knew better than to tell her his initial reasoning, that he thought she hadn’t had a man go down on her before, or at least not well, so he shared a different truth instead.

  “I wanted dessert.”

  MAURA STARED AT HIM, torn between laughing and wanting to punch him with something. She’d thought he’d just fuck her, like most guys, or at least try to get her to reciprocate. Instead he’d laid her out on the counter and given her the best orgasm of her life, and hadn’t asked for anything in return.

  He looked smug, standing in front of her with his shirt hanging open, even though she could see the erection that pushed at the fly of his pants. His chest was cut with muscle, as toned and taut as a high school basketball player. Shredded, as Maddie would say. The man was gorgeous and he knew it. Right. She should be annoyed. Bastard probably thought he’d gotten the better of her.

  Before she could respond appropriately to his comment—what the hell was an appropriate response to that?—he turned away and opened the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water.

  “Want one?” He was already drinking deeply, his throat working.

  “No. I think you know what I’m in the mood for,” she said with a pointed look at his crotch.

  He stared for a moment, then chuckled. “I bet you’re fun to watch in the interrogation room. Do you play good cop or bad cop?”

  She didn’t have a chance to respond before he said, “Bad cop” and nodded his head.

  Maura shrugged. “No one ever believes Bert would really hurt them.” And she couldn’t help it. If she thought someone knew something about a case and wasn’t telling, it made her furious, and furious, whether cold or hot, made people forget that she was five feet two inches with a face like a pixie.

  “Anyone can be dangerous under the right ci
rcumstances, as I’m sure you know. But yeah, Bert is one of those people who engenders instant trust. He’d be a good pickpocket,” Roland mused out loud.

  “He’s too honest,” she argued, and gave him another look. Unlike you.

  Roland shrugged. “Honesty is overrated.”

  “Says the son of a politician and a thief,” she countered.

  His face closed for a moment, hiding his expression, and she wondered whether she’d hit a nerve.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, and finished off the water, setting the bottle aside. “There is that.” He picked up her hands and held them in his. “What can I do to get you to trust me?”

  Maura blinked. For some reason she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. “Nothing. Why? Why do you want me to trust you?”

  Placing her hands on his chest, he slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her against him. She slid her arms around his neck in reflex, gasping when he massaged the muscles of her ass.

  Moaning, she bit her lip and let her head fall back. He took the opportunity to set his lips on her neck, his hot breath making her wriggle against him.

  “Never mind,” he murmured. “Forget I asked.”

  Called back to herself, she pushed away from him, leaning back from the heat of his muscled chest. “No, tell me why you want me to trust you.”

  His blue eyes were dark in the dim kitchen, too dark to clearly see the expression on his face, but she thought he looked irritated with himself, or maybe with her.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  Is he telling the truth? Maura wondered. Did she care? She wanted to believe him, she realized. Why else would she be entertaining the idea of trusting Roland Chandler?

  “Roland, I—”

  A loud buzzing and the clink of silverware broke the moment. Roland released her immediately and she reeled at the sudden loss of his touch.

  He went to the island and pulled out the silverware drawer, removing his phone and checking the screen.

  “Nick, this had better be good,” he growled, meeting her eyes.