Detective Daddy

by Mallory Kane

  So much for getting over him. She tossed her head back as the last dregs of caution chased after those rational thoughts.

  Ash growled deep in his throat, and lifted his head to kiss her, but she was still caught up in the sparks his thumbs were striking at her breasts. When she didn’t meet his kiss, he put his hand around her neck and pulled her down. Utterly defeated by his strength and intensity, she lowered her mouth to his and kissed him softly.

  For a few seconds he kept the kiss sweet and soft, but then he increased the pressure and his tongue traced the seam of her lips until she parted them. He slid his hand up to cradle the back of her head and took her mouth with his—hard, deep, his tongue thrusting insistently, sensually to meet hers.

  Her heart was racing so fast that it took her breath, and her whole body pulsed with desire, but still he kissed her. He was relentless, his taking of her mouth just short of brutal. She put her hands against his chest for support as she gave herself up to the feel of his mouth and tongue.

  Too soon, he pulled back, stopping the kisses as suddenly as he’d started. But all he did was change his target. He trailed his tongue down along her jaw and farther, to the hollow just above her collarbone, where he nibbled and suckled lightly.

  His fingers followed his lips, touching her with the same erotic charge as his mouth. Then he moved both lips and fingertips farther down, trailing fire along the top of her already ultra-sensitized breast.

  Before she could take a full breath, his fingers were on her nipple again. It tightened even more until it ached with exquisite, nearly painful pleasure.

  Then he took the throbbing nub into his mouth, and what she’d thought was pleasure grew and expanded until she knew she would explode. She arched, pushing her breast into his mouth as the liquid fire burned all the way through her.

  He gasped, and she felt cool air shiver across her wet, aching nipple. His erection pressed against her, nearly undoing her.

  She threw her head back and moaned. Then her hands were desperately pulling at the hem of his T-shirt. She pushed it up, baring his abs and chest. Determined to make him suffer the same agonizing pleasure he was giving her, she bent her head and kissed each of his nipples in turn. Then she scraped her teeth along one of them.

  The feel of her teeth grazing the surprisingly sensitive tip sent fierce shudders through Ash’s body. His buttocks tightened and he thrust forward, clenching his jaw against a groan.

  She moved to the other nipple, squeezing it between her teeth, nibbling at it, sucking on it until he thought he would surely come just from the exquisite aching pleasure of her mouth on him. The feeling was peculiar—definitely erotic but also disconcerting, as if his male nipples shouldn’t be sensitive like a woman’s were.

  “Rach, don’t do that,” he said hoarsely, fisting his hand in her hair.

  She laughed deep in her throat and the vibration added another layer of pleasure, driving him even closer to orgasm.

  “Be careful,” he groaned. “I’m getting—too close.”

  She lifted her head and pinned him with what he could only describe as a wicked, hooded gaze. She licked her lips and smiled, then bent down again.

  He steeled himself for more strangely erotic sensations, but she didn’t return to his nipples. She had a new target in mind. Her fingers reached for the button and zipper on his jeans. He pushed her hands away, sucked in his breath and undid them himself. As he slid them down his legs, cool air shivered across his hot, pulsing erection.

  Then she touched him, her small hand soft but firm as she squeezed him, creating a new, more unbearable friction than the stiff material of his jeans. He thrust against her hand, rigidly holding on to his control.

  Rachel’s breasts were bare, her little pajama top already pushed up to give him access. He gently positioned her until she was sitting upright atop him and slid his hand down to the swell of her hip.

  She lifted herself so he could slide her pajama bottoms down. When he got them past her bottom, she stretched out along his length so he could push them off. They’d always fallen into a natural rhythm, their foreplay in sync, their climaxes close if not simultaneous. But right now, in this erotic place, they were like two parts of the same whole. They moved in concert, as if they’d always been together.

  Her hand stroked him again, and his thoughts dissipated. All that mattered was sensation.

  He heard and felt her panting. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts, aligning with his.

  She was turned on. She wanted this as much as he did. And that was a lot. More than he ever had before.

  As they moved together in the ancient dance of lovers, he was aware, without actually thinking, that she was sexier, softer, more womanly than she’d been before. Her breasts were fuller, heavier in his hands, the nipples larger and darker.

  Because she was pregnant.

  The thought hit him square in the face. For a split second, reality trumped even his sizzling desire, and fear stole his breath and nearly deflated his erection.

  She was pregnant, and neither of their lives would be the same again. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a randy teen, rather than a responsible man in his thirties.

  For a desperate instant, he wanted to push her away. Apologize to her and tell her that he was wrong to start things up again. Certainly hadn’t intended to give her the idea that he wanted to be with her and their baby. Did he?

  He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. He was supposed to be her protector—her temporary protector, not her once and future lover. Not to mention he had a job to do—find the man who had killed his parents.

  He realized he’d gone perfectly still. Realized Rachel had, too. She was staring down at him, fear almost smothering the desire in her eyes.

  He blinked and realized that right now, all he cared about was stoking the flaming desire he’d seen in her green-gold eyes. He didn’t want to watch it die—didn’t want to be the one who did that to her. So he took her hand and, watching her carefully, moved it back to his erection.

  For an endless moment, she didn’t move, just stared at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Then slowly, she lowered her gaze and began to stroke him again. At first softly, barely brushing his flesh. Then more strongly, more urgently, until he was holding on to the dregs of control with all his strength.

  Ignoring the last passing reminder of the inevitable regret he was doomed to face in the morning, he took her in his arms and held her as he flipped them both on the couch.

  He hovered over her, his weight on his arms, and kissed her until he could think of nothing but sinking into her, like he’d done so many times before.

  He’d missed her. Missed making love with her. Missed the feel of her beneath him. Missed her wide-eyed, oddly colored gaze on him as she waited for him to fill and fulfill her.

  He slid his hand up her thigh and delved into her with a finger. She arched upward, pressing her breasts into his chest.

  “Ash,” she whispered. “Please—”

  He knew what she was asking. Her hand closed around him, squeezing, rubbing, caressing. “Please—”

  He raised himself above her and pushed into her silken, waiting core. And groaned as her hot, wet flesh took him in and clamped around him.

  Rachel cried out softly, then arched her hips, giving him full access, which he took. He moved slowly, excruciatingly slowly, giving her time to get used to him. He tortured himself, holding back, until he thought he might explode.

  Rachel lay there, waiting for a few seconds, but then she moaned in frustration. She didn’t want it slow and easy. He laughed softly. More contradiction. Wide-eyed innocence paired with ravenous desire.

  “Okay, Rach,” he whispered in her ear, then kissed his way down her jaw to her lips. “Here we go.”

  Then he lifted and thrust—hard. Hard and long. He pulled back until he was nearly out, then thrust again. And again. All the time he watched her, held her gaze, until he saw h
er expression change. Saw her mouth open in that little O he loved to see because that meant she was just about to tip over that final obstacle to ecstasy.

  Then she did. She gasped and arched as her body contracted around him in quick, rhythmic pulses. He gave one more deep thrust and came in a burst of inner light that blinded him like sheet lightning in a summer thunderstorm. And like sheet lightning, it went on and on. And on.

  Finally, drained, he buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder and gasped for breath. Her chest was rising and falling, and her body occasionally shook in a tiny shudder, little aftershocks of her orgasm.

  She sighed softly and brushed her fingers languidly along the nape of his neck, then down his back.

  After a while, he didn’t know how long, he finally gathered the strength to lift his head. He gazed into her eyes. She gazed back, her face relaxed, her lips slightly parted. He brushed her lips, feeling her warm breath on his skin. Then he lay on his side with his back against the couch cushions and pulled her close.

  She settled in with a soft sigh, as if she was made to fit there.

  RACHEL LAY IN ASH’S ARMS, listening to his long, slow breaths. She’d been surprised by the intensity of his lovemaking. Almost as surprised as she was that he’d even started it. Almost as surprised as she’d been to wake up in his arms.

  He’d been so casual when they’d dated before. Yes, they’d been together nearly every day for four months. Yes, he’d satisfied her more than anyone she’d ever slept with—okay, than the two other men she’d ever slept with.

  But tonight he’d been a very different lover. He’d been serious, intense, and in a way, sweeter and more considerate than he’d ever been in the past. Tonight his lovemaking had devastated her, because she knew that when he woke up, he’d regret it.

  He barely stirred as she slid quietly out of his arms and off the couch. She picked up her pajamas and slipped them on, then turned toward the guest bedroom. But she was too warm and her head was spinning with all the events of the past couple of weeks, and especially tonight.

  She glanced out the window, then at Ash. He was sound asleep, his lips parted and his breaths deep and even. She didn’t want to wake him, but she’d sure like to get some fresh air and clear her head. She stepped into the foyer and carefully unlatched the front door.

  She tiptoed across the porch to the glider and sat down. The air was cool—the crisp coolness of fall with its promise of winter that was so different from the soft coolness of spring. She took a deep breath that turned into a yawn.

  If she had a blanket, she could fall asleep out here, she thought, then chuckled. Like she’d told Ash earlier, she could fall asleep just about anywhere except in bed where she ought to be. She wondered what time it was. Late, she knew. Maybe even close to morning.

  Morning. A weight settled on her chest. She dreaded facing Ash in the morning. He’d be irritable and uncomfortable. His head would be spinning with all that had happened to him—a lot of it because of her.

  She didn’t know this serious, worried Ash, who was being forced to accept that the man who’d been behind bars for twenty years for the murder of his parents was innocent. This Ash, who was furious with her for her part in freeing Campbell, and suspicious of her for turning up pregnant with his child.

  At least he hadn’t tried to deny that he was the baby’s father. She was sure he remembered the night the baby was conceived as clearly as she did. That night in New Orleans when they’d been so hungry for each other—laughing and teasing as they finished their deceptively fruity Hurricanes in those huge souvenir glasses.

  She lay her hand across her tummy. She couldn’t regret that their carelessness had created a child, although she knew he did.

  A flash of light caught her attention. She glanced up and saw the headlights of a car turning onto Ash’s street. But as she squinted, idly wondering who was coming home this late—or early—the headlights went out.

  That was odd. She could see the vehicle, reflecting the dim light from the streetlamps. It was still moving, creeping along in the darkness.

  The corner of her mouth quirked up in a little smile. Whoever it was, he must be seriously sneaking in late.

  Shrinking back into the corner of the glider so she wouldn’t be seen, Rachel peered through the bushes in Ash’s yard, watching the car with casual interest. She was ready to go inside, but she didn’t want to move and call attention to herself. She’d rather stay put until the driver parked and disappeared into his house.

  While she watched, she entertained herself by imagining who he was and what he’d been doing. And of course, if he were a man or a woman. Was it a teenager who’d stayed out way too late and was trying to sneak in without Mom knowing? Good luck with that.

  Or a husband out playing poker or drinking with the guys? And was he sneaking in because he didn’t want the neighbors to know how he spent his nights, or because he didn’t want to wake his wife?

  The vehicle rounded the cul-de-sac without stopping. Rachel squinted again. Maybe it was a police car casing the street, making sure everything was quiet. But she didn’t see lights on top of the car or reflective lettering on the side.

  To her surprise and trepidation, the car pulled up in front of Ash’s house and stopped without cutting the engine. Rachel’s senses went on alert and her shoulders hunched with tension as she tried to make herself as small as possible.

  Her pulse began to pound. This was no delinquent teen or guilty husband. This person who’d sneaked into the subdivision in the middle of the night was not there for some innocent reason. She listened intently, ready to bolt inside if the car’s engine turned off.

  But it didn’t. It looked like the driver planned to be there for a while. It had to be someone watching her or Ash.

  Had Uncle Charlie—Chief Hammond—assigned an unmarked car to keep an eye on her because of the break-in? No. He wouldn’t do that. The department was already shorthanded. Besides, she was sure he knew she was with one of his detectives.

  Maybe he’d assigned someone to watch Ash. Was he worried Ash would do something stupid like go vigilante, looking for the real killer?

  Then a scary thought hit her. What if it was the real murderer, alerted by the press conference? With Rick Campbell declared innocent, the police would reopen the case. Rachel tried to follow her sudden thought with rational reasoning.

  Why would the killer be watching Ash? Because he was a police detective? Maybe the killer knew that the police had something that pointed to him.

  If so, Ash’s life could be in danger. And she was trapped out here. If she tried calling out to Ash, the driver might hear her and get to her before Ash could.

  Was that the most rational explanation? The vehicle was parked directly in front of Ash’s house. Pretty obvious, if he were watching them.

  On the other hand, it could be just a jealous boyfriend or a stalker, watching someone else who lived near Ash? If she were stalking somebody, she wouldn’t be so obvious as to park right in front of their house. She’d park somewhere else, so if she were noticed, she could get away before they reached her car, or she could claim to be waiting for someone.

  She decided she wouldn’t be a very good stalker. She wasn’t creative enough for plausible deniability.

  Still, no matter who it was or why they were here, they’d effectively trapped her in this dark corner of the porch until they decided to leave. And now she was sleepy. No. She couldn’t fall asleep now. But her pregnant body had other ideas. She fought her heavy eyelids, but ultimately lost.

  When a noise startled her, she realized she’d been dozing. The noise was the car pulling away. The sky was beginning to lighten. She sat up carefully, squinting at the car’s license plate. She could see most of it—enough that she was pretty sure a friend of hers in the DMV could tell her who it was registered to.

  The car, which had been creeping away from the curb, stopped. Rachel froze, holding her breath. Had he seen her? The sky was barely light enou
gh to signal the streetlamps to go off, and she was in shadow at the dark end of the porch, and partially hidden by shrubs, but she had moved, trying to get a better look at the license plate.

  She tensed, prepared to scream if the driver got out and came her way, but a garage door screeched open a few doors down and the mysterious car moved on.

  Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. Once the car disappeared around a corner, she got up and slipped inside. Ash was still asleep on the couch, so she tiptoed into the guest room and glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was after six. She looked longingly at the bed, then decided she should probably go ahead and get ready for work.

  She gingerly touched the cut on her head. It wasn’t nearly as sore, and that was good, because she couldn’t wait another day to wash her hair.

  As she grabbed underwear and clothes, she argued with herself about telling Ash what she’d seen. She didn’t want to tell him anything until she’d run the license plate. He needed to know that someone might be watching the house, but if she could present him with the whole package—make and model of car, license plate and the car’s registrant, maybe she could redeem herself a little in his eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  The sound of a door closing woke Ash. He blinked. Rachel must be up. He stirred and realized he was lying on the couch, naked. And alone.

  He sure hadn’t been alone last night. He could still smell the subtle coconut essence that always scented her skin. He closed his eyes as his body reacted to the memories—the taste of her skin, the feel of her mouth on his, the eagerness with which she’d slid right into his arms. They’d fallen into the rhythm that made sex with her so erotic, so satisfying.

  Even more satisfying last night, because her body seemed softer and firmer at the same time. Her breasts were fuller, more luscious than he remembered.

  Because she was pregnant.

  Oh, hell. What kind of idiot was he, to fall back into bed with her? He was so not ready for that kind of responsibility. Not that he had a choice. She was pregnant and he was—what?