by Tami Lund
Oh Lord, had he.
She heard a groan and twisted her head to watch as Jack gradually came awake. He rolled onto his back and stretched, and then he winced as he blinked open his liquid-brown eyes. “I feel like I got run over by a Mack truck,” he muttered. “Shit.”
Kennedy hesitated. Of all the scenarios sifting through her head, that comment had not been one of them. “Er, would you like some ibuprofen?”
“Yeah, in a minute.” He glanced at her. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
He looked down at himself. The used condom still hung from his rapidly swelling erection. He plucked a tissue from the box on the bedside table, and used it to dispose of the evidence.
“Shit, Kennedy, I didn’t mean to … to use you like that. I don’t know what the hell came over me.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”
He scowled and sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover his lap as he dropped his head into his hands. “No, it’s not okay. Jesus, I can’t believe I fucking showed up here in the middle of the night, screwed you for like ten seconds, and then passed out. I feel like such a dick.”
She reached over and touched his arm. “It was more like three minutes,” she assured him with laughter in her voice. “And you asked my permission at least half a dozen times first.”
“But still …”
She let her hand rest on his arm. “You can make it up to me now, if you’d like.”
He stared at her hand, and then lifted his eyes to stare at her face. “How?”
She smiled, thinking how silly he was to be so worried. “Do you ever stick around for morning sex, when you’re with … other women?” she asked shyly.
She felt him tense beside her. Had she overstepped some invisible boundary, that he would prefer to simply rush from her bed and get as far away from her as possible, as quickly as possible?
His arm slipped around her waist, and then she was flat on her back with Jack looming over her, holding himself up with his elbows. “Not often enough,” he said, and he bent his head and kissed her.
She squirmed underneath him. He lifted his head and flipped her over onto her stomach. She sucked in a breath and held it as he covered her with his body.
“Can I do this?” he asked, and she felt a hand between her legs, felt his fingers slide up her inner thigh, slick through the wetness there. She spread her legs wider and gasped.
“Yes,” she assured him, and she arched as he pressed two fingers into her, pumping, mimicking the act of sex while he rolled his hips and rubbed his erection against her backside. She felt his lips on her back, nibbling on her shoulder blade, his teeth tugging on her ear. She moaned.
“Yes!”
Jack abruptly stopped teasing her and leapt from the bed. A chill ran up her spine as her body was hit with a blast of cool morning air. She turned her head and saw him standing next to the bed, bending over the jeans he’d tossed onto the floor the night before. He dropped his wallet on the bedside table and covered her body again. She shivered.
“Sorry,” he said as he kissed her shoulder. “Needed one of these.” He held up the now empty condom wrapper and then dropped it onto the bedside table next to his wallet.
His fingers probed her opening again. His lips returned to her back. His erection rubbed against her inner thigh as his fingers continued to work her. She began to pant and squirm.
“Come for me, baby,” he murmured next to her ear, relentlessly pressing his fingers in and out, in a steady rhythm.
Kennedy felt that all-too-familiar sensation, and began to chant, “Yes, oh yes. Yes, oh yes.”
“Tell me when,” he whispered.
Just as the first wave hit her, she shouted, “When!”
He withdrew his fingers and slammed into her, pushing so hard that her head bumped the headboard. She didn’t have any time to recover, though, as the motion sent her orgasm spiraling out of control, her hips bucked, and he drove into her again and again, dragging out her orgasm until he found his own release.
And then they both fell asleep again.
• • •
Several hours later, after the lunch hour passed and they were both forced out of bed by the pressing needs of their individual bladders, Jack again complained that every muscle in his body ached. She offered him a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water.
“Thanks,” he said as he sat at the kitchen table while she stood at the counter, preparing omelets. “I always thought I was in shape, until last night. Christ, dancing is hard work.”
Kennedy smiled as she beat eggs and milk together in a bowl. “You’ve never gone undercover as an exotic dancer before?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“What’s the case? Or can’t you talk about it?” She knew, from Sabrina, that a great deal of Cullen’s job was top secret, even to her. Kennedy felt jealous of Sabrina, for being able to handle something like that with such aplomb. After her experience with her ex-husband, Kennedy was certain she could never again live with a man who had secrets.
Jack shrugged and took a drink of water. “Somebody’s killing off the guys who dance in that show. The owner thinks it’s a jealous rival.”
She gasped and turned away from her task to stare at him. “Are you allowed to tell me that?”
“I haven’t told you anything incriminating yet.” He sounded annoyed at her question, but she couldn’t help asking it.
“Sabrina says Cullen almost never talks about his cases.”
“Cullen isn’t exactly Mr. Talkative,” he pointed out. “I can hardly get him to argue with me over whether or not the Saints will go to the Super Bowl next year.”
Kennedy smiled. He was right about Cullen’s quiet persona. Her smile abruptly twisted into a frown. “Wait a minute. The dancers are getting killed? And now you’re pretending to be one of them? Are you crazy?
“No. I’m FBI. It’s what we do.”
“Try to get yourself killed?”
“You’re awfully bent out of shape about this, Kennedy.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t want you to die.”
“I’m not going to die. Cullen and I are going to solve this case. I told you, that’s what we do.”
“Do you routinely make yourself a target for a killer? Is that what it takes to be a badass FBI agent?”
Jack gave her a bewildered look. “If it’s necessary, yes. Where is this coming from? Why are you so upset?”
She grabbed the whisk and began beating eggs with significantly more force than was necessary. “Because, Jack,” she said, biting off each word. “You, this, us … I just told you, I don’t want you to die.”
“And I just told you, I’m not going to.”
“You don’t know that!”
Silence fell. The only sound was the whisk, slapping at the mixture in the bowl. Her shoulders were stiff, her back was ramrod straight, and her knuckles were white from gripping the utensil so tightly.
“Sabrina doesn’t get this bent out of shape,” he finally spoke, very deliberately. “And she and Cullen are married. Even when they were just dating, she didn’t act like this.”
She heard what he didn’t say. That whatever had happened between her and Jack, they weren’t a couple. They weren’t dating, they weren’t married, they weren’t … anything at all.
She hadn’t even realized she was pretending it was something more until he pointed out it wasn’t. She cringed as the whisk slowed and her hands began to shake. This was just supposed to be a one-night stand. Okay, two.
So he’d spent the night. That meant nothing, really. It meant he’d been too damn tired to get up and leave after they’d had sex. The companionable morning—the fabulous morning sex—for all she knew was par for the course. She really wasn’t up on proper one-night stand etiquette. If she weren’t so embarrassed at the moment, she might even have asked Jack to tell her precisely how she should be acting right now.
She was ten times a fool for thinking any of it meant anything at all. Because it didn’t. This was Jack. Just as Sabrina warned her, he was a player. This was what players did.
“You’re right,” she said as she gave the eggs a break and focused on chopping bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms. “Forget I said anything.”
She felt his eyes on her back, but she refused to turn around. Even when she heard the scrape of the chair as he pushed it away from the table, and the sounds of clothes rustling as he pushed to his feet. She even heard the faint groan that indicated the ibuprofen had not quite kicked in yet.
“I need to get going,” he said. “I’ll take a rain check on breakfast.”
She still didn’t turn around at the sound of his feet, retreating through her house, into the living room, and then out the front door. She heard the sound of the engine as he started his truck, as he backed out of the driveway, and when he shifted it into gear and headed down the street. Only then did she drop the knife onto the cutting board and let the tears fall.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kennedy didn’t go to the club that evening. Jack wasn’t surprised. After the way he’d bolted when she’d hinted that she might think of him in terms of more than just a good time, he didn’t really blame her.
Not that he wasn’t irritated about it. She needed to be the grown up one in whatever the hell convoluted relationship they had going on. He had no idea how to. He was a one-night-stand kind of guy. She was the one with relationship history, damn it.
Although, her relationship had ended in divorce because the bastard cheated on her, so probably, trying to figure out what—if anything—was going on with a guy like Jack was a really bad idea. If Kennedy was the mature one in their relationship, then she sure as hell would realize that, and she’d be the one running in the opposite direction.
Which sucked royally, because Jack felt the need again. It was like a burning in his gut. Actually, it was in an entirely different area. He wanted her.
Dressing up in that ridiculous costume, hanging out with the dancers as they chatted about their latest conquests, hearing the beat of all those sensual songs, dancing to that damned sexy-as-fuck song by Nine Inch Nails … all he could think about was rushing over to Kennedy’s house, beating on her door until she answered, and then screwing her until they were both exhausted and unconscious.
He hated himself for thinking this way. He hated this infatuation, because he knew it wasn’t fair to Kennedy, but also because he’d never been obsessed with anything in his life. Not even the cases. That was Cullen. Jack just helped talk him around to figuring them out.
Yet he’d become addicted to Kennedy. Day by day, it felt like his addiction was getting stronger, more demanding.
He knew he shouldn’t ask. He already knew the answer. But he did anyway. After the second act started, and Cullen made one of his many perusals through the dressing area, Jack said, “What’s Sabrina up to tonight?” He spoke low, so that no one could overhear their conversation.
“When I left, she was trying to talk her sister out of trolling the clubs for guys.” Cullen shook his head in exasperation.
“What about Kennedy? She’s not hanging out with them tonight?” He strived to sound casual.
“She has to be at work early tomorrow.”
Of course. Jack had forgotten that she was a nurse at a local hospital. It wasn’t at all surprising that she didn’t work nine-to-five hours.
“What time does she have to go in?” He hoped Cullen was still buying his unconcerned act.
Cullen shrugged. “Seven, I think. I think she works seven to seven, three on, four off, or something like that.”
Danny interrupted their conversation, looking more jubilant than ever. “It’s a fucking phenomenal success!” he declared.
“What is?” Jack wanted to know.
“Your idea, kid. Jumping off the stage like that, giving the ladies a little somethin’ somethin,’ if you know what I mean.” He gyrated his hips. “I used to have a strict policy: on stage only during the show. Mingling was for afterward. But they loved what you did last night with those two hotties by the stage.”
Cullen covered a snicker with a fake cough, and Jack threw him a dirty look.
“So I told the other boys to do it, too. Just a little. Test it out. And it’s working. The ladies are eating you all up like candy. Money, money, money,” he chortled excitedly.
“What about the case?” Cullen wanted to know. If anything was going to irritate his partner, it would be a guy who was more concerned with making money than he was with the longevity of his staff’s lives.
Danny shrugged. “No one died last night. You all didn’t see anything fishy, did you? Maybe the killer decided to call it quits. Who knows?” He walked away, slipping through the door and into the main area of the club.
“He figures it’s our job,” Jack remarked to Cullen, who was glaring at the closed door as if he wanted to storm through it and strangle Danny. “His job is to run the show. Ours is to keep his gravy train safe.”
“He gave me an earful earlier for kicking everyone out early last night. Said it was bad for business. Said we were stuck here for as long as the dancers wanted to hang around and flirt with the ladies.”
Since Kennedy wasn’t here, and since it would be wrong to wake her up in the middle of the night when she had to go to work just a few hours later, Jack didn’t particularly care. “Maybe this will be our break. Maybe our killer will be one of the crowd hanging out tonight.”
• • •
It was four in the morning by the time everyone left the club. Jack dragged his weary body home, showered, ate a ham and cheese sandwich, and then climbed back into his truck. He was in Kennedy’s driveway before 5:00 a.m. The light in the kitchen window winked on shortly after five. He climbed out of his truck and knocked on the front door.
“You sure get up early,” he remarked when she opened the door and gave him a wary look. He ignored the look and stepped into the house.
“I usually work out before work,” she explained, her voice sounding as hesitant as the look in her eye. “It helps to wake me up and keep me going through a twelve-hour shift. Plus, it’s healthy.”
He finally noticed the Spandex shorts and tank top, her hair pulled into a ponytail.
“I have a better workout idea,” he said, and he advanced on her, backing her up against the wall and trapping her there with his body.
“We can’t keep doing this, Jack,” she said, her voice breathless.
“Come on, Kennedy. Be the adult in the relationship afterward. I can’t get you out of my head. All I can think of when I’m at that stupid club, dancing on that stage, is getting naked with you.” He put his hands on her hips, slid them up so that his thumbs grazed over her nipples before lifting them higher and tugging the elastic tie out of her hair. She sucked in a breath and waited.
“Will you let me?” he asked.
“You always ask,” she said, her voice choppy, with anticipation, he hoped. “But I never feel like I can say no.”
He hesitated, his mouth millimeters from touching her lips. “Do you want to say no?”
“No.”
“So is that a yes?”
She threw her arms around his neck and leapt into his arms. He caught her easily, and walked down the hall toward her bedroom.
“Yes!” she screamed just a short time later.
• • •
The call came shortly before noon. Jack woke with a start, and realized he was sleeping in Kennedy’s bed, alone. It took him a few disoriented moments to recall that she’d had to go to work today. Since he’d passed out about five seconds after having an orgasm, he supposed he ought to be grateful that she’d left him there instead of waking him and making him go back to his own house.
Still, it felt weird. Like he had any right to be there. He couldn’t recall ever before hanging out at a woman’s house when she wasn’t there.
His phone buzzed again
, reminding him of why he’d woken up in the first place. It was Cullen. “Yeah?” he said in a voice thick with sleep.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Local cops have a body at the hotel where Danny Diamond and crew are staying. They think it’s one of ours.”
“Shit.”
“Yep. Get up. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”
“I’m not at home.” He wasn’t about to tell his partner where he was, either. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Why does it not surprise me that you are so comfortable in this lifestyle?” Cullen commented. “I’m beginning to think you missed your calling.”
“It isn’t like that,” he started to say, but the line was dead. Cullen had already hung up.
• • •
“Ah hell,” he said a short time later, as he and Cullen stood over the dead body.
It was Ranger. Even though he was Jack’s least favorite of the dancers, and he had been a cocky son of a bitch, it was still a life that had been taken far too soon. Ranger had been full of himself, and the way he talked indicated that he felt women were objects, meant to be used and discarded instead of viewed as potential life partners, as lovers, and friends. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die.
Thinking about Ranger’s attitude made Jack uneasy. Was this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?
The body had been discovered by the cleaning crew at the hotel, lying face down on the bed in his hotel room, multiple stab wounds to the back as the probable cause of death. The rest of the dancers had been corralled in another area of the hotel so that Jack and Cullen could get to the scene and review it without blowing their cover.
“Hey, did you ever hear him talk about women?” he asked Cullen, who was walking around the room, looking for clues.
“Yeah. He was a dick. But he still didn’t deserve to die,” his partner muttered, echoing his own thoughts.
“Do I sound like that when I talk about women?”