Impulse

by JoAnn Ross

  “If we’re going to be judged by our teenage days, we’re all going to be in trouble,” she murmured.

  “And isn’t that the truth.” They were standing there, her looking up at Will, him looking down at her.

  “Do you have time to come in? I’ve made coffee.”

  “I’ll make time.”

  She moved aside, letting him into her house again. And this time, she knew, into her heart.

  His boots were encrusted with snow. He yanked them off, leaving them in the box by the front door.

  He shrugged out of his parka and, as he had earlier— had that only been a few hours ago?—hung it, along with his hat, on the wall rack. Faith knew it was ridiculously romantic, but seeing their two jackets side by side on her living room wall made them seem almost like, well, a couple.

  “So,” she said. “Do you have the coroner’s report?”

  “Nope. I’m still waiting. Seems some congressman’s kid got drunk and took a header off his third-floor Jackson condo balcony and landed on the roof of a Jeep parked on the street. The DA’s worried the congressman’s going to start calling for an investigation, so he’s trying to get ahead of what could turn out to be a red- ball case. So, my homicide just got bumped to second place.”

  “An Olympic athlete isn’t a potential red-ball?”

  “Not as much as a kid whose dad is about to be indicted for shady casino dealings and suspect foreign oil deals.”

  “Do they think he was murdered?”

  “Beats me. Since it happened within the town limits, it’s not my jurisdiction. Nor my case.”

  “Still, another dead teenager—”

  “There aren’t any similarities. The kid was kicked out of two bars for being drunk and disorderly before going on to a private party where he got in a fistfight over some UW coed. Now, maybe someone did go home with him and kill him. Maybe he and the coed decided to have sex outdoors and things got a bit too gymnastic for safety and she took off. But either of those scenarios would be acquaintance murder. Which, unfortunately, is all too common when you add testosterone and alcohol.

  “Still, I’ve touched base with the police chief. He’s a good cop; if he finds any connection between my dead kid and his, he’s going to call.”

  “So, if you don’t have the coroner’s report, why are you here?”

  “Why do you think?” He drew her into his arms. Just as she’d been hoping he would. The kiss began as a subtle persuasion—a feathering brushing of his mouth to hers, a slow stroking of his tongue against her lower lip.

  When his tongue slipped between her lips, then retreated, Faith wondered how it was that her body could be so exquisitely alive even as her brain grew more and more clouded.

  “Nothing’s changed,” she murmured as Will abandoned her lips to press stinging kisses against the line of her jaw. “The timing’s all wrong.”

  “It sucks.” He smoothed a hand down her hair, which was falling wetly over her shoulders.

  “You have a murder to solve.”

  “Which I intend to do,” he vowed, burying his lips in her hair. “Later.” His palms skimmed over her shoulders, down her back, to her hips.

  Will had come here to thank her for protecting his son. That had been his honest intention. Yet he’d had a second motive, one that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the hormones that started bouncing around like a pinball in an arcade machine whenever he got anywhere near this woman.

  She was wearing about the ugliest piece of women’s clothing he’d ever seen. But even with her body covered up by that heavy, red flannel robe, with her hair tangling like wet seaweed over her shoulders, and not a speck of makeup, he still found her drop-dead gorgeous.

  “I want to taste you.” He slipped his hand into the front of the robe. Her heart pounded furiously against his palm. “All over.” He yanked the hastily tied knot loose, then pushed the flannel off her shoulders. “My lips on every fragrant inch of that long, lean, sexy as hell body.”

  “Oh, God,” she murmured on a helpless, throaty laugh as her hands got busy on the buttons of his khaki shirt. “I want that, too.”

  “Then I want to be inside you.” His mouth skimmed up her cheek, lingering at her temple. “I want you, Faith.” His lips moved back down her face, pausing to drink deeply from hers before moving down her throat. “In every way a man wants a woman. Some that are undoubtedly illegal in half the jurisdictions in this state.” Her pulse, beneath his mouth, was pounding; Will could feel the pleasure rising, heating her skin as his tongue caressed her breasts in slow, tantalizing strokes.

  Her fragrant flesh was even silkier than he’d remembered. She was everything he’d ever wanted, without having realized he’d been wanting.

  Everything and more.

  “Then, once I’ve had you, being the generous sort of guy that I am, I’ll let you have me.” His caressing touch moved lower, down the center of her body, over her rib cage, her stomach, the silky, dark curls at the apex of her firm, smooth thighs. “And then, just when you’re convinced you can’t take any more, I want to start in all over again.”

  She was trembling, her skin so hot he would not have been surprised if she’d burst into flames. With him right after her. “Do you always get everything you want, Sheriff?”

  “Hell, no.” Talk about your vast understatements. “But I’m damn well going to have you.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “And you’re going to love it.”

  “I’ve missed this,” she admitted as her hands fretted down his back. “You.” Lower. “And me.” Her hips moved in erotic little circles. “Together like this.”

  "You and me both, babe.” He dug his fingers into her hips, ground her against his aching erection.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times, until he was on the verge of popping all five metal buttons on his jeans.

  “You’ve been driving me crazy ever since I got back to town. Just about all I’ve been able to think about is all the things I’ve wanted to do to you.” His fingers caressed the soft, slick folds hidden in the downy nest of black curls. “With you.”

  “Show me.” She writhed against his erotic touch. “I want to know everything,” she said on a ragged moan as his fingers slipped into her, savoring her moist readiness. “I want to do everything.”

  She was so hot. So wet. His fingers thrust deeper. Stroking, caressing the very heart of her. And, amazingly, all that heat was for him.

  He could take her. Here, now. On the floor. Up against the wall. But he wanted more.

  What he wanted, Will realized, was everything.

  He swept a glance around the room, taking in the boxes she’d yet to unpack and the absolute lack of furnishings. “I'm more than willing to improvise, sweetheart, but tell me you bought a bed.”

  “It’s upstairs,” she said breathlessly, as he nipped at her lips. “Down the hall. Third door to the left.” She trembled as he bit the cord at the base of her neck, then dragged her onto her toes.

  He put his hands beneath her bare bottom. “Put your legs around me.”

  She did as instructed, wrapping those long legs around his hips, bringing them chest to chest. Groin to groin. God help him, he’d be lucky if he didn’t come before he made it to the upstairs landing.

  "You don’t have to carry me all the way.”

  “If you think I’m going to let go of you now, just when I’ve got you where I want you, you have another thing coming,” he said as he carried her from the room, heading toward the stairs.

  The bed was lacy wrought iron, the delicate swoops and swirls and white rosettes reminding him of a wedding cake.

  Will pulled back the thick comforter, laid her on the mattress, then stood looking down at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I was just thinking how exquisite you are.” He trailed a finger delicately from the hollow of her throat, down over her small, perfect breasts, circling the rosy tips. “You always have taken my bre
ath away,” he murmured.

  His caressing hand stroked her stomach, her hips, her taut, satiny thighs.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, cowboy… I want to see you,” she said, arching against his intimate touch. “Feel you.”

  “Sweetheart, I thought you’d never ask.” He unbuttoned his cuffs and peeled off the shirt she’d already opened, letting it drop onto the polished heart-of-pine floor.

  With fingers that were not as steady as he would have liked, Will unfastened his jeans, then shoved them, along with the gray knit boxer briefs, down his hips and stepped out of them.

  The way she was staring up at him made him feel like a god.

  If the wags who'd been speculating about her love life were even halfway accurate, she’d been living the life of a nun since moving to Hazard. Not wanting to risk her not having any protection handy, he’d come prepared.

  He retrieved a condom from the small extra pocket of the jeans; the mattress sighed as he lay down beside her on the bed.

  Although the need was almost intolerable, Will forced himself to slow the pace, hands stroking, lips taking slow, leisurely tours over her body, which flushed a deep rosy red beneath his caressing touch.

  She flowed like a river beneath him, going wherever he took her.

  Until he parted the slick pink folds of her lower lips. And she tensed.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “No.” The fever flamed even hotter in her cheeks. Her eyes were oddly shadowed with something indecipherable. Something Will decided he’d think about later. When he wasn’t being bombarded by out of control hormones.

  He captured both her wrists and lifted her hands above her head.

  “Hold on tight,” he said, wrapping her fingers around the lacy iron scrollwork of the headboard. “Because you’re goin' on an E-ticket ride, sweetheart.” He scraped a fingernail up her inner thigh. “And I’m going to watch you.”

  She bucked against him when he put his mouth on her, then cried out in stunned shock as the climax ripped through her.

  “I wanted to take this slow. Make it last.”

  She was trembling. She wasn’t alone. His own muscles were quivering and his lungs burned as he braced himself over her.

  “But I need you.” Her back bowed, her hands released their hold on the bed frame to grab his ass, seeking completion.

  He gritted his teeth, forced himself to hold back for one last, all-important detail. “Your name.”

  “What?” Her unfocused eyes blinked.

  “What the hell is your name? Your real name.”

  “Oh.” She blew out a short, sharp breath. “It’s Faith.” Then, as if sensing he might still doubt her, she tacked on, “I swear. Faith Fletcher.”

  “Faith.” He thrust into her, claimed her. Then plundered, driving her deeper into the mattress with each long stroke.

  This time she screamed when she came, her hand fisting the sheets.

  “Will.” It was half-sob, half-plea. “Please.” Her hands clawed at his back, and lower. “Now.”

  “Not yet."

  When he put his hand between them, his thumb flicking against her ultrasensitive flesh, she poured over his hand.

  And then, and only then, did he surrender to his own release.

  32

  It was driving Sal crazy. What the hell was it about that young murder victim’s name that kept ringing a bell somewhere in the back of his drug-numbed brain?

  He knew who she was, of course. You couldn’t turn on a TV without seeing that teenage chick spinning across the ice advertising everything from cereal to soup. But it was more than that. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

  Giving up on the problem for now, he pushed himself off the bed and made his way on still unsteady legs across the room to the entertainment center in the bedroom armoire and stuck in the DVD he’d watched so many times he had every line of dialogue memorized.

  When he’d first met the woman currently going by the name of Faith Prescott, she’d been doing weekday-morning, drive-time news and a half-hour, Saturday pre-baseball-game call-in show. But a guy’d have to be queer as a three-dollar bill to be able to keep his mind on box scores while listening to her smoky, sexy-as-sin voice.

  Which was, of course, how she’d ended up being stalked by that whacked-out guy who’d created a barred, six-by-eight-foot cage in his basement, just for her. Fortunately, Sal had apprehended the sicko before he could pull off his cockamamy scheme to make Faith Fletcher his personal love slave.

  Sal had wanted her from the start. But, being a professional, he’d managed to rein in his rampant hunger. After all, he’d always prided himself on being one of the good guys.

  Back when he’d been in uniform, patrolling the streets, he’d never once stooped to accepting quickies from cop groupies in the back of his cruiser.

  He’d also turned down more blow jobs from hookers looking to avoid arrest than he could count, and although it had taken every damn bit of self-control he’d possessed, there was no way he’d been willing to sully his hard-won detective’s shield by fucking a crime victim he was supposed to be protecting.

  But once Faith’s stalker was behind bars, three months after the case had first landed on Sal’s desk, he’d driven straight to her suite at the Bellagio, where, having done security work on the side for the luxury casino hotel, he’d been able to arrange for the round-the-clock protection the cops hadn’t been able to provide.

  She’d certainly seemed grateful when he’d broke the news about the arrest and assured her she wouldn’t have to be looking over her shoulder all the time anymore. Grateful enough to go to bed with him.

  Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been the wild chandelier-swinging, down and dirty monkey sex he’d been fantasizing about for the past three months, but as he’d assured her afterward, first times were never all that hot. It’d just take time for them to get to know what the other person liked.

  As his court-appointed anger-management therapist had recently pointed out, it had been an emotional time for both of them. He’d marched into the suite, higher than a kite on adrenaline, testosterone, with the creep’s blood still on his bruised and swollen knuckles and carrying a magnum of Dom he’d bought downstairs in the Caramel bar.

  As much as he’d thought about her, dreamed about her, fantasized spending the rest of his life with her, Sal had surprised himself by proposing afterward.

  Faith had surprised him a helluva lot more by actually accepting, and not wanting to give her time to back out, he’d maxed out his already overburdened Visa card by paying nearly two thousand bucks for a long, white limo from the hotel to the Clark County courthouse, an hour of chapel time, an officiant who—thank you, Jesus!—didn’t look anything like Elvis, a bridal bouquet and boutonniere, a bottle of sparkling wine, a gilt-wrapped box of hotel chocolates, and the deluxe photo package, which also included a personalized video.

  He’d gotten drunk and burned the photos after she left. But he’d kept the video, which he’d even had converted to DVD.

  “Christ, she’s a looker,” he muttered now as he watched his runaway bride walking down that white satin runner toward him.

  Not that he was one to brag, but Sal knew he wasn’t bad looking. There’d even been women who’d told him he looked a bit like Stallone in his early Rocky days. But that had never stopped him from feeling like the Beast to Faith’s Beauty.

  Although she’d protested the cost, he’d insisted on buying her a dress in one of the pricey hotel lobby shops. The store, catering to spur-of-the-moment brides, carried a rack of cocktail dresses in traditional bride’s white, but she’d decided against any of those, instead choosing a sexy, body-hugging, short silk number the color of autumn leaves that had brought out the gold flecks in her whiskey-hued eyes.

  When she’d come out of the dressing room, Sal had felt as if he’d swallowed his tongue.

  The oldest of eight kids, he’d grown up taking care of people. He’d never minded. Hell, he’
d liked it. It made him feel big. Important, the way his younger brothers and sisters looked up to him.

  It’s why he’d become a cop in the first place. And, for a while, whether Faith wanted to admit it or not, she’d damn well liked being taken care of.

  Until the trial. When things started sliding downhill.

  “Forget about that!”

  God, he needed a drink! Wasps were buzzing around in his brain and fiery needles were prickling beneath his skin.

  “It was her fault, dammit.”

  Okay, maybe not entirely. Maybe the shrink was on the right track, about them both having had issues.

  But shouldn’t she have understood how rough all that testimony had been on him? Why couldn’t she have warned him? What man would like having to hear details about his wife’s sordid past?

  Images of her having down and dirty sex with all those faceless, nameless men had begun playing over and over in an endless loop in his mind. There’d been no escaping them.

  They tormented those daytime hours when he was supposed to be working; kept him awake long into the night; and on those rare occasions he was able to sleep, his dreams were of sleazy, X-rated porn movies, all of them, goddammit, starring his wife.

  No one down at the cop shop ever said anything. At least not to his face. They wouldn’t have dared. But from the way conversation would immediately drop off whenever he entered the bull pen, he knew they were talking about her.

  Laughing at him for ending up one of the most pitiful of stereotypes—the alkie cop who marries a hooker, for chrissakes!—their scorn gnawing away at his manhood.

  Shit. He scrubbed a hand down his face.

  He’d dragged his sorry ass all the way up here yesterday to Icepick, Wyoming, to settle things with Faith once and for all. Sitting here in the hotel room, watching a replay of the marriage she’d walked out on, wasn’t doing the job.

  The only thing left to do was just suck up the pain that was even making his teeth hurt and go find his goddamn bride.

  33