Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  He’d spoken to Blain? When?

  She felt color enter her cheeks. “He was probably just being nice.”

  But Bob was shaking his head. “I need you, Cece. Sanders told me you were great this weekend. Top-notch. He also made it perfectly clear that he still wants you on the case.”

  “But, Bob—”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts, Cece. Look, I know you don’t like the man, but obviously you’re able to put that aside. That’s what a good agent’s supposed to do. You’re needed in North Carolina, and you’ll leave today.”

  IT WASN’T HARD to get places when one worked for the FBI. Private jets were available to whisk agents wherever they wanted. Turned out a couple of West Coast agents were headed east the next day and so Cece was able to hitch a ride on a flight to Charlotte, her cast-iron stomach suddenly corroding on the inside. What would she say to Blain? What was she going to do when she saw him?

  Ask him why he hadn’t called.

  No, she told herself. She wouldn’t do that. What she needed to do was act like a mature adult. Meet Blain somewhere and tell him she wanted off the case. Frankly, he was the only one who could get her removed, because as long as he kept insisting she hang around, she’d be stuck.

  So when the plane touched down, she was glad they were meeting in just a few hours. She’d taken the coward’s way out and asked someone in her office to call and make arrangements for a rendezvous in the Best Western’s lobby. But that didn’t stop her hands from shaking when she arrived. Nor as she unpacked a half hour later, the hotel room just like a thousand others she’d stayed in. Queen-size bed jutting out from the middle of the wall, generic prints above it, nightstands to left and right. The only thing different was the color, a sort of avocado-green that brought to mind the seventies.

  Someone knocked.

  She wasn’t expecting anyone other than the maid with some extra towels, so she didn’t even think twice about opening the door, other than using her standard FBI caution.

  “Hello, Cece.”

  She found herself standing there for a full three seconds before saying, “Blain,” in shock, her heart taking on the rhythm of the mambo. “I—” don’t know what to say “—wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I was here early, thought I’d come up.”

  “How’d you get my room number?”

  “Your boss.”

  She’d kill him. Of course, Bob didn’t know her breathing would go all haywire just seeing Blain standing there, and that she’d feel half-dressed in her pink halter top and black slacks, wishing for the matching jacket still in her closet. Nor that she’d find herself wishing for her radio and her badge and for her hair to be up—all the things she suddenly realized were part of her day-to-day armor.

  Blain stripped that away with a glance.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Yes. Yes, she did mind. A lot.

  “Actually, why don’t I meet you downstairs?”

  “Your boss told me Randy was murdered.”

  She’d assumed Blain had been told, and against her better judgment, she found herself looking for signs of how well he’d taken it.

  Not good.

  It was there in the tension on his brow, the way his pupils were slightly dilated. In the way those eyes kept shifting around, his hands in the pockets of his dark gray slacks as he looked anywhere but at her.

  She stepped back from the door.

  “C’mon in.”

  Damn it, Cece—have you no control?

  Apparently not, she admitted as she watched him walk into her room, that sweet, masculine odor of his making her realize yet again that she had feelings for this man she likely shouldn’t have.

  “It was quite a shock,” he said, turning to her near the bed. “In spite of your warning.”

  “I’m sorry, Blain,” she said as the door closed behind him with a prison-cell click that made Cece’s heart take off like a jet.

  “I’ve had days to think about this,” he said. “But I still can’t believe someone killed him.” And when he finally met her gaze, there were a million unanswered questions in his eyes. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly, crossing her arms in front of her, for the first time having to push away emotion to concentrate on her job. “But I promise you, we’ll find them.”

  Which was the perfect opening for her to tell him that it wasn’t her who would find anything. That she wanted off the case. That he had to tell her boss that…only she hesitated. And it was then that she realized she didn’t want to leave. Suddenly, resigning seemed like such a cowardly thing to do in light of Blain’s obvious need. But then she took stock of the way her heart pounded in his presence, of the way she couldn’t seem to stop herself from noticing how tired he looked, how sad…upset. And how she wanted to reach out and touch him.

  “Blain, look, I have something I need to tell you.”

  He stiffened a bit, his chin lifting as if he was bracing for even worse news.

  “I want off the case.”

  “No,” he said quickly, simply.

  “Yes,” she said equally quickly.

  “You can’t.”

  She tightened her arms across the front of her, another thing her training told her was a defense mechanism. “Don’t try and pull that blackmail shit on me, Blain Sanders, because I know you better now and I don’t believe for a second that you’d go so far as to destroy my career.”

  He stared down at her, his eyes like those of a frightened child asking for help.

  “Don’t quit on me, Ceec.”

  And despite what she told herself not to feel, she still noticed the pull, the tug of sympathy.

  Damn it.

  “I really don’t have a choice, Blain. But I can still keep an eye on things from San Francisco. I just can’t be involved with the actual investigation.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I’ve got the hots for you. Because that can lead to trouble. Because once upon a time I was preoccupied while on the job and it got my partner killed.

  She’d never allow that to happen again.

  “I just think it’s for the best.”

  He stared at her for a second longer, his eyes blinking once before he said, “Fine.”

  Fine?

  “I was getting tired of keeping my hands off you, anyway.”

  He wh—

  What?

  “This way we can pick up where we left off in Las Vegas.”

  Oh, no—

  “Blain, I don’t think—”

  He closed the distance between them. She moved away. At least she did so in her mind. In reality she stood rooted to the spot.

  And that was when he kissed her.

  And, damn it, she kissed him back, arched into him so quickly that her breasts bumped his chest, the connection sending instant heat to the aroused parts of her body. When he tipped his head and increased the pressure of his mouth, she opened for him, the hot, sweet taste of him sending her blood pumping even more.

  She realized she wasn’t going to stop him, realized she wanted him. If she were honest, she could admit to wanting him for years.

  She’d resigned from the case. He’d made his interest known. Now she could take him up on the offer, even as a part of her wondered if this was just a way for him to forget about Randy’s death.

  So she touched him, moved her hand between them and stroked the length of him. He moaned, and she marveled for a moment that this was the same man who’d all but shunned her as a teen. Now she had the upper hand—no pun intended. She didn’t hesitate to use it, either. She touched him again. He pushed into her. She got tired of the barricade between them so she pushed her hand down his pants, frustrated by the cotton briefs he wore, but then he began to caress her breasts and so she decided she could wait a bit, even encouraged him to touch her some more by leaning into him.

  She pulled her mouth away. “Take your pants off.”

  He didn’t need any more urging, stepping ou
t of his shoes a second later, his pants dropping from his waist. She got her first glimpse of a taut stomach last seen during teenage years.

  His briefs came next.

  He wanted her.

  Blain Sanders wanted her.

  “Your turn,” he said as he pulled his cotton polo over his head.

  A one-night stand. Sexual therapy. Whatever they would later call it, the time for fun and games was over. She could end it all now. Instead she pulled her shirt out of her waistband.

  She liked the way his eyes stayed with her as she unbuttoned her top. And after she had slipped her arms out of the cotton sleeves, she liked the way he watched her undo her bra. The way he seemed to grow more erect as she stepped out of her shoes, then began to undo her pants. She felt the moisture begin to build between her legs and she slowly slid the fabric down. He looked momentarily surprised when he saw the gun strapped to her calf.

  “Protection,” she said.

  “Not the kind of protection I had in mind.”

  She smiled a bit, though her fingers trembled as she removed the weapon. She flicked her hair behind her and went to him, and the moment she did, he touched her breasts.

  The intimacy of him stroking her flesh made her burn all over again. He didn’t move, didn’t lean toward her, just touched her. His fingers felt almost raspy, the tips tracing lazy circles around her nipples so that they tightened and tightened. Just two fingers, that was all he used, but they teased her until she felt ready to jerk him toward her, to pull him on top of her, to let him thrust into her over and over and over again.

  Cece tried to lead him to the bed, admitting that she’d dreamed about the moment for too long to wait, but he took control and pulled her toward the bathroom—though what he intended to do in there, she had no idea.

  She soon found out. He opened the glass shower door, reaching in to turn on a spray of water. Ahh.

  He turned back to her and Cece liked the way his eyes roamed over her. He could have been touching her with a sex toy and her reaction would have been no less heated. She would have taken him in hand except he leaned down and kissed her again, his tongue filling her mouth, hot flesh meeting hot flesh so that Cece found herself tilting her head, opening for him and kissing him back in a way that made it clear how ready she was to do whatever he wanted. Whatever. Mist from the shower covered them, cold at first. Cece’s nipples grew taut. He must have felt it because he bent down and suckled one, and man, she had to smother a groan, her head falling back so that her hair nearly touched the small of her back. The shower spray grew hot and so did Cece, especially when Blain released her nipple and began to kiss her in other spots. Like the side of her ribs.

  She gasped.

  The curve of her belly.

  She moaned.

  The apex of her thighs.

  She wanted, oh, how she wanted, to open for him, to allow him intimate access. Instead she guided him up, her gaze no doubt as glassy as his own when she said, “Later,” then reached in to adjust the water temperature.

  She wanted it cool, not hot—they both burned already. But Blain didn’t give her time to get it just right. He came up against her, shoving her hair aside so he could suckle her neck, taking her beneath the cool stream of water so that they both gasped. Then she felt his hand slip between her legs, the slickness there made even more fluid by the cascading water. She touched him back. Their mouths met, water dripping down their faces to blend with their kiss, and when he stroked her, she stroked him back, her shoulders coming into contact with the cold tiles, hair growing wet and heavy on the ends. She hardly noticed. His finger, it’d found the spot…that sweet spot that made her spread her legs, made her wish he would bend his knees, push himself inside of her.

  “Cece,” he growled.

  She realized that she’d guided him to her opening, that she was encouraging him to enter her, but he took control yet again, turning her before she could say a word. His erection found her rear crevice, and she wondered…but, no, he let his erection rest there as he reached around and found the spot again.

  Her turn to gasp, her turn to take control as she reached behind her and spread herself so that her cheeks fully sheltered him. He groaned, then groaned again, squatting a bit so that he could rub himself fully along her valley. Cece pressed into him. They were both panting now, sexual excitement building inside Cece to the point that she never wanted it to end. She wanted to hover on the brink of her orgasm, wanted to revel in his harsh breaths, in the way his hard cock glided up and down her valley. If she bent over, he could enter her from the rear….

  His finger found her entrance again. He pushed inside of her.

  Cece climaxed.

  She didn’t mean to. Damn it. She didn’t want to, but she lost herself to the knee-buckling shock of her orgasm. Blain’s own breaths sounded harsh. He groaned and Cece knew he was coming, too, could feel his muscles spasm just before he went rigid behind her.

  His hand slid out of her. She noticed then that his other hand lay flat against the wall to her right. His tan arm flexed as his elbow bent, as if he momentarily lost strength.

  Water cooled their bodies. Maybe a little too cool. Blain slowly straightened. Cece did too. He turned her, his hands coming around to slide down the small of her back. And though she’d just been satiated, though she’d just had one of the best orgasms of her life, she wanted him to pick her up, to thrust himself inside of her.

  He looked into her eyes. “That was…”

  Her cell phone.

  He looked toward the bathroom door.

  Her cell phone rang on.

  “Do you think you should get that?”

  Not when I’ve got something better to do. But the professional in her couldn’t quite bring herself to say that.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “BLACKWELL,” Cece answered, a towel the size of a dishrag clutched in front of her, which made her wonder why she even bothered since it was a bit like covering a nude painting with a Band-Aid.

  “Agent Blackwell, this is Agent Ashton from the Charlotte Bureau.”

  All thoughts of coitus—or almost-coitus—fled as Cece felt her spine go vertical.

  “Good morning, er—” she peeked out the window “—afternoon,” she quickly corrected.

  “Good afternoon,” the man said in a drawl that rivaled Blain’s. “Thought you might like to come down and give us your thoughts on the Newell murder.”

  Murder. The word had the cooling effect of an Arctic breeze.

  “What time?” she said.

  “Around four, which should give us some time to finish searching Sanders’s shop.”

  “Fine,” Cece said, wrapping the conversation up as Blain came into the room. He had a full-size towel, and a lot less to cover up. Cece clutched the dishrag to her chest once she’d hung up, feeling the unmistakable burn of post-coitus embarrassment.

  “Um.” Um? “That was the Charlotte office. They want me to come down later today.”

  He nodded. Cece glanced longingly at the beige-and-brown bedspread to her left. Maybe Blain wouldn’t notice if she jerked the thing from the bed.

  “Will they tell you if they turned up anything from my shop today?”

  “Probably not,” she said, deciding to act professional, despite the fact that her hair hung over one shoulder, wet, cold drips sliding down her breasts. “Once I tell them I’m off the investigation.”

  “Why are you clutching that towel like that?”

  Because I’m suddenly horribly embarrassed, she wanted to tell him.

  “I’m cold,” she lied.

  He reached for the towel around his waist as if he was going to whip it off and hand it to her.

  “No,” she quickly said. “Let me, ah, get my own towel.”

  She could tell he recognized her embarrassment. And why wouldn’t he? He probably had a lot more experience with this sort of thing than she did. Between his fame and good looks, no doubt he had babes c
oming out of his ears.

  Why had she let this happen?

  When she came back, she felt about as professional as it was possible to be with a bath towel wrapped around one’s middle.

  He’d gotten dressed.

  Thanks for the quickie, babe. I feel better about Randy already. Gotta dash now.

  “Look,” he said, “I should probably get back to the shop and talk to the investigators.”

  He was leaving. Damn it. The words heaped humiliation on top of the embarrassment like one too many tires atop a retread heap.

  “Okay, sure,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Like a moan of pleasure. Or a grunt of satisfaction. Or flesh pounding into flesh…

  Stop it!

  She was a mature, sexually active adult. This sort of thing was old hat for her. Well, not old hat, but she was used to awkward goodbyes, and it was definitely time for him to say goodbye.

  “I’ll catch up to you later,” she said.

  Where? In another shower? a voice inside her head asked.

  “When?” he demanded.

  “Later,” she said with a wave. She took a deep breath of damp Blain—not a good idea. “Thanks. I had a great time.”

  He blinked down at her, his face going a bit slack before he said, “Er, you’re welcome?”

  She smiled brightly, and when he didn’t move, grabbed his hand and tugged him to the door. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.

  “Cece—”

  “Shh. Don’t say a word,” she said, touching his mouth with her hand. “I know. It was good for me, too.” She stood up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Drive carefully.” She opened the door, gently but firmly shoving him out of it. He resisted, but a couple across the hall came to her rescue. Blain saw them, too, glanced back at her bath towel, and quickly stepped away from the door.

  She shoved it closed in his face.

  And that was that. She’d quit the case. All done.

  Done Blain Sanders.

  She rested her head against the door and groaned. The head-resting became head-banging as she chastised herself for her moment of weakness.

  Technically, they hadn’t actually “done” it. Close enough.

  And he’d let her, though she had a feeling it was only because he’d needed to forget about his friend for a while. But just the thought of that made the embarrassment increase tenfold. Great. A therapy fuck.