by Cara Scott
I'm proud that I sound reasonable and earnest and think he may unbend. He soon disabuses me of that idea. Striding over, he shocks me by whipping me around and placing me in arrest position, spread-eagled up against the car, kicking my legs apart.
OMG. I should be alarmed by his forceful tactics, but I’m so turned on I hate myself.
He shocks me even further, when he subjects me to a slow, invasive frisking. His hands move across my shoulders. They graze almost indiscernibly over my breasts. I shake as my body responds to his shocking touch, bringing a flood of heat to my body. His touch seeps into me. His fingers scorch down the outside of my legs to encircle and rest at my ankles for a number of heartbeats. Those heartbeats fill the space between us, spreading throughout my body, pulsing at my core. His fingers trace the inside of my calves, up along my inner thighs.
I should object, demand he stop. All I can think about is my body’s treacherous response. I hold my breath. I can hear his heavy breathing and my own heartbeat quickens in expectation. His hands linger for moments before he eases his strong fingers away, stopping just short of an abuse of my civil rights. My breath is ragged. I struggle to feel outrage. I tell myself I'll lodge a complaint against him.
I will! I swear, I will.
Yeah, right.
I know any number of women who’d probably pay to be in my position right now. Mason Johnson was the hot crush in college, but Detective Johnson is smokin’ hot throughout all three judicial districts. Not to mention any number of Casper and Cheyenne PD precincts. And there’s almost a decade worth of calendars to prove it.
When he straightens from the frisk, his breathing is ragged. There's a strange shift in the atmosphere between us. I shiver as he stands behind me, his hot breath fanning my hair. My pulse slows when he runs unsteady hands from the top of my head, traveling gradually down to rest on my shoulders. Massaging, his fingers move towards my nape. Gently gathering my hair in his fist, he tugs my head lightly, pulling me to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. Easing my hair to one side, he drops it down to curve around my throat.
Silence eases between us. Heartbeats in unison.
I feel his warm breath as he whispers almost inaudibly against my exposed nape. “Maura. What am I going do with you? I can’t let you go.”
The sensual nature of his voice seeps through my body, unbalancing me. Until his words bring home the seriousness of my situation. Panic floods me. I like being a lawyer. Okay not my current case. So what if things haven’t been ideal since I took the job at the prosecutor’s office.
I love the courtroom. I can’t bear the thought of losing my right to it. Never mind the disgrace of arrest and conviction. I’d finally be living up to the town’s expectations of my family reputation. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him book me.
He seems in no hurry. His breath is still warm and sultry at my nape. His fingers tease my throat and collarbone. Despite my panic, I can’t resist his touch. I lean back into him and he cradles me in his arms for a few moments.
His voice is filled with emotion. “Maura, do you have any idea how fast you were driving? The danger you were in?”
The soft anguish creeping into his tone reinforces my guilt more than any sharp reprimand ever could. My feeling of vulnerability increases. I feel small and helpless in his secure hold. His next words have a desperate tone. “What were you thinking, Maura? How can you risk your safety, like this? You’re not yourself. You haven’t been for a while. Things haven’t been right with you since you took this case.”
I'm at a loss as to what to say to him. I've been asking myself the same questions without any fruitful answers for a while now. But instead of answering him, I offer a challenge of my own. “Why are you even considering booking me, Mason? You know what a conviction on this charge will mean for me.”
He speaks deliberately in my ear. “Yeah. It will get you off this case. Better yet, get you out of the prosecutor’s office, altogether.” He steps slightly to the side. His command slips as he lets out an exasperated breath. Looking sideways, I see him run his hands, haphazardly, through his hair. His voice drops even further. “I’m worried about you, Maura.”
His words cut through me. It hits me that his protectiveness is consistently rooted in what he genuinely believes is right for me. He wants me off that case and recent months show he has good reason. Perhaps if I promise to quit the Gemcor case, he'll unbend enough to drop the charge. I move out of his hold and turn to face him, desperate to reason with him.
What I see makes me catch my breath.
I turn too quickly for him to guard his expression. The painful concern on his handsome face clutches at my heart. It has the same quality as the look I saw when I opened my eyes after toppling off my bike in front of him eight years earlier. It triggers a chain reaction where everything seems to roll over me at once.
The past months of tension on the case. The conversation with Ava. The soul searching this past week. Finally facing up to my feelings for him. The guilt over my reckless driving.
And now, that exposed look of his.
It all results in the ultimate indignity.
I burst into tears!
Mason
I stand and watch as Maura bursts into tears, something I wasn’t sure was possible. I guess I've been hard on her. Arresting her on this charge will get her off the Gemcor case. But it could strike a fatal blow to her career, so it's a very uneasy solution. Now, I'm stunned because she's morphed into something alien to my entire concept of her. A crying female.
Not that crying females bother me. With any other woman, I'd just let her cry all over my shirt for a while. I do that all the time with my sister and my female friends and with victims at crime scenes. It works best just to let them get it out. Understanding this makes dealing with tears my specialty and my colleagues gratefully pass criers on to me. All it takes is a loose hold against my chest, a few intermittent pats on the back, some encouraging murmurs, along with some honest concern and comfort.
I never have to deal with a crying woman on the other side of the crime scene. I don’t run traffic scenes or other minor crimes. Women tend to be the victims of major crimes, not the perps. The only reason I'm involved here is that I was parked on the shoulder as she hurtled past, sounding off on her cell. I didn’t need a speed gun to know she was moving at a dangerous pace.
If it had been anyone but Maura, I'd have left it for Wes to handle. Traffic isn’t my remit. The idea of the danger she was putting herself in flooded me with panic. I pulled rank and took over the scene fueled with a fierce resolve to use my official role to make sure she never pulls a stunt like this again.
Only now, her tears are having a disastrous effect on that resolve. I want to take her tenderly in my arms, sit her on my lap, stroke her hair and kiss away her tears. But I know that’s not likely to be helpful to my purpose. As well as inappropriate.
Hell, Johnson, you almost felt her up while engaged in your official duty. How more inappropriate can you get?
Plenty.
I run a hand through my hair and hold it at the back of my head debating my next move. Maura’s initial outburst has slowed. She has her head down. Her dark hair cloaks her face while she sobs and sniffs. Her arms are straight, her fists clenched tight against the car. Every so often she gives a little heave. I'm just about to reach out so I can pull her close and curl her against my chest, when through her window I see the empty coffee cups and junk wrappers strewn around her car.
Maura is religious in her good health habits. She likes to run and swim. I know she’s a mean cook from the dishes she brings to town cookouts and fetes. When not cooking for herself, she enjoys the home cooked meals at Ginny’s, our local diner. Resorting to this amount of junk food and coffee is a prime indicator that she's in a bad way. The stress of the case is getting to her even more than I thought. I curse myself for not paying more attention.
“Maura, have you had anything decent to eat, today?” I turn her around
and slip my hand up her back. I tip her head with a tender touch to the back of her nape. Her smoky lashes unfurl as I meet her eyes, my own smoldering with heated concern. “Or even this week?”
I let out a frustrated breath and absently massage the tension spot at the base of her skull. My other hand strokes her hip. I’m not wholly aware that I’m cradling her close against my body. She surprises me for a second time, even more than seeing her in tears.
Her shoulders droop, “Who has time?” Shrugging, she looks away and mutters. “Besides, I don’t feel much like eating, these days.”
I curse under my breath. Placing my hand at her nape, I direct her towards my vehicle, my hand gentle on her hip. My body is firm at her back. I pull her close and cradle her against me, my breath warm above her hair.
When we reach my car, I bend her into the passenger side, before coming round to slide into the driver’s seat. She looks at me with big eyes, like she’s not sure who I am. Without a word, I fasten first her seatbelt, then my own. Backing up, I pull away and head towards town.
Maura
Mason heads the car into town. I sit in the passenger seat, my mind swirling in a semi-surreal state. The sight of my junk food, the evidence of my chaos and vulnerability, rendered him terrifyingly tender. I can still feel the promise held in the memory of his arm supporting my back. His knuckle easing the depression at the base of my skull. His soft cradling and the gentle stroke along my hip.
It’s a heady combination that leaves me reeling and considering Mason Johnson anew. The main reason I've always put up defenses against falling for him is because I figured he decided to write me off as a romantic partner years ago. I just don’t make the Mason Johnson short list. Today, he seems to have done a 180-degree turn. It’s both unsettling and irresistible.
Added to this, I'm wondering if I’m still under arrest. I’m worried that he's headed into town to book me. When we hit town, he turns in the opposite direction from the sheriff’s office and I realize I've been holding my breath. I start to breathe almost normally when he pulls into Ginny’s parking lot and turns off the car.
Thank you, God. He's going to feed me, not book me.
It's doubtful that I'll feel like eating anything, but if trying to eat will change his mind about charging me, then I'm fully prepared to attempt to stuff my face to humor him. We were both silent during the drive and the mood between us has shifted to a reserved calm.
Encouraged by his quiet mood, I turn to him with a hesitant smile, “Mason, you’ve made your point. You don’t need to charge me. I’ve got the message.”
He gives me a long, cool look. “And what point would that be?” His voice is as cool as his look. There's no sign of his previous tenderness, but no censure either.
I answer him, quietly. “That I took way too many risks, today. Risks that could have serious consequences for others as well as myself. The least of which is getting arrested.”
Meeting his eyes, I hope I look sincere. I should because I mean what I say. In the quietness of the drive it sunk in that I could have killed people today, including myself.
He turns from me, looks out the windscreen and pinches the bridge of his nose. My stomach flips. I'm not out of the woods yet. He's still considering his course of action. Silence fills the car. I look at him. His profile is so handsome it distracts me and I forget to worry about the arrest.
It's peaceful. A quiet, tugging yearning takes over. I want this strong, caring, good-looking man to turn back to me with fondness in his eyes.
He doesn’t turn back, he just asks. “What makes you think I’m not going to follow through with the charge? Maybe it’s just a case of allowing the condemned prisoner a hearty meal.” His tone is even, he doesn’t seem amused.
“You’re not going to charge me, Mason.” My voice holds more confidence than I feel, but it also holds a warmth usually absent when I speak to him these days.
He turns then. Although his gaze is not fond, there's a grudging surprise, a dropping of his guard that softens his features. A softness that creeps warily into the deep timbre of his voice.
“Oh and why is that?”
“Because, no matter how much you appear to be and have often convinced me of it over the years, you’re not actually a total asshole.” I laugh softly, flirting a little to undercut any insult in my words.
He eyes me with a hint of amusement, but his next words rekindle my fears. I don’t know him in this mood and I'm not sure if he's teasing or means what he says.
“Don’t you believe it, honey. I'm a complete asshole when I wanna be. Just ask my colleagues and my little sister.” He flips his keys and catches them. Opening the car door, he tosses over his shoulder before exiting. “The jury’s still out.”
I stare at him as he walks round to my side of the car. Is he for real? Or just making me suffer. He opens the door. I release my seatbelt and takes the hand he offers to help me step out. I can’t leave it at this. What the hell, if I can be duly humble with Wes, maybe I should be showing Mason the same courtesy.
My voice comes out in a soft rush. “Mason, I know I’m in the wrong, here.” I drop my voice to a husky plea. “Please, don’t follow through with the charge?”
He steps back and gives me a sideways look. “Okay, so who the hell are you and what have you done with my Maura?”
My stomach curls hotly at his use of the possessive. I let out a long, slow breath and answer him honestly. “Maybe, I’m just tired of resisting you. Maybe, I prefer to benefit from your softer side.”
He eases me against the car and stands in front of me, facing me with a hand on either side. He looks over my head and I know he's carefully deliberating. I stay quiet allowing him space to make a decision in my favor. After a few moments, he brings me to rest against his chest, his fingers at my nape. The warmth of the gesture sets me off balance and I start to worry about the path I'm taking here.
I struggle to hold my tongue. I'm desperate for him to speak, but something tells me these are no idle thoughts and I must give him the time their significance requires. When he parts us and raises my chin to meet his eyes, I draw in my breath. He rewards my patience with the fondness in his gaze I yearned for earlier, along with a mischievous, teasing light.
“Okay, I’ll reconsider the charge, but only with quid pro quo. You have to give me a forfeit.”
I look at him suspiciously. “A forfeit?”
He laughs at my wary tone. “Yeah, a forfeit.” He leans in and tells me huskily. “I get to kiss you.”
“Kiss me?” I say it like he's crazy.
He laughs again, richly and unrestrained and the sound of it flows in waves, warming me all the way through. He moves even closer to me and speaks with a teasing, seductive whisper in my ear. “Yeah. I want to give you a long, slow, wet kiss…with tongue, without having to worry about your knee in my groin, you biting my lips, or spitting in my mouth. You don’t have to kiss me back, but you do have to let me kiss you for as long as I want.”
…a long, slow, wet kiss with tongue…for as long as I want.
I’m deeply stirred by the fond, teasing light in his eye. I contribute to the moment with my own crude teasing.
“Why can’t you just ask for a blow job like any other dirty cop?”
“And. She’s. Back.” He says wryly, turning his eyes heaven wards in supplication. Running his finger slowly along my throat and collarbone, he offers a soft-spoken challenge.
“Are you really so afraid for me to kiss you, Maura?”
***
Yeah, I know sorry guys. A teasing cliffhanger. Don’t worry! Their HEA is out on Friday!
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About the Author
Cara Scott writes sweet and steamy, short romances. Her books feature an alpha, protective male who falls in insta love with a curvy woman. He knows how to love her real well, and they always find their HEA.
Discover Cara Scott’s Gemstone Series. Small town love set in the beautiful mountains of Wyoming. Follow the loves and lives of the men and women of Garnet Junction, Jade Creek and the glamorous Diamond Springs Resort.
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