by Anne Calhoun
She was different inside too. Willing to meet his gaze, even if the challenge still lurked behind her eyes. “Another fifteen or twenty minutes you would have figured out something was going on. And then you would have told me to fuck off.”
“Not exactly. Another fifteen or twenty minutes and I would have told you my roommate wasn’t home.” Her words were flat, unemotional, like she’d made peace with them but didn’t like the terms. “I would have taken you back to my room. Asked you about all that philosophy hoping you’d think I was smart enough for you, hoping you’d kiss me. Or more. Because that’s the kind of girl I was then.”
His heart stopped beating and his brain jerked into overdrive. There was a new darkness to Riva, not just a soberness, a teenage girl all grown up, but a true darkness. She’d figured something out, all right. She’d figured out that he was a jerk and an asshole and had no business letting things go as far as they had. Even as the thoughts formed in his mind, he knew he was missing something important, but before he could ask, she spoke.
“Was it just a cover?”
Did she mean the philosophy textbooks or the tension simmering between them? Wrong question. Don’t go there. “Which part?”
She gazed at him, unflinching, and he got a glimpse of the woman she’d become in a few more years. A woman he’d like to know. A woman who, because of their past, would have nothing to do with him. “The books you carried.”
“Those were my textbooks from college. I majored in philosophy.”
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
The cancer diagnosis had made him very philosophical. “I don’t seem like the kind of guy who’s concerned with life’s big questions?”
That got him a very small smile, barely a curve of her lips. He’d seen so few on her face. This one went straight to his heart like a fist to the chest. “I don’t know what kind of guy you are.”
Do you want to?
The words trembled on the tip of his tongue. She was twenty. Well past the age of consent, able to vote, not able to drink legally. He was twenty-seven, with a promising career ahead of him, and the case wasn’t over. She would always be a former CI. It wasn’t illegal. Stupid, absolutely. Immoral, possibly. Wrong. It might never be right.
“Look, Riva, you have to forgive yourself for the mistakes in your past.”
“I do. I’ve paid the price for my mistake, if not my debt to society, and am now so squeaky clean now unicorns could eat off my reputation.”
It was his turn to huff out a laugh. Two minutes of conversation and already things felt different. His brain jumped ahead to a year from now, maybe two, when the dust had settled, and she’d had a little more time.
“I just can’t forgive myself for wanting you.”
His breath stopped. Maybe it was a good thing she’d dropped off his radar the day after he’d loaned her his coat, because he only wanted her more.
And she wanted nothing to do with him.
“Riva Henneman?” The bailiff’s bulky body filled up most of the doorway. “Sorry, Sergeant. They’re ready for her.”
He cleared his throat. “Ms. Henneman.”
She leaned forward to collect her purse from the floor. On the way back up, she whispered, “We both know that part wasn’t a cover either.”
His heart stopped in his chest. “Good-bye, Sergeant,” she said, distantly polite.
Then she walked through the door and out of his life again.
* * *
He watched her sleep, knowing he’d do everything in his power to make himself the target, to steal Rory’s attention and interest, so Riva could get free. It was the only chance she’d have to move on from her past.
Would she ever be able to forgive herself for giving in to her father’s manipulative demands? She was obviously carrying around guilt over her parents’ relationship, which wasn’t her burden to bear. She was obviously ashamed of what she’d done and trying to set that right. And tangled up in all of that was the thrumming, dangerous desire they never seemed to set aside.
He padded silently into the room and closed the bathroom door, then stretched out on the bed beside her, tucking his arm under his ear as he did. She made a little grumbling noise, turned her head to look over her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered open. He saw the exact moment she remembered who she was, who he was, why they were in bed together.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. Her voice was sleep rough, and lacked the vibrating tension brought on by fear and suspicion.
“I tried to be quiet,” he said.
“I didn’t wake up when you got on the bed, either.”
Her gaze was soft, not vulnerable or defenseless, not quiet. But not guarded, or worse, sharpening in attack. Given their history and her responses to him, this was important and made him go all soft inside. A different kind of protective, like curl-up-and-purr protective. “Why did you wake up?”
“I smelled chocolate,” she said.
A grin spread across his face. “That truck is full of chocolate.”
She made a small noise, acknowledging his statement, then shifted so she was facing him. His heart started to pound. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a kid, when lying down with a girl was new, fresh, thrilling. They weren’t quite touching, but the possibility was there, hanging in the air like the scent of candy in the warehouse and truck. Soft, sweet, so potent he could taste it.
They should talk about the morning, his conversation with her father, seeing Micah at the sales call, his conversation with Jo. They should talk about the night. But he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to slice this moment out of time and soak in the image of Riva’s face, her thick eyelashes, her dreamy gaze, her sleep-swollen lips, the crease from the pillowcase on one cheek.
“You’re getting a little scruffy,” she said. She reached up and gently brushed her fingertips over his stubble.
It was the first time Riva had touched him out of the simple desire to do so, a desire not driven by fear or sex, but simply because she wanted to feel the texture of his body against hers. Not wanting to break the spell, he didn’t respond. He lay there, breathing shallowly and evenly as she trailed her fingertips over his jaw to the spot on his throat where his beard gave way to skin. Her touch was still light, exploratory, as it lingered on his pulse. Her gaze went abstract for a second, then focused on his eyes.
“Fast,” she noted.
Because he was lit up like a concert stage, lights and smoke and thrumming electricity. Still, he kept quiet. Letting her set the pace.
Turns out, letting Riva have her way with him was incredibly sexy. He’d never been so aware of his heartbeat sending blood south to pool in his cock, and then of his erection, thickening and lifting to throb against his zipper. His legs felt heavy, his fingers and palms tingling with the urge to touch her, stroke her hair, brush his thumb over her cheek. They were close enough for her breath to drift over his jaw. Each newly sensitized place was connected to the other, making him aware of his body in a new way, a vessel alive with pleasure, possibility, not a dumb, brute beast to alternately ignore or push to new limits of endurance.
In some dim corner of his mind he realized he was enjoying his body. Nothing more, nothing less. Experiencing sensations, not cataloging them against a list of symptoms, hating his body for its betrayal, or treating it like a patrol car the department would drive into the ground.
Maybe Riva wasn’t the only one getting used to his body.
Her index finger dipped into the hollow between his collarbones, then snagged in his shirt placket, not quite pulling, not quite tugging, just holding curled into the fabric while she looked into his eyes. He didn’t move to close the distance between them, just waited, forcing his breath to even, forcing his body to relax.
She lifted her chin and kissed him, a brush of lips, warm, smooth, a hint of some spice she’d used in the recipes and sampled. Glancing, just enough contact to set off the nerves under the skin, make them tingle for more. But he didn’t
move, didn’t even follow her to return the kiss. He simply watched her explore him, herself, what they could make together.
Outside the window, birds chirped and sang. The breeze sent the shadows of leaves dancing across the floor. Riva drew her leg up, bumping her knee into his thigh, then stopping. The moment was too charmed to risk. It wouldn’t shatter into pieces; it was too tenuous for that. It would drift away like the song heard faintly through the windows from a passing car, gone before they could finish it, much less name it. So he left his forearm on his hip, his hand resting on his thigh, and let Riva unfasten the first button on his shirt, then the next, then the next, her gaze never leaving his.
He was, he realized, achingly hard and bent at a painful angle in his shorts. No moving, no adjusting; his only option was to lie there and wait for whatever was coming. Maybe sex, maybe another kiss, maybe just this, but for the first time he was okay with taking it. There was a certain recklessness to holding back, to taking what came rather than trying to control the outcome. When Riva was calling the shots, this was beyond reckless.
She unbuttoned his shirt to his navel, then pulled his shirt free from his pants, tucking the top layer between his elbow and his hip. Moving a little to let her do that eased some of the pressure on his cock, which was a good thing, because she set her fingertips to the muscles between his ribs. She rubbed her thumb over his abdominal wall, the pressure firm enough to remind him that she worked with her hands and also to remind him exactly how close her hand was to his cock.
A delicate pink flush bloomed on her cheeks. She angled herself forward and kissed him again, this time with pressure to urge his lips open so her tongue could dart in and touch his.
A low rough sound. Him, giving voice to the longing he’d held back for so long it almost hurt. Then she kissed him again, hot and slick alternating with a hint of sharp teeth. Then he lost track of time again, dropping deep and dark into sensation. Mourning doves cooing. The slick sound of their mouths. Riva’s tongue tracing his lower lip, then her open mouth against the corner of his, as if she were rubbing her lips against the stubble. He couldn’t think. Her hand tightened on his hipbone, holding him steady while she scooted forward. Her knee nudged against his until he got the message and made room for her leg between his. Her skirt rode up to the top of her leg, allowing her thigh and hip bone to press solidly against his erection; through the gauzy cotton dress her tight little nipples brushed his chest with each inhale. It was maddening to be half-dressed, Riva’s fingers against his jaw, her index finger dipping into his mouth to touch his tongue between kisses.
He nipped the tip of her finger, a suggestion she remove it. Words trembled on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to check in with her, make sure she was okay with what was happening. He was learning, slowly, too slowly for the situation they were in, but he’d do what he could with what he had. He’d keep his mouth shut.
She traced his lower lip, wet with saliva. “You’re still holding back.” She lifted his hand from his thigh and dropped it on her hip. “That goes there.” Her fingers flexed over his, forcing pressure. “Don’t hold back.”
Tempting. So tempting, spurring him to curve his fingers into the sweet swell of her hip and shimmy just enough to seat his cock against her mound. With his other hand he locked his forearm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Lip to lip, hip to hip, and the temperature in the room shot up until the breeze no longer felt cold but necessary to keep them from spontaneously combusting.
Her arm wrapped around his waist and pulled, rolling them so he was on top. He had to be crushing her into the soft duvet but couldn’t stop himself from tightening his grip and flat-out grinding against her body. In a flurry of hands and hips she urged him to his elbows, then reached down to wriggle her skirt up and her panties down to midthigh.
“Touch me.”
He collapsed forward, burying his face in her hair as he took his weight on his left elbow, notched his cock against her hipbone in the hope that the pressure would take the edge off, and slid his fingers over her mound.
She was slick. Hot. Swollen. One of her hands fisted in the back of his shirt; the other gripped his nape. Her body stiffened as he explored, drawing up to part her folds, ghosting over her clit, then dipping back down to circle the opening to her body. Fine tremors ran through her body, the muscles of her inner thighs quivering until he circled her clit once, watching, paying attention to her responses, then settling into a slow rhythm, fingertip to one side of her clit, stroking, stroking.
The bud swelled under his touch. She arched under him, a movement he ruthlessly controlled through simple physics: he rolled more of his weight onto her, pressing her into the bed.
“More,” she whimpered. “Faster.”
“No,” he growled back. He was so close to her ear he barely had to use his voice. “Like this.”
She went inward, eyelids drooping, then closing under the onslaught of sensation. It was unfathomable, miraculous, that such a tiny area could devastate a woman so thoroughly. A deep flush bloomed on her cheekbones. Ian fisted his hand in her hair, hovered his mouth over hers, pushed his pelvis against her hip, and didn’t vary his touch by so much as a millimeter.
Flush on her collarbone. Her entire body went rigid. He sealed his mouth over hers, inhaling her sharp cries as she came until his entire body was reverberating with her release. Slowly, as slowly as he’d brought her to the peak, the tension ebbed from her body until she was soft and lax under him.
Her eyes opened. The expression in there—soft, dreamy, satisfied woman—nearly stopped his heart. Without breaking eye contact she reached for his hand, drew it up her body to her lips, and licked her moisture from his fingertips.
Lightning bolt directly to his cock. He bent his head and helped her, until all that was left was his tongue rubbing against hers, hot and demanding, as her fingers trailed down his chest to his belt. He reached down and helped her kick her panties to the side of the bed, then trailed his fingers back up her leg to the sweet heat at the top of her thighs. This was real, every dream he’d never allowed to the surface of his mind. His cock ached, each brush of her fingers through his jeans intensifying the desire. He wouldn’t last two minutes like this.
No matter. This wasn’t the end.
The garage door thunked into motion. Riva’s hand stopped in the act of plucking his belt free from the buckle. “That’s Dad,” she murmured.
For a brief, incredulous moment he stared down into her face, trying to make sense of the words. Then he rested his forehead on hers. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”
“We can,” she started.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
It was hard to put into words, so he settled for blunt. “Because I want you to know this isn’t just about sex. It’s about pleasure. And patience.” He took a deep breath. “Because I want to look forward to this, think about it, anticipate how you’ll feel when I slide into you.”
One corner of her mouth lifted, and her eyes gleamed. Her gaze locked with his as she fastened his belt. A minute. All he needed was a minute, her slender fingers wrapped around his cock, her tongue teasing his, and he’d go off.
“What was your story?” She plucked her panties from the duvet, slid them up her legs, then lifted her hips to pull them on.
“What?” he asked, distracted by the flex of the muscles in her legs, the neatly trimmed curls disappearing behind cotton bikinis.
She clambered off the bed and stood by the bathroom door. “Better?”
“Yeah.” He pushed back to his knees, rubbed his palms over his face, and tried to string together a coherent thought.
“I meant, why are you home without Dad?”
“I got a call from work. I’m working.”
“Got it.” She nodded at his zipper, straining from the pressure of his cock behind it. “Is there any chance you’ll come home from boxing with that?”
He looked at her. “Do you want me to come home
from boxing with this?”
Her gaze widened ever so slightly, a secondary flush blooming on her cheeks again. Then she lifted her chin. “Bring it on, Ian.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Riva couldn’t look away from Ian. He was kneeling on her bed, hands loose on his thighs, seemingly relaxed, but Riva wasn’t fooled. He was as tense as he’d ever been during all those nights they’d spent together, watching her get information and buy drugs.
On one hand, this was no different: Ian was running an undercover operation with her as the bait. On the other hand, everything was different. The way he walked, talked, how incredibly intimate things had become. How very, very quickly that had happened. Seven years ago she’d wanted Officer Hawthorn with a teenage girl’s impetuous, immature desire, but he’d never been just a man. In her mind, he’d never been anything more than the closed-off cop she knew.
Now he was Ian, a man who couldn’t use chopsticks to save his life, with some seriously unexpected dancing skills and a knife technique that left him in real danger of slicing off his finger while making a stir-fry. This was terrifying. Either way, he frightened her almost more than words could say. Either way, she felt safe with him. Protected.
But this couldn’t translate into a relationship in Lancaster. He was still a cop. She was still his former informant. They’d never get past that.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she said and closed the bedroom door.
In the bathroom she turned on the water in her sink, then stared into the mirror. Her lips and chin were reddened and scraped, and the orgasmic flush still bloomed on her collarbones. She wet down a facecloth and scrubbed it over her face and neck, turning all of her skin bright pink.
Her dad wanted to take Ian to Sweet Science. There had to be a reason for that; he wasn’t known for making friends or socializing. Why take Ian to the club? With her dad, it could be any reason. On a good day he might want to show off his neighborhood or his boxers, entertain the out-of-town visitor. On a bad day he might want to humiliate him by seeing him get in the ring with a stronger, faster fighter.