BIG GONES - OUT OF UNIFORM

by Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liz Carlyle, Nicole Camden

  "I need to be in you, baby," he said, almost apologetically. "Now. And I need to watch your luscious ass while I give it to you. God, it's so pretty. So full and sweet."

  Pushing up with her hands, Delia lifted her breasts off the pillows, but Nick was shoving her legs wide. With one strong arm, he encircled her waist, lifting her bottom against his rock-hard erection. Delia steadied herself on her knees, and Nick pushed himself into her dripping flesh, and thrust.

  "Oh, God!" he cried, ramming himself deep. "Oh, God, Delia. You don't know. Oh, baby, you just do not know how good this is."

  His hands on her hipbones, he steadied her for his thrusts, his thighs slapping hard against her buttocks. Eight strokes. Twelve. Maybe. His incredible erection pulled at her sensitive sheath, which was already open and wet. She couldn't see, really. Could only feel. It was a wild, incredible position. Facedown on her knees, she felt totally submissive. Totally at his mercy. And then Nick slid one hand around her thigh, and touched her intimately. With his every stroke, he held her, touched her, pressing and rubbing his thumb, rough and desperate, against her swollen clit.

  "Oh!" she cried sharply. "Not… not…"

  But it was.

  Delia felt the crest of her orgasm, weaker but sweet, and rode it, pulsing and throbbing as she collapsed fully onto the pillows. Nick exploded on a guttural shout and rammed himself home, pumping her full of his warm seed. With a shuddering sigh, he fell on top of her, his damp chest hair rough against her back, his weight pressing her into the pillows.

  For long time there was no sound in the room save the crackling of the fire.

  "Delia," he finally said, his drawl even slower than usual. "Delia, darlin', I have to ask you something real important."

  Delia tried to lift up, but it was impossible. "The answer is yes, Nick," she answered weakly. "Whatever you want, yes, I'll do it. You can even spank me now. I surrender already."

  Nick rested his forehead between her shoulder blades. "Be serious, baby," he said. "Listen, now, before I lose my nerve. And do not laugh."

  He sounded deadly serious. "Absolutely, Nick. I'm listening."

  "Delia," he said. "Will you marry me?"

  "Will I… will I what?"

  She felt Nick stiffen. "You heard me, Delia," he said gruffly. "Will you marry me? And don't think, damn it, just answer the ques—"

  The sharp, twiddling sound of a cell phone cut him off.

  "Shit," said Nick, dropping his head again.

  The phone twiddled a second time, from somewhere on the sofa.

  Delia bit her lip. "Nick, maybe you'd better answer it?"

  "No," he growled. "Make that hell, no."

  The ringing was getting louder. "Honey," she said softly, "what if it's work?"

  "Shit." There was resignation in his voice.

  "Go on, Nick," she said gently. "I'm not going anywhere. I can't even move."

  Nick thrashed about on the sofa, snatching the phone in mid-twiddle. "Woodruff," he barked, slapping it to his ear. "And somebody better fuckin' be dead."

  "Nick—!" she hissed.

  A long silence ensued. "Yes, sir," Nick finally said. "Sorry, Dad."

  He withdrew from her body, rolled his weight halfway off her, then propped up on one elbow. "No, no, she's fine, Daddy," he said. "Real fine. Home safe and sound. Yes, sir, I'm sorry. I did forget to call."

  What on earth? Delia tried to turn around and look at Nick.

  "No, Dad, not tomorrow." Nick's voice had taken on a frantic edge. "The airport is closed. No, the roads are slick, too. Yeah, ice." Another pause. "Aw, come on, Dad, you're from South Georgia, for God's sake. She isn't going anywhere. Not at the moment, anyway."

  Burning with curiosity now, Delia shoved Nick completely off and sat up, still clad in nothing but her high heels, her stockings, and her black silk underwear.

  Nick wouldn't look her in the eye. "Yes, sir," he said. "I will, I swear."

  Delia strained her ears, trying to catch the frenzied chatter emanating from the cell phone. Nick rolled onto one side. "Yes, I promise. I'll find out." Then, "Hey, Dad? I'm kinda busy right now. Can I call you back tomorrow? Okay. Okay. Yep, love you, too."

  He tossed the phone back onto the couch with a soft curse and stared into the depths of the fireplace. The shifting light softened his handsome profile, and Delia felt a knot form in her throat. Oh, she loved him. She really, really did. She sat up on her knees and took Nick gently by the shoulders.

  "May I ask," she said quietly, "just what that conversation was all about?"

  Nick smiled at her ruefully. "My dad," he said. "He was, er, just calling to—to see if you got back from France okay. He's kind of impatient."

  Delia lifted her brows lightly. "I wasn't aware he even knew I existed."

  She hadn't meant to sound bitter, but she did. Nick noticed, too. "Sure he does, darlin'," he said, brushing the back of his hand over her cheek. "I told him. Weeks ago."

  "Weeks ago?" Delia was incredulous. "And now he's coming here?"

  Nick shrugged. "That was kind of the plan," he said. "But then you had to go to France, and things didn't look so good for us, so I told him… well, I just told him he'd better sit tight awhile."

  "He was coming to meet me?"

  Nick settled back against the couch and held open his arms. Delia dove into them. "Delia, I love you," he said, freeing one hand to fish in his pocket. "And I'm real proud of you. Now, look, darlin'," I asked you a question. A real important one. Will you marry me?"

  "Oh, my God!" Delia covered her eyes with her hands. "You meant that? I thought it was just… well, post-orgasmic free-association bullshit."

  "Bullshit?" Nick made a choking sound. "Honey, that's a question a man never asks unless he means it." She felt him take her left hand in his, and with her heart still in her throat, she opened her eyes.

  Nick held a simple, pear-shaped diamond engagement ring against the tip of her third finger. "So, can I put this on?" he asked softly. "It's your early Christmas present, baby, if you'll take it. Dad can't reschedule his plane reservation until you say either yes or no."

  "Oh, my God," whispered Delia. "Oh, my God! Where'd that come from?"

  Nick looked at her strangely. "Well… from Tiffany's."

  Delia was babbling now. "When? Where? Oh, my God!"

  "Last month. New York. That's where Tiffany's is, darlin'." Nick looked at her and shook his head. "I mean, maybe I've never done this before, but where I come from, when a man wants to marry a woman, he asks her daddy, then he gets her a ring, then he introduces her to his family. I'm just trying to get my ducks in a row here."

  Delia burst into hysterical laughter, then slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Nick!" she said. "Oh, Nick, I do love you so. And I'd love to meet your dad. But for God's sake, please don't ask my father such a thing."

  Nick's face colored furiously.

  "What?" she said. "Nick, what? No. Oh, no. Nick. You didn't."

  "Yes, I did." He glared at her defiantly.

  "Oh, you never!" Her hand was over her mouth again, covering her gasp. "When?"

  Nick shrugged. "Maybe three weeks ago."

  "Oh, my God!" Delia couldn't get her breath. "You just… called him? And you asked him? And did he die laughing?"

  Another shrug. "Well, he did seem surprised you'd want to marry a cop," Nick said. "And I told him that maybe you didn't, but that I wanted to ask anyway. And then he allowed as how you'd always been awfully smart, and real sure of yourself, but kind of on the willful side. And I said I'd noticed that. And he said you were also a little—let's see, what was that word?—yeah, sassy. And I said I'd noticed that, too. And he said, 'Well, son, you're a braver man than me.' Then he congratulated me, and hung up."

  "Oh, my God, you really mean it!" Delia uncovered her mouth and waved her left hand frantically.

  Still holding the ring, Nick crooked one brow. "Baby, is that a yes?"

  Delia might have been reeling from the shock and the sex, but she
'd never been so sure of anything in her life. "Yes!" she shrieked. "Oh, Nick, a thousand times yes. Put it on. Please."

  Nick slid the ring down her finger, a perfect fit.

  "Oh, Nick, I love you."

  "Well, that's good to know, Doc," he said, one of his sexy smiles slowly curving his lips. " 'Cause I wouldn't want you to marry me just for the sex. Besides, I'm holding two tickets to Barbados for a Valentine's Day honeymoon."

  "Aah, Barbados!" Delia nestled close against him and held out her hand, watching the firelight wink in the diamond's facets.

  Nick wrapped her tight with one arm and settled the opposite hand on her stomach. "Delia," he said quietly. "I have to ask you something else."

  She looked up at him anxiously and let her hand drop.

  He winced a little. "It's, um… well, it's kind of about that condom I forgot to use tonight."

  Mentally she calculated. "It's okay, Nick. I really think it's okay."

  Nick's smile went sideways. "Depends on your definition of okay, darlin'," he said. "See, Daddy wants R.J.N. Woodruff IV pretty damn bad. I guess I do, too. If that's not your thing, I'm man enough to live with it. I know your career is important. But I just need to know what to tell Daddy so he'll quit ringing my damned cell phone."

  Delia considered it only a moment. Yes, her career was important. And she wouldn't give it up. But Nick, and a family! Oh, there was nothing more important than that. So Delia smiled and ran a finger up his strong, square chin. "Well, I'll tell you what, Nick," she said. "You can inform dear Daddy that you're marrying a woman who just bought four hundred dollars' worth of fancy French underwear, and she just can't seem to get enough of you. Besides, I think my biological clock is about to explode off its springs."

  Nick cocked one brow. "Is that right, darlin'?"

  "Absolutely," she answered. "And if you do your job right, with a little luck and a nice, long honeymoon, we'll be putting little R.J.N. Woodruff IV in Grandpa's stocking next Christmas."

  Nick burst into laughter and rolled onto his back, dragging Delia down with him. They landed, nose-to-nose, with Delia sprawled awkwardly over him. "Kiss me, you fool," he whispered. " 'Cause we've got a lot of lost time to make up for, and that sounded like one hell of a challenge."

  The Nekkid Truth

  Nicole Camden

  For my mom

  I couldn't have done this without my sister, who read every draft.

  And I want to thank the fabulous Lauren McKenna and Amy Pierpontfor being the best editors and friends a girl could have. And to everyone else at Pocket, thank you for your support and friendship.

  San Diego residents, please forgive the liberties I took with police procedures and landmarks.

  Chapter One

  My cell phone rang just as my date for the evening leaned over to kiss me. I was tempted to ignore it (the phone, not the lips). I hadn't gotten kissed in a while and felt like grabbing the first handsome man I saw and engaging in a serious lip lock. But since the police had an uncanny knack of calling me when it was most inconvenient, I figured it had to be them.

  I was right.

  "Debbie here," I answered.

  "Debbie, it's Jakes. Detective Scott needs you to come down and shoot a crime scene for us."

  "Oh, he does, huh? What happened to your regular guy?"

  "He's at the doctor getting his ingrown toenails operated on."

  "A little too much information there, Jakes." I sighed. "Okay. Where is it?"

  "Over by Buena Vista Lagoon."

  "Great," I muttered, and asked him where exactly. The lagoon wasn't exactly small. "Okay, I'll be there in ten," I said when he finished, and hung up.

  John, my date, whom I privately call "Freckle Dick," was none too happy about calling off the party for the evening. He was a college basketball student, tall, milk-pale, gorgeous. He'd been a model for a photo shoot of mine a few weeks ago, and I'd been seeing him off and on since then. He probably thought tonight was his chance to score.

  "They're front-row tickets, Debbie. Can't they get somebody else?"

  I pushed his hand off my thigh. "Trust me, John, if the detective in charge could get someone else, he would have. Besides, I'm sure there are plenty of girls back at the dorm who would love to go out with you."

  "Nobody like you," he murmured, leaning over to nibble my ear. Ah, younger men.

  "Just take me to the lagoon."

  He complied sullenly, as boys are wont to do. The drive from John's driveway in Oceanside to the backstreets where homes gave way to the lagoon didn't take long, though I got lost trying to find the crime scene after he dropped me off. I had no idea what kind of waterfowl refuge the smelly, muddy, bug-infested bog was supposed to be, but it pretty much proved my theory that I would've been a lousy wildlife photographer.

  With my camera heavy around my neck and my three-inch heels sinking four inches deep with every step, it was little wonder I was cursing as I limped toward a group of people knotted together near the edge of the water. Most of them looked like cops, but there were a few civilians thrown in for color.

  "Over here, Miss Valley," said a voice in the deep Southern drawl that always made me think of hot, sweaty sex. Detective Scott, of course. He had a habit of calling out to me when I showed up so that I'd know who he was right away. I appreciated the courtesy. I know it's tough to believe, but even though I had been working with him for four years, and lusting after him almost as long, I was rarely able to pick him out of a crowd.

  It had nothing to do with him. He was six three, wide across the chest, with thick brown hair and arms that looked strong enough to lift small cars. Most women met him once and made a point of seeking him out in bars, at the station, in the men's room at the station. I'd seen it happen. Not on purpose, mind you, I was just walking by.

  I, on the other hand, would always have trouble recognizing him. Him and everyone else.

  I suppose I was lucky. Five years ago, when his previous partner, Bruce Johnson, lost control of their patrol car and knocked me headfirst into the pavement on Coast Highway, the doctors said that by rights I should've been dead or at least brain damaged. Instead, I just lost the ability to recognize faces.

  No one ever really understands what I mean by that, even most of my doctors, but after several months of tests they finally came to the conclusion that whatever spark or synapse that allows humans to recognize other humans was busted in me. It's not like I look at someone and see those fuzzy blotches they put in front of people on TV. It's more complex than that. The way they explain it in psychology books is to show someone two upside-down pictures. One is of someone famous like Madonna, the other is a hugely distorted picture of someone with similar coloring. Nine times out of ten a normal person can't distinguish one from the other while the photo is upside down. Well, I'm like that all the time. I can see someone's features and even mark them if they have a really beaky nose or a strange birthmark, but it's like I'm looking out into a sea of strangers. Not even people I've known my whole life stand out in any way. Cops understand better than most people. They see something similar whenever they ask a white witness to ID a nonwhite suspect.

  It's a stupid disability and for a while it really fucked me up, but all it takes is one look at something like the crime scene laid out before me to realize that while I may not have been handed the best deal on the planet, it could've been a helluva lot worse.

  The man's naked body was lying half in, half out of the algae-covered water. I lifted my camera and took a shot automatically, using a low flash and high-speed film since the haze had never quite managed to burn off that day. He lay on his back, skin marble pale, face missing from what I guessed was a gunshot. I didn't even blink.

  A field evidence technician was standing near the body. He pointed glove-covered fingers at a couple things he wanted me to shoot: the position of the body relative to the water, grooves in the soft muck where the body had been dragged. Then he left me alone to photograph the body as I'd been trained.


  I'd been taking photographs of crime scenes for the police since I'd recovered from my little accident. Detective Scott had gotten me the job (out of guilt, I think); Lord knew I wasn't a great photographer back then. I am now. My current photography is celebrated, some might say worshiped, though if you ask me, it's the subject matter and not the pictures that inspire devotion.

  I keep working for the police, partly because I like them, partly because I feel strangely that my surviving the accident means that I should repay the cosmos in some way, and taking pictures of crime scenes is one way to do that.

  "Miss Valley, you might want to watch that skirt. You're giving the boys a show," Detective Scott said from somewhere above me.

  "Let her be, Marshall. This is the better than Playboy!" one of the men shouted. Have I mentioned that I love cops?

  I had just squatted down—awkwardly, I admit (a crime scene is not place for a miniskirt and high heels)—to place a quarter next to a strangely familiar tattoo high on the victim's inner thigh. I didn't have my ruler and I needed a scale comparison. "Then tell the boys not to look. I have to squat if I'm going to get this shot, and there's no ladylike way to do that." I hadn't looked away from the viewfinder to reply, but at his muttered curse I turned my head. I was eye-level with the crotch of his jeans, and wonder of all wonders, the little detective looked happy about something.

  Since he wasn't gay or a necrophiliac (as far as I knew) and the only things for him to look at were (a) a dead body, (b) a bunch of birds and water, (c) other cops, and (d) my Lycra-covered ass, I naturally assumed that the good detective liked me more than he let on. Of course, I was probably wrong. I mean, if the man wanted me, he could've had me anytime in the past five years, and don't doubt that caused me more than a little irritation.

  Just to annoy him, I made sure to plant my feet and bend from the waist on the next shot. A wolf whistle came from somewhere behind me, and I sensed Scott moving around to block the view of my butt from the rest of the men. A chorus of boos erupted from my fans, and Scott conceded defeat, walking off to interrogate the old woman who'd found the body. I went back to shooting the scene. If they won't be seduced, they can be annoyed. That's my motto.