Steal Me

by Lauren Layne

  But on the other hand…

  Shit.

  He had not seen this coming. He’d thought he’d have time to figure out how to phrase things.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, taking the coward’s way out and moving toward the kitchen.

  “I’d rather have answers.”

  He pulled out two beers anyway, popping the cap off both before handing one to her. She took it but didn’t drink. Just stood there watching him with quiet, simmering eyes.

  “I was planning to tell you.”

  “Were you now?” she asked.

  “I just…we needed to get all the kinks worked out. I wanted to have all the information in place, the plan in place, so that you knew you wouldn’t have to worry.”

  “Uh-huh. So keeping me in the dark was for my own benefit.”

  “Yes,” he said, a little relieved that she understood.

  “I’m calling BS,” she said, taking a sip of her beer and sauntering farther into the apartment as though she belonged there.

  “Sorry?” he asked, distracted by the way the black pants hugged her ass, and the way her high heels made her hips sway when she walked.

  She turned back around and leveled him with a steady gaze. “I think you didn’t mention it because you were scared. I just don’t know if it’s because you were scared of my reaction, or scared of something else.”

  Of course I was scared of the something else. Scared that something will happen to you, and it’ll be on me.

  But since admitting that wasn’t an option, he opted for sarcasm.

  “Gosh, I can’t imagine why I’d be scared of your reaction. You’re not overreacting at all.”

  Her eyes turned lethal, and he amended his previous assumption. Sarcasm was not safer. With a furious woman, it was gas on a flame.

  She moved toward him slowly, setting her beer bottle on the counter and then continuing until they were nearly chest to chest.

  “Do you have any idea,” she said softly, “what it’s like to be the last to know? To have other people making decisions about your life as though you’re not worthy of having a say?”

  Panic made his chest tighten and he set his own beer aside, reaching for her arms. “No. No, that is not what this is.”

  Her eyes clouded. “Then what? You want to use me as bait, and you can’t even tell me?”

  Anth tightened his fingers a little on her arms. “You make it sound like I wanted to trick you into it. That’s not—I just wanted to make it really easy for you to say yes. I wanted to show you that there was no danger, and that—”

  “You didn’t have to convince me,” she said quietly.

  His brain derailed. “What?”

  “You wouldn’t have had to convince me. If you’d just told me you thought that it was your best shot of catching Eddie, I would have said yes.”

  “I don’t think you understand. We want to use you as bait. Put you out in the open, by yourself, and use you to lure Eddie Hansen in.”

  “I understand all that.” She set her hand on his chest, the touch tentative. Then she looked up at him. “But I trust you.”

  He gritted his teeth. “You shouldn’t. You don’t even know me.”

  She smiled then, the first smile since she’d come storming in looking for a fight. “I know you’re a good cop. The best cop.”

  Anth ran a hand over his face, feeling tired. “That’s just the thing, Maggie. I am a good cop. A damn good one. But only when that’s all I am. With you…things are muddied. Complicated. You may trust me, but I don’t trust myself.”

  She flattened her palm more firmly against his chest, over his heart.

  “What is it you’re afraid of?”

  I don’t know.

  He couldn’t put a name to the stark fear inside him. Could barely even acknowledge it to himself, much less to her.

  All he knew was that he was used to being in control. Had to be in control. And with her…

  He wasn’t.

  Not even close.

  She nodded her head slowly when he didn’t answer, and he had the strangest feeling that this woman understood his silence. Understood the words he couldn’t say.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly.

  She smiled up at him. “What makes you think I’m asking you to do anything?”

  Her tone was playful, but he’d never been good at playing games, so he spoke straight.

  “You’re here. You’re touching me. You want something.”

  Her eyes went smoky, and too late Anthony realized he was wrong: Maggie Walker’s next words proved that she wasn’t playing games after all.

  “You’re right. I do want something, Captain Moretti. I want you.”

  Her hand slid up behind his neck, pulling his face down to hers.

  And she kissed him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  For a heartbreakingly awful moment, Maggie was terrified he’d push her away. Or not respond at all, just enduring the kiss, which would be infinitely worse because it meant he felt bad for her.

  Then that horrible moment turned into two…and then to five…

  And then Maggie had to face the fact that his lips weren’t moving against hers. His hands weren’t touching her.

  It was just her on her tippy toes, kissing a man who didn’t want to be kissed. At least not by her.

  Oh my God.

  Maggie pulled her mouth away from his the same time she sank back to the balls of her feet, although it took her a few seconds to realize that her hand was still hooked—yes, hooked—around the back of his neck like a desperate cat trying to climb an immobile object.

  She jerked her hand away from him, using it to cover her mouth, then her entire face.

  “Oh my God,” she muttered, out loud this time.

  “Maggie.” His voice was gruff.

  She could only shake her head. “Don’t. I’m sorry I did that. It was…oh my God,” she muttered yet again.

  “Stop.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist, yanking it away from her face. “Don’t do this. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “Oh, I’m well past embarrassment. Not an hour ago I was sitting across from three women who I sincerely hoped might become friends, only to find out they knew more about my life than I did. That was embarrassment. Fast-forward fifty minutes or so, and it gets worse, because I go and throw myself at a guy that doesn’t want me back—”

  “I want you back.”

  His blunt admission stopped the rest of her rant.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because I don’t do this.”

  “Sex?”

  His eyes flared, all but searing her with the sudden heat flashing between their gazes. Between their bodies.

  “I don’t do relationships,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t remember asking for a relationship,” she shot back. “I remember putting my lips against yours and feeling nothing. It was like kissing a fish.”

  This time when his eyes flared, there was anger, and his grip on her arm tightened. “I’m not going to have casual sex with you, Maggie.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

  “Because I like you!”

  He looked as startled by the outburst as she felt.

  It was hardly romantic, especially when blurted out reluctantly. But from a man like Anthony Moretti who, from what she could tell, kept his thoughts close and his emotions closer, it was enough to make a girl swoon.

  “I like you too,” she said softly.

  He swallowed and took a step back. “So, you get it.”

  She blinked. “No, I don’t get it. Pretty sure we’re not even talking the same language.”

  He reached for his beer, although he didn’t take a sip, which told her it was more a self-protection mechanism than anything else. “You’re good, Maggie. You deserve the kind of guy that will make you dinner every nigh
t. Take you out on weekends. Bring you coffee in bed, and stop by and see you at work on his lunch break. I’m not that guy. I’m at work more than I’m at home, I barely remember to call my mother, I bring my work home with me more often than not…”

  She stared at him for several seconds, trying to read the flurry of emotions on his face—frustration, want, anger—and wasn’t surprised in the least when he settled on stubbornness.

  Something shifted then. The balance of power. And this time it was in Maggie’s favor.

  For as long as she’d known Anthony Moretti, she’d been trying to measure up. Trying not to embarrass herself, trying not to spill on him, embarrassed by her small apartment, embarrassed by her family, even her dog…

  But something was shifting.

  This time, Maggie understood that maybe his life wasn’t any easier than hers. That he had his own demons to fight.

  Only…he wasn’t fighting. He was giving up.

  She felt an unfamiliar spark of anger.

  She could sympathize about what had happened with his ex-girlfriend certainly, but did that really excuse the fact that he was letting external circumstances dictate his life?

  The fact was, he was being a coward. By shutting himself off from risk, he was also shutting out the chance for something more.

  “I can’t do complicated,” he said when the silence stretched on.

  Maggie nodded. Pursed her lips. Maybe it was time to take a risk.

  Time to call this complicated man’s bluff.

  She picked up her beer and took one last sip before setting it back on the counter. “Okay then,” she said simply.

  Maggie started to move past him toward the front door. She paused when their shoulders were even, although she didn’t glance up at him. “That’s too bad. Because this is one time when ‘complicated’ would have been really good.”

  She didn’t even make it to the door before he reached for her, pulling her around so hard she slammed up against his chest.

  Anthony’s fingers were rough as they plunged into her hair, but she welcomed the slight pull. Welcomed even more the possessive pull of his lips on hers when he claimed her mouth, sinking his tongue into the depths of her mouth without preamble or apology.

  Maggie’s fingers were equally greedy as she held on to his hair, her mouth moving restlessly against his. Anthony tilted his head to take the kiss even deeper and Maggie moaned.

  This is what kissing was supposed to be like.

  He pulled back, just slightly, his breath hot and heavy against her face. “Say you want this.”

  Her own breath was ragged. “I already told you that.”

  His lips found the underside of her jaw. “Say it again.”

  Maggie closed her eyes. “I want this.”

  I want you.

  Anthony lifted her then, as though it were nothing. Just wrapped his arms around her and swooped her up, Southern-belle-style.

  “A girl could swoon with moves like this,” she said, lifting her face up so her lips could nuzzle his neck.

  Anthony kicked open his bedroom door, and she had the vague sense of a Spartan room—a perfectly made bed, a small dresser, not the tiniest bit of clutter—before he set her on the bed.

  Maggie started to scoot back to make room for him, but his hand found her knee, stopping her. “I’m in charge.”

  Mouth. Dry. Other parts…not.

  She swallowed, acutely aware that this man could do more with three words and a hot gaze than most men could do with an entire night of lovemaking.

  Not that she’d had much experience, but…

  His eyes drifted over her body before the hand on her knee slid down, over her calf, his thumb sliding under the hem of her pants just below her ankle. Definitely not an erogenous zone that she had known before then, but the brush of his finger against that thin skin did things to all of her nerve endings.

  He removed one shoe, then the other, setting them carefully next to the bed instead of tossing them aside, and she wondered what it would take to get him to lose his iron-fist control.

  Anthony sat on the edge of the bed then, but instead of climbing over her, tugged her up so she was over him, her knees on either side of his hips.

  A hand slid to the nape of her neck and he pulled her mouth down to his, halting her when her lips were mere inches from his.

  “Kiss me,” he ordered.

  She did. Oh, she so did.

  She kissed him long and hard, and soft and sweet, but all of them—the fast and the slow—were hungry.

  He kissed her back, his mouth as urgent as hers, although he let her lead the kiss. Let her flick her tongue at the corner of her mouth, let her rake her teeth over his bottom lip, let her nibble his upper lip just a little bit hard, and oh, he liked that one.

  His hands were under her shirt now, stroking up her sides, over her back. They toyed with the edge of her bra, and briefly she wondered which one she was wearing, hoping it wasn’t too ugly. It didn’t matter, however, because his fingers found the plump upper curves of her breasts, tracking back and forth in teasing, toying motions.

  She whimpered and his fingers slid downward, under the fabric of her bra so the rough backs of his fingers scraped against her nipples.

  Yes. She gasped and pulled away from his mouth, and the way he watched her face as he played with her was almost as erotic as the touching itself.

  Only when she was squirming against him, silently begging him for more, did he stop.

  “Shirt. Off.”

  His voice was still commanding, but huskier now.

  She tried for one of those sexy shirt-removal things that girls in the movies always did, but it got stuck on her earring and he gently helped free her.

  Her face was flaming when he finally set the shirt aside, both from her awkwardness and realization that she was not wearing one of her cuter bras, but in fact, an ugly, light pink cotton affair that had seen better days. Come to think of it, it might have seen better decades.

  Bras were expensive. One didn’t replace them often when nobody else would see them.

  But someone was seeing them now.

  And from the reverent look on his face, he didn’t seem to care that it wasn’t fancy lingerie.

  His hands bracketed her waist, tilting her forward slightly so that his mouth could reach her breasts. He kissed her softly there, just above the cup, then licked, his tongue diving just under the fabric and she hissed, her hands moving behind her back to remove her bra.

  He grabbed her hands before she could undo the clasp, fisting her wrists with one hand. “I’m in charge. Remember?”

  She looked down at his glowing brown eyes and slowly nodded, watching as his mouth moved forward again, repeating the sensual touches that were enough to make her pant, but also not nearly satisfying enough.

  “Please,” she whispered finally, when she could take no more of the almost-touches. “Please.”

  He released her hands then, sliding his own up her back, fingers trailing her spine until all of a sudden the bra was gone, tossed aside with a bit more roughness now, she noticed.

  Then his hands slid forward, covering her, and she didn’t notice anything at all. There was only the feel of his fingers on her nipples, his rough palms on her soft skin.

  And then his mouth—oh, his mouth, and a scrape of teeth, as he tormented the tip of her breast, then the other, until Maggie thought she’d explode.

  “Easy,” he breathed against skin moist from his mouth. “Easy, Maggie.”

  Then he moved her gently off of him before using his body to push her back to the bed, covering her completely as he claimed her mouth.

  He was lying between her open thighs now, his hands on the back of her legs, rocking against her, torturing them both with the slide of fabric against fabric.

  Impatient, she reared up, sinking her teeth into his shoulder as her nails dug into his back.

  He swore softly and pulled back long enough to pull off his shirt. His fingers
went for the button of her pants, but she stopped him, sitting up on her elbows so she could look at the magnificence of Anthony Moretti without a shirt.

  The man was a masterpiece, all sculpted muscles and firm skin. He had just the right amount of hair on his chest, exactly the way she liked it, and her mouth watered.

  “Really?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be all about the donuts?”

  He gave her one of his rare grins and started to lean down for a kiss, but she slapped a playful hand against his bare chest. “I’m serious, how am I supposed to compete with a six-pack? I haven’t seen a gym since high school, things that were never that perky in the first place are starting to sag, and—”

  His mouth closed around her nipple, and her words fled.

  It was an effective way to shut a woman up. Very.

  “I like the way you look,” he said when he finally lifted his head.

  “Okay,” she said dumbly. It was all she could manage, because then her pants were off and then his pants were off, and if he’d looked really good with no shirt, he looked even better wearing only boxers.

  Her panties didn’t match her bra—of course they didn’t—but he didn’t seem to care when he slid his hand under them, his fingers delving into her wetness without hesitation or apology.

  Maggie’s back arched and he slid an arm under her head, pulling her face into his neck as his skilled fingers explored her.

  Later she would be embarrassed at how quickly she fell apart, shattering against his hand, but in the moment there were only fireworks and gasping breaths.

  When she finally opened her eyes, he was watching her with an unreadable expression.

  She smiled shyly, and he smiled back, his expression almost tender.

  He leaned back, sat up, and rummaged around in his nightstand before unabashedly pulling off his underwear and sliding a condom on in a smooth, practiced motion.

  He turned back to her, fingers hooking into the elastic of her panties and pulling down.

  She expected him to touch her then, but he merely flicked his eyes back to hers. “Open.”

  God, why did she find this bossy thing so damn hot?

  She spread her legs then, and he was over her.

  Her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Look at me.” His voice was harsher now, as though his self-control was wearing thin, and the second she obeyed, meeting his eyes, he plunged forward, entering her in one glorious, smooth stroke.