by Marie Jermy
Matt frowned. Had he really said that? Jeez, he sounded like a hotel rep. And wouldn’t Phil Harrison love that. It was time for another attempt at getting his brain back into his head. “Have a nice day, Miss Forbes.” He pushed the station’s door open but stopped when she tugged on his shirt sleeve.
“Will you be in there later?”
He followed the inclination of Darcy’s head across the street toward Rustlers. “I might be.”
“What time do you finish your shift?”
“Six.”
“Then I’ll see you in there at half past.”
His brain refusing to budge from his pants, Matt watched Darcy turn on her heels and saunter down the street and around the corner, smiling with genuine appreciation at her tight, upside-down-heart–shaped ass. Once she was out of sight, he quickly glanced around the area. Since none of the townsfolk were paying him any attention, he adjusted his uniform pants to reduce the risk of serious injury to his now fully hard cock.
Entering the station, he sat down at his desk. Then, with an aim he had perfected over time, he tossed his hat in true James Bond style onto the coat pegs. “The name’s Anderson. Matt Anderson,” he drawled in a perfect impersonation of Sean Connery. He smiled and shifted the mountain of paperwork toward him. He was still smiling even after he’d realized Darcy hadn’t moved her Jeep.
* * * *
With piercing, sky-blue eyes, a strong, square, clean-shaven jaw, and a roguish smile that showcased a set of perfect, white, even teeth, Matt Anderson was not a man easily forgotten. Disregarding the wide-brimmed police hat, he was well over six feet in height and possessed the kind of carnal physique and presence that stayed in one’s memory, even after only a brief glimpse.
From past experience, his uniform should have filled Darcy with dread, yet it hadn’t. In fact, the short-sleeved shirt in particular had had the opposite effect, sending sizzles of desire shooting throughout her body. In essence, he’d set her pussy on fire.
She’d always been fond of forearms, too, and Matt’s were perfect. Tanned, sinewy, and with a light covering of dark hair, they were further made masculine by the silver Omega watch strapped to his right wrist. It was an expensive make, and she very much doubted he’d had change from six grand.
As she opened the door to the Slumberland Hotel, Darcy shivered at the delicious thought of those forearms sliding around her and holding her close to an equally perfect-looking, muscle-packed body. His chest looked hard enough to crumple the front of a ten-ton truck.
Whoa, hold on, girl!
With the exception of Daniel Ferris, whom she trusted implicitly, she definitely did not want to be held by a man, and certainly not by a cop. She must have left her brain and common sense back in Yellowstone because it was bad enough she’d laughed and flirted with Officer Matt Anderson, let alone asked him for a drink.
“Good morning, ma’am. How may I help you?”
Darcy reined in one sudden and sinful image of a sizzling doggy-style fuck with Matt—where on earth had that come from?—and gave an ultra-cool smile to the fifty-something, pencil-thin, and mustached man behind the teak reception desk. Light from the understated crystal chandelier above bounced softly off his thinning pate. He probably wasn’t, but he seemed geeky to her. “Have you any rooms?”
She quickly glanced around the lobby. Painted in a pale-apricot color, the area had a homey feel that was made warmer by the two brown leather armchairs set either side of a small, open fireplace. It was the height of summer now, but she could imagine how cozy and welcoming the fire would be in the depths of winter with heavy snowfall and howling gales. She wondered if any of the bedrooms had open fires.
The man checked the key board behind him. “It looks like we have one. Room five. A double queen. How long will you be staying for, ma’am?”
Darcy’s brain voiced one night, but her mouth said, “Two weeks.” She blinked. And pray what would she do in two weeks? Why, enjoy lots of doggy-style fucks with Officer Matt Anderson, of course!
She’d always liked sex. Her only problem, and it was a biggie, was she’d never been able to achieve an orgasm. Yes, before and after sex, but never during. She again blinked. What was she thinking? Why, doggy-style fucking, of course, an inner voice reminded her. And sex with Matt, she knew, would be hotter than a lava flow.
All right. That’s it. Stop. To clear up any misunderstandings. One, she did not want any man holding her. Two, especially not a cop. Three, sex—whether doggy-style or volcanic-eruption–style with said cop—was definitely not going to happen. No way. No, siree.
Yes way. Yes, siree, an inner voice bickered.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
Darcy put a temporary halt to the argument going on inside her head and gave the man another ultra-cool smile. She noted the name badge clipped to the top left pocket of his red plaid shirt. “Yes, fine, Mr. Phil Harrison. I’ll take the room.”
“Excellent! I’m positive you’ll enjoy your stay with us.” From under the desk, he whipped out a registration form and placed it in front of her. A pen also materialized. “Have you any luggage?”
She shook her head as she filled in and signed the form. “No. Well, yeah, I have. But it’s only a small overnight bag. I’ve left it in my Jeep.” She frowned when Harrison, after laying a large, brass key on the desk, then held out his hand.
Half-English on her late father’s side, and like her dead sorry excuse for a father, and despite being an American citizen for most of her life, Darcy had never understood the act of tipping for everything and anything. She could carry her own bags. Wipe her own ass, thank you very much. “You want a tip?”
His face flushed a shade brighter than the red checks on his shirt. “No, ma’am. I was just suggesting we swap keys. You have the room key. I’ll have your Jeep keys. So I can bring your bag in,” he added with a hospitable smile.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Where did you say your Jeep was parked?”
“I didn’t. But if you must know, it’s around the corner. Outside the police station to be exact.” She swallowed the laugh when Harrison’s thin brows almost shot up off his smooth forehead.
“You’d better move it to our parking lot. You don’t want to get into trouble with the law.”
Now there was a sobering thought. “Trouble with the law” was an experience she’d rather not repeat. With a silent nod, Darcy pocketed the room key and left the hotel to move her Jeep.
Once outside, she couldn’t resist peeping in through the large window at the front of the police station. Seated at a desk just the other side of the glass, Matt had his straight nose buried in a pile of files. Without his hat, she could now see he had blue-black hair that was short at the back and sides but which flopped over his forehead. He looked up and gave her a wink and a smile that made her heart roll over.
How do you want it?
From behind. Hard. Ram your cock in my pussy good.
Hellfire! With a hasty wave, Darcy leapt into her Jeep, turned the ignition, and roared around the corner and into the Slumberland’s parking lot before the words “speed ticket” could be voiced.
Parking at the far end under the shade of a tree, she waited until her breathing had returned to a more normal rate before making a call to Daniel Ferris on her cell. He answered on the second ring. “Wheel, it’s me, Darcy.” She inwardly smiled. She’d nicknamed him “Wheel” because of his surname, and he hated it.
“Are you okay?” Concern laced his tone. “You sound a little out of breath.”
“Do I? I can’t imagine why. Um, can I ask you a question? I’m in Silver Creek and—”
“Are you now?” There was a wicked chuckle, and then Daniel asked, “Have you met Matt yet?”
“Yeah.” Was that a dreamy sigh? She cleared her throat. “That’s who I wanted to ask you about. Is he okay?”
There was a muffled conversation down the line, and then Daniel said, “Darcy, he’s more
than okay. He’s a good friend, and I’d trust him with my life. I know he’s a cop, but you’ll have no problems with him. In fact, Matt is just what you need at the moment. He’s a fuck-’em-and-forget-’em kind of guy. The L and R words are not in his vocabulary.”
Darcy tucked an errant twist of hair behind her ear. “R word?”
“Relationship, Darcy!”
“Oh, right.” She blew out a long, steadying breath. “Well, I might give him a try then.”
“Enjoy the ride. And keep your arms and legs in the vehicle at all times.”
“Droll, Ferris Wheel, very droll.” She disconnected and slipped the phone into her pants pocket. As she made her way across the parking lot and around to the front of the hotel, she wondered if it were possible to ever trust a cop again. The last one—Kurt Forrester, who had been her boyfriend—had turned out to be a jealous psychopath.
He’d served two years for assault and was now out on parole. He’d made a convincing show to the parole board that he was a reformed character and was remorseful for his actions. But she knew the real Kurt Forrester, the one who’d once told her she would never be free of him. Therefore, a very good reason for why she carried two guns. The larger one she kept in the glove box of her Jeep, the other, smaller one in the purse she always kept on her person.
Her thoughts slid to Matt. Yes, he was a cop, but he was different. Though she’d sensed a hardness to his character during their brief meeting, he also possessed an air that spelled he knew how to treat a woman right, which led Darcy to believe that Matt was the one cop she could trust. The sex would equal the sight of a lava-spewing volcano, and since the words “love” and “relationship” were never going to make an appearance, then so much the better.
Chapter 2
In actual fact, Matt didn’t arrive at Rustlers until way past eight o’clock. And he was lucky to arrive at that time. The remainder of his shift, which he’d decided was going to be shit, turned out to be a fucking nightmare.
Time had been against him from the moment he’d entered the witness box at the courthouse in Helena. It wasn’t that his evidence would have made the slightest difference to the guilty verdict, but being grilled at length and then chewed to bits by the defendant’s lawyer, Gregory Wilson, did not bode well, particularly when Wilson would be defending Raven for the attempted rape of Matt’s sister Samantha.
No time to go home and change, he was still in uniform, complete with belt loaded with his badge, police-issue gun, handcuffs, and radio, though he had switched the radio off and left his hat in the police car. Matt entered the bar and glanced around looking for Darcy. He half-expected she’d be long gone by now, but there she was, sitting at the far end of the bar chatting with John Stanford, the owner of Rustlers. She stood up when he approached, and he felt a smile of appreciation curling his lips.
Darcy looked hot. Her wild twists of hair had been tamed into a bun at her nape. The bright-pink lipstick matched the color of her V-neck, skintight T-shirt. Her denim skirt was micro-length, and with the high-heeled, strappy sandals, it made her smooth-looking legs go on for miles. A pair of large, gold hoop earrings completed the hot look. The same tiny, tan-colored purse hung diagonally down her body, emphasizing her high, pert breasts and womanly hips. He noticed a small silver charm in the shape of a gun attached to the zipper. He wondered what the purse contained. Condoms, he hoped.
“What time do you call this?” she said by way of a greeting.
Matt made a show of studying his watch. “Well, the little hand is on the eight and the big hand is on the twenty-past mark. So that would make it eight twenty or 20:20 hours.” He grinned at her “ha-ha” expression and pulled his cell from his pocket. “Give me your number. Then next time if I’m gonna be late, I can text you.” She hesitated for a second before giving him her contact details. Keying the number into the memory, he returned the cell to his pocket and then gestured to the empty glass in front of her. “What are you drinking?”
“Shooter with lime.”
“Whiskey?”
“Tequila.”
Pulling a face, Matt ordered her drink and a whiskey for himself. He pulled another face when Stanford placed a saltcellar in front of Darcy. He watched her wet the back of her hand, sprinkle a little salt on it, and lick it off. Then after knocking the tequila back in one shot, she picked up and sucked the juice from the wedge of lime. “Revolting,” he finally told her.
“Which part? The lick, sip, or suck?”
“It’s a toss-up.” He savored a mouthful of whiskey, the amber liquid warming his gut, the sight of Darcy’s “wow factor” smile warming it further, and again gestured to her empty glass. “I’m only asking this out of politeness, but would you like another?”
“I’d like a cocktail.”
Darcy’s request was directed at Stanford, who to Matt’s utmost amazement produced a cocktail recipe book from under the bar and started going through it with her. “Since when have cowboys done cocktails?” he asked Stanford.
Despite owning a bar, the forty-year-old Stanford was a cowboy through and through. It was common knowledge that Stanford had been born and raised on his father’s ranch and had been expected to take over the family business. He would have done, too, if it weren’t for a horse kicking him in the nuts. That painful incident had put Stanford off ranching for life. Stanford had Matt’s heartfelt sympathies.
“Ah, the ‘cowboy,’” Stanford informed Matt. “Two measures of whiskey and one of double cream.”
“Next you’ll be saying there’s one for a geologist,” Matt said, referring to what he guessed, based on the fact that she’d told him she worked with Danny Ferris, was Darcy’s vocation.
At that, Darcy turned her attention away from Stanford to Matt and gave him another of those “wow factor” smiles. “Actually my specialty is volcanology.”
“What, as in Dr. Spock?” he asked, straight-faced.
Darcy obviously realized he was yanking her chain because she lightly swatted him on the arm. “Smart-ass! As if you didn’t know, but volcanology is the scientific study of volcanoes.”
She went on to succinctly explain about the geo-related occurrences of volcanoes. Matt felt his eyes widening. Well, that told him.
“And for your information,” she added with a sublime smile, “it’s Mr. Spock.”
“Now who’s being a smart-ass?” He took a step back, and his gaze wandered downward and lingered on her tight, upside-down-heart–shaped ass. She gave it a sexy wiggle for his cock-hungry benefit.
Seemingly oblivious to the ribbing going on between Matt and Darcy, Stanford thumbed through the pages of his cocktail book. “Hmm, a geologist. Let’s see. Ah! What about an ‘earthquake’? Not for the fainthearted, though. Apparently it gives you a bad case of the shakes. You can either make it with three parts absinthe and three parts cognac, or equal measures of gin, whiskey, and licorice liqueur.”
“Licorice liqueur?” Darcy’s expression soured. “I’ll pass on the ‘earthquake’ and go for the ‘cowboy.’” She sidled closer to Matt. He could smell the tequila on her breath. “Are you a cowboy?” she murmured in what he hoped was a “fuck me now” tone. “Do you wear a gold star on your uniform, Officer Hot Stuff?”
Officer Hot Stuff? Yep, definitely “fuck me now.” Either that or Darcy was drunk. He eyed Stanford, who showed three fingers and shook his head. Nope, she wasn’t drunk, just mellow. Stanford then turned his back on them to face the shelves of every bottle of alcohol known to man. He never looked their way, his focus solely on making Darcy’s cocktail. Matt blew out a relieved breath. He had a feeling things were about to get hotter. “You think I’m hot?”
“As a lava-spewing volcano.”
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through the hand that Darcy had lain flat on the front of his shirt. He rather liked her hand there. Preferred it wrapped around the shaft of his cock, whacking him, but he wasn’t complaining. Darcy could touch him all she wanted. However, and with a panicky st
art, as if she’d suddenly thought coming on to a cop was an offense, her hand fell to her side. Hmm, okay, he’d ask about that later.
“So you work with Dan my man,” Matt said, switching topics. “Tell me, what’s the big deal with Old Faithful? I mean surely once you’ve seen one geyser you’ve seen them all?”
“What did Danny tell you?”
“I haven’t got a clue. I admit I lost interest about a second after he opened his mouth. Geysers are not my thing.”
“But I bet I am.”
Though she appeared relaxed, Matt wasn’t sure if Darcy was back to “fuck me now,” so continued to play it light. “Where are you from?”
“Where are you?”
“About a mile up the road. You?”
“A little bit farther.” She took a large sip from the umbrella-adorned cocktail glass Stanford placed in front of her. He then ambled down the bar to serve another customer, wiping the worn yet polished wooden surface with a cloth as he went. She smacked her lips, and Matt inwardly groaned at the thought of Darcy doing the same action to the head of his cock. “How long have you been a cop?”
“How long have you been a geologist?”
“Gee, this is gonna be an interesting conversation if you’re gonna answer a question with a question.”
“You started it.” Matt finished his whiskey. “Do I detect that you don’t like talking about yourself?”
“Your detection skills are bang on. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll just give Dan a call and ask him.” That raised a smile from her. Also her hand was back on the front of his shirt. She lightly toyed with the buttons before boldly sweeping down and palming his prick through the material of his uniform pants. Definitely “fuck me now.” The air rushing from his lungs, his cock lengthened and hardened further. “You’ve got a very pretty smile,” he told her, his head well and truly stuck in the clouds, his fully erect cock well and truly pointing in that direction, too.