Timms, the guy who couldn’t get laid apparently, popped a hand into the air. “I call December.”
Another cop snickered. “That’s because you can get Timms on a holiday discount.”
“Harry, at least I’d get picked up off the shelf.”
“Yeah, to be put in the clearance section.”
With a huff, Timms rolled his eyes and stalked over to Lizzie’s vintage sofa. “Y’all are a bunch of assholes.”
Lizzie had to agree; Gage’s coworkers were pricks.
As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Gage murmured, “He’s the new kid on the block. You don’t even want to know the sort of shit they pulled back when I was the new guy in S.O.D. It was brutal.”
“It can’t be that brutal if y’all are here, planning to do a full calendar spread. I’m finding it hard to believe that anyone in the NOPD would agree to this.”
“Trust me, I had to do some canoodling.” A low chuckle escaped him. “Man, I love that word. Anyway, the request had to go through rank, but 1200”—at her raised brow, he backtracked—“lieutenant, sorry. Lieutenant asked the commander, and he agreed to let us do this after I suggested that all proceeds go to a local charity for first responders.”
Oh.
That was awfully . . . Well, it was awfully nice of him.
That was part of the problem. It was easier to push him out of her thoughts when he was nothing but the cocky tattoo artist—even then, it’d been difficult. In the last few weeks, though, Gage had shown that he wasn’t like the douchebags she’d dated in the past. If anything, he was so much more.
Funny. Kind. Compassionate.
The handsome face and sexy tattoos didn’t even begin to cover how good of a person he was.
His hand landed on her back, between her shoulders blades, as he dipped his head close to hers. “I wasn’t trying to blow your secret,” he said, voice low, “but I figured there’s no better way to crack open the lid, so to speak, then with a group of guys who won’t give a shit who you are. Half of them are married and want to show off to their wives; the other half just want to reap the rewards of doing a calendar. Namely, getting their dicks wet.”
Lizzie bit her lip to keep from laughing at his crudity. “And what about you?” she asked, taking a leap of faith. “You aren’t married.”
His throat worked with a hard swallow, and for the first time, Lizzie wondered if his secrets were insurmountable. The kind that destroyed; unlike hers, which had proved to be merely speed bumps. “Nah,” he finally said, “marriage isn’t for me.”
It sounded so final.
She knew he felt that way, but still, there was a small sting in her chest, a pinching of her heart. Remember that, girl. Enjoy the now and don’t even contemplate the future. In a rough voice, she added, “And are you looking to get your dick wet?”
His onyx eyes dropped to her lips, lingering a moment too long. “I wouldn’t put it that crudely when it comes to her, but yeah, I’ve got a woman in mind.”
Lizzie didn’t even have the chance to respond before Timms hollered, “Are we doing this anytime soon?”
Yeah, they were doing it. Lizzie had never been a prude, and if the proceeds were going to charity . . . Well, she’d have to be pretty heartless to say no. Heartless and also a good deal stupid—she had eleven sexy (Timms included) cops waiting to be photographed for an annual calendar.
This was every woman’s dream.
And Lizzie planned to take one for the team.
She clapped her hands together and gave a short whistle. “All right, y’all, I’m going to need you to get in order of the month you’d like to represent.”
There was some juggling around when two of the guys both wanted June—they shared it as a birthday month—but a spitfire game of Rock, Paper, Scissors broke it up, and the russet-haired fellow retreated to February instead.
“On the bright side,” Lizzie said as she arranged furniture with the help of Luke and Gage, “you’re now going to look sentimental.”
The redhead stared at her blankly.
“Valentine’s Day is in February. You’re now Mr. February . . .”
More blinking.
Great. Lizzie pitied whoever ended up fantasizing about Mr. February whenever the impromptu calendar released. Much like Scott with his super-magical hands, this guy was a dose of false advertisement. Good body, handsome face, not much working upstairs. Unfortunate, really.
“Are we doing this shirtless?” asked Cardeaux, fingering the hem of his T-shirt. He drew it up to his pecs, then whipped it off completely. “My vote is for yes.”
“No one wants to see your hairy chest,” Timms muttered.
Cardeaux narrowed his dark eyes on the new recruit. “Boy, if you don’t want to be stuck doing paperwork for the rest of your short-lived career, I highly advise you to take off your shirt, pose, and don’t speak another word.”
Timms sent Lizzie a wry grin. “No wonder the poor bastard’s single. Who’d want to listen to him bark all day?” He dropped his voice to a growl. “No, woman, don’t sit there. I told you, you’re only allowed to stand against the wall and wait for me to command you to breathe.”
Laughing, Lizzie turned around only to run smack into a hard chest.
Gage’s bare chest.
Oh. Oh.
His hands circled her biceps. “Mr. September at your service.”
Her heart leapt into a frenzy at the sight of all his tattoos. Intricate lines decorated his chest. Elegant cursive script spanned across his collarbone. Although she’d sat next to him in his kitchen two weekends ago, they’d never stood so close before.
She couldn’t help drawing in a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his masculine perfection.
“Did you just sniff me?”
Yes. “I plead the fifth.”
“Not exactly the words to say around a bunch of cops, princess. We’ll sniff you right out—figuratively, I mean.”
“Good point.” She tipped back her head to meet his gaze. “Why September?”
Fingers tightening around her arms, he stepped back and then released her. “A few reasons.” Turning his head to scope out his coworkers, he added, “We ready to get this show on the road?”
She wanted to push for answers.
Once again, not the right time.
“Yes,” she said, “time to get the show on the road.”
The next two hours flew by in a whir of overt testosterone, ridiculous innuendos, and more than a few dramatic arm curls. Thankfully, the guys were good sports. When Lizzie told Cardeaux to stop giving her the duck lips, he was quick to part his mouth, roll his shoulders, and leave the duck pout for some other sucker. “Sorry,” he muttered, relaxing into his slouched position against a white wall, “my little cousin told me it was the It thing to do.”
As the lens snapped photo after photo of New Orleans’s finest, Lizzie felt herself easing up and owning her role as the founder of Naked You.
“Yep,” she told Timms as she sat him down by the front window and instructed him to rest his elbows on his bent knees. Inexperienced or not, he was ripped like the rest of the guys—although not nearly as toned as Gage—and the ridges of his abdomen were prominently displayed with each exhalation. “I’ve seen more breasts than all of you combined.”
The young cop gave a hard laugh. “More than Harvey? Miz Danvers, I just don’t think that’s possible.”
Lizzie’s fingers squeezed her camera a little too tightly, and she shot off a photo before she’d meant to. “Maybe not more than Officer Harvey,” she said evenly, readjusting her hold on the expensive Canon. “He might be the exception to the rule.”
Gage Harvey seemed to be the exception to every rule.
“You talkin’ about me, Timms?” called out the man of the hour, and Lizzie couldn’t stop herself from glancing over.
Like his coworkers, he was bare-chested. Unlike his coworkers, his shirt was slung over his right shoulder. His black cargo pants hung lo
w around lean hips. Between the combat boots and his backward NOPD hat, Gage was a walking, talking billboard for Hot Male. He sat at her counter, his ass half-lifted onto a stool.
She wanted to know what that powerful body would feel like rocking into her, using her for his pleasure and letting her do the same to him.
Bottomless black eyes landed on her face.
Lizzie swallowed her lust. “It appears the two of us are in a contest for who’s been privy to more breasts-sightings.”
Brows arching under the band of his ball cap, Gage gave her his full attention, twisting on the stool so that his long legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned back against the counter, forearms bent and resting on the marble behind him.
Do not look at his abs, do not look at his abs.
She was powerless against it.
Hungrily, she followed the path of his tattoos down to his eight-pack. Hell, he even had those ridged side-abs—obliques? Lizzie didn’t work out, not voluntarily, but even she knew that Gage’s body was a work of art.
“Funny,” Gage said now, his thumb brushing his bottom lip in a move that clenched Lizzie’s thighs together, “I’m more than willing to let you take the win on this one.”
“You sayin’ you haven’t seen as many tits as Miz Danvers?”
“All I’m sayin’ is I haven’t seen the ones that matter most.”
He was a charmer, all right. A charmer who thought he could get out of admitting his playboy past by appealing to a woman’s desire to feel wanted. Lizzie rose from the floor, one sneakered foot planting on the tile with a palm to her knee for leverage. Dark eyes lazily followed her, that thumb of his still sexily stroking back and forth across his lip.
“Timms,” Lizzie said, a touch too loudly, “I think we’re all good for December.”
“You sure?” He clambered to his feet, swiping at his legs, running a hand down his flat stomach. “I mean, I can totally do another few rounds, if you want? I’m down. Hey, do you think sitting like that gave me a bulge?”
Cardeaux’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Your cock’s too small for a bulge, recruit.”
Expression darkening, the young cop jerked up his pants at the waistband. “I was talkin’ about my abs, you dick. My cock’s big enough, thanks.”
“Ah.” Slowly, methodically, Cardeaux drawled, “Then I’d have to say yes, you might have had a few stomach rolls. Might want to lay off the free Popeye’s chicken.”
Who said police officers had to be adults? Clearly Gage hadn’t exaggerated when he’d called them a “motley crew.” Sure, they all had the ripped, dark, and badass look down, but otherwise? Idiots, all of them.
Save for Luke O’Connor. The former soldier sat on a chair by the front windows, an ankle resting on his opposite knee, his cell phone in his hand as he looked at god-knows-what. Minding his own business, ignoring the idiocy around him.
And then there was Gage . . .
“You’re up,” she said, resting her camera against her shoulder. She watched him push away from the stool and amble toward her with his loose-legged gait. He stopped a foot away, chin dipped so he could meet her gaze.
“Where do you want me?”
Beneath me.
Lizzie slammed her eyes shut. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t say something so ridiculous as that out loud. Especially not in front of every member of the city’s Special Operations Division.
Be professional, be professional, be professional.
“On the bench,” she heard herself say, wishing the words didn’t sound just like a sexual invitation. She stared at his chest, at the multiple names inscribed into his skin. “Straddle it for me, please.”
Oh God, because that was any better.
With a low, satisfied chuckle, Gage stepped past her, but not before he murmured, “Only for you.”
What had she said about him being a nice guy? All lies. He knew how much she wanted him, and he was playing it to his advantage.
While the other cops talked shop, Gage straddled the bench, hitched his cargo pants at the thighs, and sat down.
Bulges everywhere.
His biceps hardened as he dropped his elbows to his knees. His corded stomach tightened. And then he shifted, drawing up a foot onto the bench, loosely balancing his wrist on his bent knee. That silky smile of his grew when he asked, “How’s this?”
“Good!”
Had that squeak come from her? She seriously hoped not. Totally unprofessional. Completely inappropriate. She was a businesswoman. Her images were shared and loved around the world.
She’d photographed people without a single stitch on, and hadn’t blushed at all.
Hell, she’d just taken photos for a full calendar spread of some of the city’s hottest first responders. Sure, most of them were small-minded horn-dogs. Sure, not a single one of them had made her tingle in all the right places.
She could do this.
“Princess?”
At his low rasp, Lizzie sucked in air. “Yeah?”
“You’re not wearing a bra, are you.”
This was the moment the ground opened up and did her a solid; she just knew it. She waited. Waited some more. When nothing happened, Lizzie glanced down at the space between her tennis shoes and tap-tapped the floor with her right foot, just to reaffirm that the universe had indeed turned its back on her.
Nada. Zilch. Nothing.
Dammit.
“I’m not answering that question.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Cheeks warming, Lizzie resisted the urge to cover her braless chest. It was on the tip of her tongue to snap that she hadn’t prepared herself for clients today. Her schedule had been empty, blessedly empty before he’d waltzed up to her front door like he owned the place.
If her nipples were hard, it was all his fault.
All of it.
Lizzie snapped the strap of her tank top with just enough sass that he got the message loud and clear: kiss my butt, Harvey.
His black eyes glittered, full lips parting to mouth, “Anytime.”
Lizzie’s shoulders drew up to her ears.
He was . . . he was just so frustrating.
19
This was a bad idea.
Or rather, a bad idea that would be good in so many ways.
Gage stared at Naked You’s front door, still dressed in his black BDU’s from the impromptu photoshoot earlier in the day. Behind him, the city buzzed with energy—sirens, laughter, jazz, honking vehicles.
The chaos of New Orleans’s nightlife just about summed up the tempo of his heart rate.
He wasn’t the guy whose palms slicked with nerves, and he sure as hell wasn’t the guy who stood on a woman’s doorstep, debating the chances on whether he’d be turned away.
Timms had the right of it earlier. Although the last few months had been a dry spell for him, Gage had spent what felt like a lifetime before that in close contact with breasts. Large ones, small ones, fake ones, real ones. To say nothing of that sweet spot between a woman’s legs.
Gage had never lived like a monk, and he didn’t have a lick of shame in admitting that.
But the way he felt right now? Taut and stretched too thin, desperate for a reprieve only one woman could give him?
Foreign.
That sort of need was completely foreign.
And it was that need that had propelled him here tonight. He had to know if the built-up lust was all in his head, if he’d popped Lizzie Danvers up on a pedestal of his own making.
He lifted his hand, fingers curling into his calloused palm, and then pressed the buzzer. Shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited. Tried to remind himself that it was just sex, and that Lizzie was no different than any other woman he’d ever slept with.
A temporary infatuation that would dampen the minute he rolled away from her, sated, spent.
Gage didn’t have any room in his life for permanency when it came to relationships. He didn’t believe in it.
The door creaked open, light from inside the studio illuminating her head with a glowing halo. Her face remained cast in shadow, across the hollows of her cheeks and the full, luscious bow of her mouth.
Like in a dream, she swept her brown hair over one shoulder, and murmured, “I had a feeling you’d be back.”
Anticipation pooled in his stomach, hot and heavy. “I’ve clearly lost my touch for spontaneity.”
“Or maybe I just hoped that if I thought about it hard enough, I’d wish it into reality.”
Jesus, but those words shouldn’t excite him the way that they did. She shouldn’t excite him the way that she did, even standing there in loose-fitting jeans and a light sweater that looked like it had seen better days.
She looked comfortable, relaxed.
Thoroughly kissable.
“Did you make any other wishes?” He pressed his hands to the door frame, a silent request for her to let him enter the studio. “Maybe rub a wishing lamp?”
Her laugh was as sweet as it was sexy. “You mean a genie lamp, right? Like from Aladdin?”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
More sexy laughter, this time accompanied by her fingers blazing a slow trail up his chest. She tapped him twice, right atop his heart. “The kids, Officer, have been calling it a genie lamp for at least thirty years.”
Yeah, he’d totally just aged himself. In his defense, it’d just been him and Owen growing up. No female cousins or sisters to break up the full saturation of Legos and video games. Gage was pretty sure he’d believed in the whole cooties rule until at least the eighth grade, in which he’d hit a homerun on his first go with the opposite sex.
He might have been slow on the uptake, but he always came through in the end.
“All right,” he murmured, dropping his hands from the frame and settling them over her shoulders, “a genie lamp, then. Have you made your wishes today?”
She stepped back, hands clutched to his forearms so he had no choice but to follow.
He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. Paused only to slip the deadbolt into place. Turned back around and resumed his position, his hands on her shoulders, his hips temptingly close to hers.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 278