Big Guns Out of Uniform (29 page)

“I want you,” I said, low in my throat, massaging him with my hand. “And if you try and stop me again, I'll make sure everyone in this station thinks you fucked me in here anyway, so what have you got to lose?”

He shoved me back against the wall and put his hand on the crotch of my jeans. “When you put it that way…”

I could feel myself getting wet as he rubbed me, and for a few seconds we just groped each other over our clothes. Then I undid the clasp on his pants and slid the zipper down. His erection had already worked free of his boxers, and I gave him one good long stroke to show him how much he pleased me. His hand paused in its endeavors.

“God, I love you.”

I gasped and pulled my hand away.

He just laughed and shoved down his pants and boxers. Then he rubbed up against me. “Don't worry. You don't have to say anything.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and pressed downward. I went willingly, even eagerly, sliding my hands down on his chest as I went to my knees, curving them around to grip his tight buttocks as I leaned forward.

I sucked his balls first, rolling them in my mouth, and his hands tightened on my hair. Next I probed the tip of my tongue into the little triangle of skin on the underside of his rod, right above his ball sack. I took it gently between my teeth and nibbled, making him hiss.

“Take it in your mouth,” he said hoarsely, and I moved to do as he asked, sliding my tongue along his undercarriage, and sucking briefly on the tip before sliding my lips down and taking him deep. I pulled on him once, opening the back of my throat, and waited, teasing. His hips moved forward, begging wordlessly, and I began sucking in earnest, pressing my tongue hard against him. His grip on my neck changed, moving my mouth up and down on his shaft.

I relaxed, breathing through my nose and sliding the wet, hot sheath of my mouth over him again and again. I could feel him getting close; several pearly drops escaped his control. I cupped his balls in my hand and lifted my mouth off him, rubbing one finger along the slick length of him, swirling it gently around the tip.

“Don't stop.”

“Spread your legs a little.”

He did as I asked, spreading them as far as he could with his pants around his ankles. I licked his pulsing staff as a reward, running the edge of my teeth over the sensitive tip before taking him full in my mouth again. I sucked once, hard, and slid my wet finger over the ridge of flesh behind his balls. I held it there, pressing, while he gasped and panted, then I rose higher on my knees and blew him in earnest, working him, feeling him strain on the knife edge of pleasure.

He came with a loud grunt of surprised pleasure, jerking into me. I swallowed quickly, drinking the evidence of his fulfillment, prolonging his pleasure. When the silky pulses ended, I licked him clean, kissing his softened penis farewell.

I grabbed the waistband of his pants and boxers and pulled up as I stood, tucking him away gently and zipping his fly. He kissed me, sending his tongue deep, telling me without words what he intended to do to me.

“Your turn,” he said, and slid his hands over my breasts.

I stopped him. “No.”

“No?”

I put one hand against his chest to hold him still. I unbuttoned the top button of my jeans and slid two fingers under my panties and between my legs. He couldn't see me very well in the dark, so when I drew my fingers out, wet from my body, and touched them to his lips, he drew in a deep breath.

“Taste me,” I ordered, and put my lips to his so that I could feel his tongue sampling the sap from my body. I whispered against his lips, “I want to go home wet from wanting you. I want to think about you all afternoon, coming home and taking me no matter where I am. I want you to think about me waiting for you, so hot that when you get to me, you'll do anything to have me.”

“Good sweet Jesus,” he groaned. I stepped away from him, buttoning my jeans.

“Come on, Detective, Stevens is waiting.” I laughed and opened the door a crack, slipping through when I saw the hall was clear. I walked toward the entrance, taking my sunglasses from where I'd hung them in the neck of my shirt and sliding them on.

I heard him close the door to the closet and knew he was watching me walk away. I lifted a hand over my shoulder and waved, deliberately swaying my hips.

I didn't glance back until after I stepped through the glass doors, and saw him leaning back against the wall like a man who'd just gotten punched in the gut. But the smile on his face, oh, that smile. In that moment I knew I was a lucky woman. That smile would surprise me every time, and I would never fail to appreciate the beauty of it.

T
hirteen hours later I opened my eyes to an infomercial for some miracle cream. I was lying on my bed, decked out in a black satin nightie and smelling like a harem dancer. I'd gone shopping for the nightgown after I'd left that afternoon and had spent the rest of the time getting ready. I must've fallen asleep.

I looked around. There was no sign of Marshall.

Pulling on my robe, I padded into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I drank deeply, spilled some down my front. I grimaced, brushing the droplets from the black satin.

I wandered into the living room to check my machine. Zero messages. I dug my cell phone out of my bag. Same thing. The man was gonna get an earful when I saw him again.

There was no way I could go back to sleep. Nine hours was more than enough.

I tried to work, but I kept getting distracted by thoughts that something terrible had happened and Marshall was lying in an alley bleeding to death. When I ruined the third print of my four Italian ladies frolicking naked in the ocean, I knew I had to do something.

I called Marshall's cell phone and got a message. I called the station and got some newbie I didn't know who refused to tell me anything. I finally said to hell with politeness and called Darla. She answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Darla, it's Debbie. Sorry to call so early.”

“That's okay. I wasn't asleep.”

“Do you know where Stevens and Scott are?”

“They didn't call you?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“No,
they
didn't,” I muttered ominously.

“Oh,” she said very carefully.

“Yes, oh. Are they all right?”

“They're fine,” she rushed to assure me. “They got a call. Someone found a body down by the Oceanside pier about five o'clock. It turned out to be the mayor's youngest daughter.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I don't think we'll see them until sometime tomorrow.”

“He still should've called me.”

“I know.”

“Men suck.”

She laughed and said she'd call me if she heard anything more. I said okay and hung up.

I tried making some more prints of my ladies, but couldn't really concentrate. I knew that the tattoo investigation was probably tabled because of the mayor's daughter's death, but I thought checking the Internet was worth a try.

I wanted to scan one of the photos and send it to some friends of mine who did nothing but play on the Internet and surf all day, but knew I'd need Marshall's permission to release that bit of information. I ran a Google search for images with similar descriptors and read what I could about the Del Mar fair vendor application process and history before a pounding headache forced me to give up. I changed into my bikini and wet suit and went out in the hazy dawn light to catch some waves.

I only stayed in for about an hour, and even then I mostly just sat on my board and drifted in the deeper water. My heart just wasn't in it. Peace eluded me today. So I dragged myself back home.

I looked up when I got to the corner of my house, and there he was, my handsome stranger, still wearing the clothes he'd had on the day before and sitting on the steps to my house with his head bent and his keys dangling from his hands. He seemed exhausted.

I sighed and went to him, leaning the surfboard against the wrought-iron railing. His head jerked up like someone who'd caught himself nodding off. His eyes met mine. I concentrated on the dark brown depths of them and let the rest of his features sort of fade out.

“Are you sorry?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then,” I said wearily, and tried to move past him to unlock the door. He caught my legs and hugged me to him. I sank my hands into his hair and held him in return.

“I'm getting you all wet,” I said after a second or two.

He laughed and released me, moving out of the way so I could get past. I held my hand out to him as I went through the door.

He took it, smiling sleepily, and I felt a rush of affection for the big idiot. I led him into the bedroom and pushed him down. He kissed me. A long deep kiss that seemed to have no other purpose but to connect us for a time, to ground us both in the realm of the pleasant and familiar.

I pulled away and went into the bathroom to peel off my wet suit and take a quick shower. When I came out, he was sound asleep.

I ran my fingers through his hair again and bent down to kiss his forehead, then changed into my favorite pair of boxers and a T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen to find something to eat. I was starving, but nothing looked appetizing. I ate half a bowl of Cheerios and poured the rest into the sink, then unrolled my yoga mat and tried to meditate for a while. When that didn't work I gave up and went back to the bedroom.

I crawled in front of him on the bed so that he was spooning me and pulled the covers over both of us. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I wanted to be held for a while. He was a cop, and if the gods were kind, then I was going to be with him for a while. There would probably be many nights like the one that just passed, and I thought that would be okay, as long as there were moments like this afterward, moments where I could feel the warmth of his body against me and the strong grip of his arms holding me tight.

 

A
WARM KISS
was dropped on my lips and I smiled in my sleep, stretching my arms like a cat. They were caught and pulled deliciously upward while a deep voice whispered in my ear.

The click of cold metal around my wrists woke me. I opened my eyes and saw him above me, covering me like a mountain lion does much smaller prey. I was handcuffed to the headboard. Excitement tightened my body in a rush that was its own kind of pleasure. I hadn't expected this when I'd crawled in beside him.

“Surprise, honey,” he drawled from somewhere in front of me.

“What time is it?” I asked him, writhing a little impatiently against the cuffs, watching his eyes follow the motion.

“Lunchtime,” he said slowly, giving each consonant and vowel due consideration and meaning, “and I missed breakfast.”

“Oh,” was all I could think to say. I was bombarded by a mental picture of him pulling down the stretchy waist of my boxers and feasting on me.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, blushing.

“That's what I'm thinking about. What I did think about. All day yesterday. I damn near killed Stevens and me trying to get back to you. And then that call came in.”

He pushed away from me and I lifted my head, straining my neck, to follow him. “What're you doing?”

“Using my new camera. I love it, by the way. I meant to tell you sooner.”

Oh, God.

“Well, well,” he said, standing on the edge of the bed and looking at the viewfinder on the back, “I think I'll use the portrait setting, or maybe the landscape,” he teased, reaching out to pinch the soft skin where my ass met my thigh.

“Come on. Quit teasing,” I ordered.

He laughed. “You're going to wait, beautiful. Wait until I'm ready to take you.”

“Please.”

“Begging already? This is going to be a long day.”

“Marshall, touch me.”

He didn't answer, but he climbed back on the bed, tossing the camera down next to me. I arched my body with a relieved sigh. I felt his hot hands on my waist under the shirt, and I let my head fall back, sinking into the pleasure. He slid down my boxers, drawing them over my feet and tossing them away. I held my legs closed, wanting him to open them, to take me.

“Open your legs,” he demanded, mimicking my words from the closet earlier.

I closed my eyes and did as he asked, spreading my legs, making myself vulnerable to his touch. His fingers drew circles on the insides of my knees before tracing a path down the inside of my thigh. I arched up, wanting him to touch me where I already ached for him. He stopped, and I held my breath.

I knew I was already wet. The air was perfumed with the scent of my desire. He smelled of soap and man. A hungry man. The need radiated off him in waves that I could feel even with my eyes closed.

Then suddenly there was no more teasing. The hard length of his cock entered me, and I cried out in shocked pleasure. His hands lifted my hips with each thrust, and I whimpered at the hot glide of his staff in my body.

I could feel it already, the sweet ache and tingling awareness that said I was almost there, almost ready, and then on the next thrust he pulled wetly out of my body, leaving me empty.

“No!” I shouted, and received a gentle slap on my thigh in punishment.

I gave a frustrated shriek and he chuckled. I felt the brush of his hair from his forehead before his tongue touched the quivering warmth of my belly. “Mmmm. Soft. Sweet.”

He licked up my stomach, riding up the bottom of my T-shirt, nuzzling my breasts through the soft white fabric, then smoothing his hands up my body and cuddling them around his face. His beard pricked against me, lightly abrading my nipples now. I lifted my hips against him, wanting him back.

“I'm ready. Please, Marshall.”

“Call me Detective, like you used to do. I've heard that snotty voice of yours in my dreams.”

“Detective Scott,” I said, with all the haughtiness I could muster while handcuffed to a bed.

“Yes, just like that,” he said meanly, and gently pinched my nipple, which was undoubtedly tenting the soft white fabric of my T-shirt.

I felt him moving again and tried to lift my head. “Keep your head back and your eyes closed,” he said. “This is better than a wet T-shirt contest.”

I couldn't laugh; I wanted him too much.

He bent down and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard for several seconds, until it felt like a line of heat was running from my nipple to where I was wet and throbbing for him. “I've wanted you like this,” he murmured, his breath blowing over the wet fabric and making my nipples even harder. “I've wanted you bound for me. I bet you knew that. I bet you know that I hate the thought that I care for you more than you do for me. It makes me feel weak.”

“Is that why you didn't call me?” I challenged, lifting my head to glare at him. “You didn't think I'd care?” It felt good to fight, like we were both part of a furious, lusting tangle that would come undone in an explosion that would rock us both.

“Maybe I wanted to know if you cared. Were you worried about me?”

“No,” I lied, and held my breath, head falling back again.

Suddenly his hands were at the neck of my T-shirt. It ripped with a shredding sound that masked my gasps of anticipation and fear. The halves of the shirt fell to my sides.

“Tell me you were worried,” he ordered.

I whimpered in response and felt the sharp sting of teeth in the bend of my arm.

“Tell me,” he said again, rubbing the swollen head of his penis against the knot at the top of my flesh.

“No,” I argued, and lifted up abruptly, wrapping my legs around him and holding on fiercely. He reared back on his arms surprised, and I took advantage of his motion, lifting my hips up and onto him, forcing him inside me with the strength of my legs.

He speared me. Hot and hard, stretching me and making me shout out a triumphant, “Yes,” and the painful tightness burst, releasing me in waves of shuddering pleasure.

He plunged inside me, helpless, drawn in by the rhythmic clamping of my muscles, his head falling between his arms as he shuddered and let himself go.

I lay there limply as he pulled himself out of me. I felt him reach for the keys to the cuffs, managing to rub his whole body against me in the process.

He kissed me and I smiled, content now. “Do you have to go back to work?” I asked, drawing a finger over his lips, trying to memorize the feel and shape of them.

“In a little while,” he murmured into my neck. I breathed in the smell of his hair and held him against me.

“Again,” I queried softly, and he nodded, rolling over so that I was straddling him.

“Only now it's your turn to do all the work,” he ordered, petting my thighs.

I laughed and rose up to take his newly aroused body into mine. Work was, after all, one of my favorite things.