Icing on the Cake (Close to Home) (14 page)

No more sexy interludes. Definitely no dates—even if it meant accepting the “chicken” label.

“Hey,” Curtis said, closing the gap between them. “It’s been a crazy day and I have to get to a call.”

She nodded. “Of course, go. I’m heading to work soon too.”

“Pick a day for that dinner. Unless you’re ready to admit defeat.” He ended the dare with a wink that made him sweet, sexy and cocky all at once.

Shit. The part of her brain that cranked out the smartass comebacks was totally blank. “No dinner. Consider me defeated.”

If he was surprised or disappointed, it didn’t show. The man had excellent control over his emotions and expressions. Yet he always let her see the good stuff—none of which was currently present on his handsome face. He simply acknowledged her with a nod.

“Sorry to leave the books unbalanced,” she said as he headed for the stairs. “I would’ve liked to return the favor back in the bedroom.”

“You still planning to be here tomorrow afternoon?” At her lack of response, he added, “I’m not asking because I want to collect on the blowjob. I like to check on Zeus so he’s not alone all day, but I won’t stop by if you’re going to be here.”

“Oh. Yes, I’ll be here, taking advantage of the hot water.”

He nodded again, but didn’t take a step. “Hey, where’d you park—your car isn’t in the driveway or on the street.”

“It’s in the shop. Needs a new ignition distributor.”

“That’s going to be a hit on the wallet.”

“And last month it was brakes. Hence the lack of hot water at my apartment.”

“You chose automotive maintenance over paying your utility bill.” Another question masked as a statement. A Curtis specialty.

“It wasn’t a choice. That car is going to last forever, no matter what I have to sacrifice to foot the bill.”

Something flickered in his eyes. He didn’t outright smile, but one tugged at the corners of his mouth, threatening to break at any moment.

“About that dinner—I’m working late shifts through the rest of the week, but I’m available next Monday.” The words escaped before she had a chance to lock them down. Stupid impulses.

“Next Monday it is.” Now he smiled, full-on. And it was freaking glorious. “I’ll pick you up at five.”

*

Curtis parked in front of Sara’s apartment building. Rundown, the same as every other property on the block. Not quite to “slum” level, but definitely on its way.

He locked the car and headed up the cracked sidewalk. Somebody had propped the building’s outer door open with a cinder block, and the inner door with an ancient, filthy garbage can that couldn’t hold another piece of trash if the future of the planet depended on it. Classy. The vestibule had a buzzer and intercom system, but no fucking way he was touching it. Not in this sty.

He pressed the elevator button with his elbow. Kinda lazy, taking the elevator to the fourth floor, but who knows what he’d find in the stairwell if he went that route. The metal doors slid open. He took one step into the mirrored elevator and stifled a gag. Directly ahead—a gob of semi-dried spit…or other bodily fluid.

Working the desk at a health club probably didn’t pay much, but surely Sara could find somewhere better to live than this shithole. Such as a cardboard box next to a Dumpster. Anything would be better than this place.

The doors slid open and he stepped into the fourth-floor corridor. Dreary and dated, no surprise there. Curtis held his breath as he passed the first two apartments. He was all for trying new things, but whatever was cooking behind those doors, count him out. No scent hovered in the air near unit 403’s door. No noise either, just dead silence.

Heat crept up his neck, past his shirt collar. Sara regretted making this date the second she agreed to it—it’d been written all over her face. If she’d taken off as a means of avoiding him, rather than have the decency to cancel…

The door opened before his knuckles connected with the dingy metal slab.

“You’re early,” she said as they came face-to-face.

“Hoping to make a getaway?”

“If I wanted to get away from you, I’d already be gone.” She pulled the door closed behind her and crossed her arms over cleavage so lush he wanted to dive in right now, in spite of their disgusting surroundings. “I thought I’d wait for you at the curb, so you didn’t have to leave the Mustang unattended in the hood.”

“You park your car here.”

“Hell no, I don’t. I made nice with the manager of the funeral home a couple blocks over. That’s where I park.”

“Shit.” He pushed away the mental image of some punk-ass kid defiling his car. Whatever happened, happened. Sara took priority. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You look fantastic. As usual.”

“Dude, hold the flattery. Black beauty needs us to rescue her, let’s go.”

He shook his head but let her tug him into motion. A woman more concerned with his car’s well-being than having her ego stroked. Not a lot of those around, he bet. Even fewer who looked like a walking wet dream in a short, formfitting black dress and high-heeled boots. Talk about hitting the jackpot.

“What’s that about?” she asked as they started down the stairs.

“What’s what about?”

“The sound. The one you make when something amuses you but you don’t feel like sharing with the class.”

He caught her hand and pulled her against his side the instant they exited the stairwell. “You sure you want in my head, babe? You might not be able to handle what you find in there.”

She slid her arm around his waist and shot him a triumphant smirk. “I proved I can
handle
you by agreeing to go on this boring, no-blowjob-in-the-bathroom date, didn’t I? How much worse can it get?”

His laugh drew the attention of a small posse of would-be thugs near his car. Right now, he didn’t give a shit about them. His smart-mouthed date was the main attraction in his world.

“I was thinking about how those sexy-as-fuck boots you’re wearing are going to feel against my back while my face is buried between your legs.” He grinned at the wobble in her step that had nothing to do with the condition of the sidewalk underfoot. “If that’s not too boring for you.”

“It’ll do.”

His response got shoved to the back burner when a whistle and accompanying, “Fuckin’ hot” rose from the young men hovering near his car.

Curtis opened the passenger door for Sara, closed it behind her, then took two steps toward the group. “I’m going to assume that assessment was in reference to my car, and none of you are stupid enough to disrespect the lady that way.”

“Sure, whatever,” the closest punk said.

Inadequate as that answer was, Curtis would’ve accepted it to get on with his evening.

However, the, “Hope you got some Viagra, old man,” that followed as Curtis reached the driver’s door—no way was he accepting that.

He opened the car and leaned in. “Any of these mouthpieces out here matter to you?”

“No, but—”

“Stay in the car.” He closed the door before her pretty red lips convinced him to turn the other cheek. Some situations required a more direct resolution.

In the half-dozen strides it took to reach the group, he’d formed an assessment and plan. Five males of varying descent. Heights between five-ten and six-one. Average weight, none overly muscular or particularly thin. Approximate probable age range—seventeen to twenty-five. Three wore baggy pants or shorts with plenty of places to stash a weapon. Two were shirtless, both sporting an identical crest on the shoulder. Not local gang colors, he was well-acquainted with all of those. Just really lame matching tats.

He left a one-foot buffer between him and the pack. Slowly and methodically, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves to the elbows. Five pairs of eyes noted
his
ink, which covered both forearms to the wrists.

“Boys.” He cracked his knuckles. Crossed his arms over his chest and leveled each cocky young face with his stone-cold cop stare. “Anybody else with advice for the ‘old man’ can step right up.”

“Lighten up, it was a joke,” one of the guys on the farthest side of the pack said. “Besides, any guy would want extra staying power around a chick like that. Get your money’s worth that way.”

If the bigmouth in the back expected his buddies to protect him, he’d overestimated their allegiance, because when Curtis moved forward, they hopped out the way pretty damn fast.

He chest-bumped the mouthy punk and knocked him back a couple feet, a gap he then closed by immediately getting in his face. “Did you just call my girlfriend a prostitute?”

“G-girlfriend?” Up close, the guy’s acne and braces gave him away. So did his quivering bottom lip and the terror in his eyes. He couldn’t be more than twenty-one, tops. “S-sorry, I didn’t know she had an actual boyfriend. Everybody around here thought—”

“Shut up, man. You got a fucking death wish?” the obvious leader of the pack shouted.

The counsel came too late.

“Everybody thought what?” Curtis made the demand through bared teeth, glaring down at the little shit.

“Nothing. Nothing. We must’ve mistaken her for somebody else. Easy to do around here.”

That statement alone proved the shithead was lying. Fill a room with gorgeous, sexy women and Sara would still stand out. She was more than a pretty face and hot body. She had something extra, and it made her unmistakable. Unforgettable.

Curtis gave the little prick another shove. “You and your friends will not even
look
at her again. If she’s walking toward you, you will cross the street. If you find yourself suddenly and accidentally anywhere near her, you will freeze and stare at your goddamn feet until she is out of the area. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the guy said, his voice cracking mid-answer.

“Louder. So I know we’re crystal fucking clear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better. Now get the hell home and change your shorts, you smell like piss.”

The guy’s cohorts laughed, ribbing him mercilessly as Curtis strode to the Mustang.

Inside the sanctity of the car, Curtis blew out a long breath. He gripped the steering wheel and squeezed it hard.

“Bonus points awarded. That was the least-boring start to a date ever.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the stuff swirling around in his head at the moment. Those idiots thought Sara was a hooker. Why, because she dressed sexy? Or was it more than that?

His pulse throbbed against his temples. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, demanding some sort of release.

“Hey. Curtis.” Sara’s fingers coasted over his bared forearm.

He jerked his head around. Met her questioning eyes briefly, before lowering his gaze to her tits filling out the low-cut, black satin. Lower still, to her thighs, slightly parted and entirely inviting.

Punching something to relieve the tension wasn’t an option. Touching Sara was. He could get her off right here, in a matter of minutes. Hell, he could tell her to blow him. She’d do it, of that he had no doubt.

Maybe there was a reason she had no inhibitions. Fuck, he hated thinking the worst. Of her. Again. Made him almost as much of a prick as those shitty little wannabe thugs.

“Are you a stripper?” He loosened his death grip on the steering wheel. Even managed to take one hand off completely, and let it rest above his knee. Totally calm. Almost. “I’m not judging, I just want to know.”

“Is that what those asswipes said to make you go
Dirty Harry
on them?”

“No. They said you’re a hooker.”

“Those fucking bastard sons of—”

He grabbed her before she could get the door fully open. “You don’t go near them, got it?
I
gave them notice. They dare to even look at you again, you call me. If I have to school them a second time, they’re going to regret it.”

“Relax, you’re off-duty. And as hot as you look in über-alpha mode, dressed in that killer-sexy white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, I don’t need protecting.”

“I’m sure you don’t. And I’m equally sure I don’t care.”

“You don’t care what I need? Way to woo a girl, lawman.”

He hooked her by the knee and dragged her half onto his lap. Wedged between his chest and the steering wheel, she had to feel the hard-on she caused merely by existing. Hand cupping her jaw, he stole her choice to look anywhere but his face. “You’re with me—I’m going to protect you. Not because it’s a side effect of my job, or I think you can’t handle things on your own. Because I want to.”

She curled her fingers around the hand holding her face. He waited, expecting her to pry his fingers from her soft skin and give him sass the way only Sara could. Neither happened. Instead, she pressed her hot tits against his chest and her red lips against his mouth.

He’d take that as consent. To his protection. To everything.

His free hand found the hem of her dress and slid underneath. Up the inside of her thighs, past the edge of her stockings, to warm, bare skin. Lots of it. “No panties.” He breathed the words against her mouth while sliding one finger over her clit.

“Easier access for that under-the-table groping you promised.”

Part of him wanted to ditch the dinner plans so he could take her back to his place and feast on the sweet heat beneath his finger. But that part could wait. “Then let’s get going.”

“You’d better be taking me someplace good,” she said while buckling into place on the passenger side of the car. “I didn’t eat all day so I could wear this dress for you, and now I’m starving.”

“I promise to take good care of all your appetites tonight.” He pulled away from the curb, aware that he was grinning ear to ear. She’d dressed
for him
. Sara could run her mouth about this boring date all she liked, her actions told the truth of the matter.

So did his.

He’d been ready to pound any and all of those trash-talking idiots into the ground. He hadn’t reacted that way since his pre-cop days. And calling Sara his girlfriend hadn’t been strictly for effect. His vision worked fine, yet no other women had caught his eye since Sara strutted into the church in Barry’s Bay. He wanted her in his bed. On his arm. Any and every way he could get her.