Uncommon Passion (4 page)

as a flash.”

Laughter huffed from Rachel.

“That’s what it’s like, being a cop.”

She made a little noise that might have been assent, or just an
I’m listening
noise. When their food

arrived, she offered a story about an escapist goat, so he kept things light as the meal progressed. Nothing

about the risks, the dark alleys or hallways with no backup, the furious tirade from his lieutenant for what

he’d done today. Between them they finished the wine. He poured the last of it into Rachel’s glass when

dessert arrived. An alcohol flush stained her cheeks and lips, and her eyes were the slightest bit glassy as

they studied him across the candlelit table. He signaled for the check as he watched the last bite of crème

brûlèe disappear between her lush lips.

It was the oddest date he’d been on in recent memory . . . well, the only date he’d been on in recent

memory. The first wave of exhaustion hit him. Lack of sleep, adrenaline crash, alcohol. But then they

receded, and he found himself wondering exactly what it took to make a flush climb that dusky throat,

make those serene eyes close in surrender.

“What’s next?” she asked when the waiter brought the bill.

He paused in the act of pulling out his wallet and cut her a glance. “The Pleasure Pier’s what you paid

for, but lady’s choice,” he said casually.

She bit her full lower lip, but met his gaze head-on. “I’d like to go back to your place.”

Her tone, low and clear, set his radar pinging because the words sounded almost rehearsed, but really,

he didn’t give a fuck. This was who he was, what he did, because he could do this. Ben thumbed through

the twenties and left a small stack in the leather folder, then got to his feet and held out his hand, guiding

her through the front door and into the parking lot.

“I’m in the truck,” he said, pointing to his black crew cab F-150. “Stay close.”

A small green Ford Focus, bearing the dimples of hail damage the body shop couldn’t fix, pulled into

traffic behind him and parked in one of the visitors’ spots when they arrived at his apartment complex. She

stayed silent as they climbed up the stairs to his apartment. He flicked on the entry light, then shrugged out

of his jacket and draped it over the back of a dinette chair.

Rachel closed the door behind her. He turned to face her. “Want a beer?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Have you changed your mind?”

“About what?” he said, pretty sure he hadn’t agreed to anything he would normally change his mind

about.

“About going that far.”

Never in his life had a woman checked in with him to make sure he was in the mood. “Maybe,” he said.

Amusement roughened his voice.

She reached past him to set her purse on the table. His cock shifted and thickened as she did. Then she

looked at him, as if she wasn’t sure what came next. Her hesitation amused him, so he beckoned her close.

The play of muscle under the skin of her shoulders transfixed his gaze as her humid, earthy scent rose into

his nostrils.

Lust. She smelled like risk, and lust, but he stopped cataloging scents when she went on tiptoe and

pressed her full lips to his. Mouth on mouth, her body aligned with his, heat shot straight to his cock. He

wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her against him as her lips barely brushed his. The way her

breath heated his mouth made the nerve endings there tingle, made him want more.

He took more, slanting his mouth across hers, dipping his tongue inside to touch hers, then licking the

curve of her full lower lip. In the back of her throat she made the oddest, softest noise, somewhere between

surprise and pleasure. Even through his T-shirt, dress shirt, and her dress he felt her heart kick hard against

her breast.

“Very persuasive,” he said when she pulled back to inhale shakily. His arm held her on her toes, kept

his erection pressed to her stomach. She wore flat-soled shoes, another oddity in the days of obligatory

fuck-me heels, so she had to tilt her head to look up at him. Uncertainty flared in those mysterious eyes.

“Really?” she said.

No need to tell her that tonight of all nights, he was a sure thing. Instead, he held her against him,

studying her face, the parted lips, the pulse pounding at the base of her throat. No flirting, no teasing, no

tempting. No licked lips. No dropping to her knees to talk him into it with a blow job. Just a heat, raw and

intense, unlike any he’d ever felt before, simmering under her skin, authentic and true.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said simply. “Let’s do it.”

Perfect, because the exhaustion lurked at the back of his brain, waiting to take him down. Tonight his

role came easily, a little badass, a little rough, very intense. He reached for the loose, off-kilter knot of hair

behind one ear and worked his fingers into it, the better to hold her mouth exactly where he wanted it. He

tasted white wine and scorched-sweet custard as his tongue swept into her mouth, then he dragged his lips

across her jaw, getting that first taste of skin. She shuddered when he closed his teeth over her jaw, but he

didn’t let go of her hair, just walked down the hall with her feet inches off the floor, and tumbled them onto

his bed.

She gasped when she landed on her back, again when his hand delved under the folds of her skirt to

skim up her thigh. He brushed his thumb over her mound as he came down on top of her, then with the

hand still fisted in her hair urged her head back to expose her throat. He licked and bit his way down her

neck to the swell of her breasts above her bright copper neckline.

“Get this down,” he growled. She blinked at him, her eyes still so shockingly catlike. It took his hand at

the zipper at her back for her to get the point, then she arched into him, her hands fumbling for the tab. The

zipper rasped down. He nuzzled into her firm, lush breasts, then flicked his tongue over her nipple,

sparking another gasp, this one with a shuddering little noise at the end.

Her hands touched down at his waist, the pressure light until he found the right combination of teeth

and tongue to make her slowly writhe under him. Then her grip tightened, tugging his shirt from his suit

pants, then unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom. He solved the problem of too many clothes by kneeling

on the bed and yanking two shirts and his tie over his head.

With one hand he took both of her wrists and pinned them over her head as he took in her disheveled

state. Her hair was coming loose from the knot, streaming over his sheet, her pale breasts tipped with

nipples reddened by his mouth. Her skirt had climbed to her thighs; with the other hand he smoothed it up,

revealing black lace briefs. Still watching her face he tugged them down, baring her to his gaze.

When he slid his fingers into her soft folds, her eyelids fluttered. Her panties held her legs closed, and

she made a soft, panicked noise when he found her mostly dry. Still holding her gaze, he brought his

middle finger to his mouth and licked it, then started slow circles around her clit. For long moments her

only response was long quivers running from breasts to thighs, then the nub began to swell under his

finger. When he dipped lower, seeking the better lubrication of her own juices, this time he found her

damp. One leg draped over hers, he rubbed against her hip as she quivered under his touch.

She wasn’t ready. Getting there, but not ready, so he tugged her panties all the way off and slid between

her thighs. But when he worked his hands under her ass, she struggled up on her elbows.

“No,” she said. “Just . . . I want you inside me.”

Something was off here, her responses out of kilter, either lagging behind or rushing, but her

impatience spurred a very typical, very male response. He unbuckled his belt and freed his cock, rolled on a

condom, then braced himself over her, his hands above her shoulders, his knees spreading her thighs even

wider.

“Look at me,” he said.

Her eyes widened but she did as he said as he aligned himself at her entrance and slid into her until he

bottomed out. Tight. Jesus. So fucking tight, wet, tense, and trembling under him. He worked in and out of

her, watching the tension grow in her face and body. Her hands gripped his upper arms, her eyes feral and

unreadable, her breathing catching sharply as he moved harder, then faster. When her eyes slid closed, he

said more sharply, “Look at me.”

Her nails dug into his upper arms as her knees drew up, clamping around his hips. “Ben,” she gasped.

Friction unmoored her hair from the loose bun as he fucked her, the strands glinting in the light from

the parking lot coming through his windows. Her soft breasts bounced with each thrust, and the heated rush

of sexual energy seared his veins. He wasn’t a little drunk. Neither was she.

She was burning him alive.

He dropped to his elbows, gripped one leg, and opened her a little more. She gave a trembling, gasping

laugh. He shifted his angle, but while he was on the edge, she was somewhere near it. In the vicinity. Not

quite there.

Not too proud to ask for directions, he said, “Help me out here, Rachel,” as he slowed.

Her hand clamped down on his nape as she bit the tendon in his neck. He froze, then her tongue traced

a warm path up his neck to his ear. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, then bit the lobe. The unexpected pressure

and sensation raced along his nerves, straight to his cock. With a long, low groan he plunged deep inside

her one last time, then shuddered hard against her as he came.

And she didn’t. She was trembling under him, still in that no-man’s-land of near release.

“When I said help me out, that’s not what I meant,” he said when he got his breath back.

“It’s fine,” she said.

The relief he heard in her voice set off warning signals in his brain, but there were half a dozen reasons

why girls came home with a cop, and getting off wasn’t the only one.

He pulled out and rolled onto his back, stripping off the condom as he did. He dropped it in the trash

can beside his bed, then lay there. Exhaustion hit him like a roundhouse punch so that when the bed tilted

slightly under him for a split second he thought he was on the rescue boat, heading into the harbor. But it

was just Rachel, getting to her feet. Zipping up her dress. Finding her panties in the wreck of his suit on the

floor.

“You okay to drive? You can stay,” he said.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she said when she straightened, black lace in her hand.

He wasn’t one of those assholes who kicks a woman out the second the condom hit the trash can, he

thought, then realized in his stupor he’d actually said the words.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, and backed out the door. “I’ll lock up behind myself.”

A pause by the dinette set where he assumed she was putting on her panties, the rustle of her purse and

keys, then the sound of the doorknob.

The oddest fucking date of his life.
He should at least get up and hang up his suit, then take a shower,

but the bed sucked him down. The last thing he heard before he dropped into darkness was the click of the

latch as the door closed.

Chapter Three

Rachel couldn’t stop trembling. Unpredictable little tremors ran through her body, shoulders to toes,

although whether they came from losing her virginity or the sheer waves of emotion crashing from Ben

Harris, she didn’t know. An uncertain little laugh stuttered from her throat.

Did I just do that? Did I just drive alone to meet him at a restaurant, unchaperoned? Did I just drink

alcohol? Did I just break bread with him, go back to his apartment, kiss him? Because I kissed him first. I

kissed him, I helped him take off his clothes, I spread my legs for him, and I had sex with him.

That wouldn’t go in this week’s letter to her father.

Did I just take a man not my husband into my body?

Then leave?

Did I just do that?

She knew it was unlikely for her to reach orgasm the first time she had sex, but still it had been intense,

visceral, a full-body experience that left her shaking from the promise of something left unfulfilled. Two

steps behind him every step of the way, she wished she had known how to tell him what she needed. It was

probably for the best that she couldn’t. Surrendering to the fever pitch of climax while awash on the waves

of masculine energy pouring from Ben Harris would have blown her mind.

I did do that, and it was good. Oh dear Lord, it was good. I will do it again.

She’d fooled him. Thank goodness for Jess and her rack-by-rack knowledge of Galveston’s

secondhand stores. Her entire life, Rachel wore print blouses and full-length denim or khaki skirts, fabric

that covered the shape of her body yet clearly marked her not only as a woman but a justified, righteous

woman from Elysian Fields. She’d never chosen clothes because she liked the color or cut, or because they

made her feel a certain way. But she’d loved that dress; the bright, shimmering copper color; the silky soft