Don't Call Me Hero (5 page)

“Who worked nights before me?” I asked.

“We had some kid fresh out of the academy for a bit, but he left to take a job elsewhere. Since then, David and I have been taking turns to cover third shift, but to be honest, it’s a small town, Cassidy. Not a lot happens around here compared to the Twin Cities. You might get some calls from one of the bars about a patron who’s been over-served or maybe some domestic calls after the Vikings lose,” he chuckled, “but other than that, it’s a glorified babysitting job.” His tone was apologetic. “I hope you’re still interested.”

“I am,” I cut him off before he could try to talk me out of it. “And I’m so very thankful for the opportunity, Chief.”

He rubbed at the back of his freshly shaved neck. “Our families go back a long time, Cassidy. I’m just happy that I’m in a position to help you get through this.”

My smile wavered. I hated feeling like a charity case or damaged goods. “I think I’ll take a look around town and kind of get the lay of the land,” I announced in a voice that sounded too cheerful. “You want me to come back at 10:00 p.m. tonight?”

“No, no. There’s no rush. Take the night off, and we’ll start fresh in the morning. I’ll show you around a little more and then maybe have you do a ride along with Addams. Then, if you’re feeling comfortable, we can start you on night shift for real on Wednesday or Thursday. Sound good?”

“That’s perfect, Chief. Thank you.”

“Great. I’ll see you back here tomorrow afternoon. Enjoy your evening, Cassidy,” he smiled. It’ll be your last night of freedom for a while.”

+ + +

I cracked open my second beer of the night and flopped down in the overstuffed chair in the living room. I patted at my distended stomach, feeling full and satisfied. The evidence of my unhealthy splurge was a greasy pizza box on the kitchen island. I promised myself to make a concerted effort to go to the grocery store the next day and buy something besides a six-pack of beer. For now, the Twins were on my television, and I had plans to watch the game and maybe get to bed early.

I looked away from the scoreless game when I heard a knock at my door. I set my open beer can on the floor and padded cautiously towards the sound.  There wasn’t a peephole, so I was forced to open the door without knowing who was on the other side. It was disorienting, like answering a landline with no Caller ID.

Standing in the hallway was the woman from the bar on my last night in Minneapolis—the same woman I’d seen at Stan’s diner that morning.

My eyes widened in surprise.

“You and I have some unfinished business to attend to,” she announced.

Strong, yet feminine hands fisted the material of my T-shirt and, despite me being taller, I found myself being walked backwards. She lunged forward and crushed her mouth against mine. I didn’t have time to question the motives or reasons behind any of this. My brain knew enough not to over-think why there was a gorgeous woman pressing me against a brick wall and applying sweet pressure to my neck among hungry kisses.

Hands toyed with the bottom hem of my T-shirt before the top was yanked up and over my head and tossed to the floor.

The raven-haired woman separated long enough to sweep her eyes around the studio apartment. “Charming,” she murmured.

Before I could muster a response, those painted lips were once again crushed against mine.

I fumbled only briefly with the small buttons at the front of her blouse. I popped the shirt open, one pearly white button at a time. When the last button had been freed, I tugged the bottom hem of the dress shirt out of her knee-length pencil skirt. The less-than-careful action drew a narrow-eyed look from her, which made me wonder if she’d ever been handled any less delicately than an expensive porcelain doll.

When I’d dealt with the last stubborn button and pushed her shirt off her shoulders, my reward was the flat plane of her stomach. I raked short nails down her pale, olive flesh. The black lacy bra, which had remained hidden beneath her white Oxford shirt, made my mouth go dry. It wasn’t so much the bra that affected me, but the twin, perky breasts beneath the flimsy material. I palmed their slight weight in my hands and lightly squeezed the firm yet supple flesh. Her nipples hardened and pebbled, branding the center of my palms. But even the delicate layer of lace was too much distance between my hands and her unblemished skin. I slipped my hands beneath the underwire and bit back my own moan at the silken sensation of my hands against her skin.

A greedy feeling swept over me; I had to see all of this woman.
Now.
I had to feel all of her.

I abandoned her breasts to find the hidden zipper of the pencil skirt wrapped tightly around her narrow hips. She was a small woman, but not waifishly designed. I could tell she was fit, but it was an athleticism that came from yoga or Pilates or whatever exercises rich women did, not climbing up cargo nets or crawling under barbed wire in watery mud.

I lowered the zipper of her skirt and let gravity do the job as it fell to pool at her ankles. She stepped out of her high heels and out of the skirt, lowering herself in height by a few inches. I swept my eyes appreciatively across her near-naked form. She wore only her underwear and the sexiest garters I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t think women actually wore those anymore, except in my fantasies. The grey sheer nylons stopped mid-thigh where they connected to the simple black garters. The flimsy French-cut panties were a little old fashioned for me, like a high-priced call girl from the 1980s, but on her they were magnificent.

With her now barefoot, we no longer saw eye-to-eye, but the unspoken challenge remained in her vibrant eyes and the knowing smirk never left her twisted mouth.

Her hands rested on the front of my jeans and she toyed with the metal button. She wasn’t struggling to unfasten my pants; she was teasing me as if contemplating whether she wanted to unwrap a present or not. Her eyes never left mine. She gave a mighty tug and the unforgiving denim dug into me. My breath hitched, but I wasn’t going to give her more than that. But I knew if she continued to dally, I’d be forced to take matters into my own hands.

She finally unbuttoned my jeans and slid the zipper down. I let her take her time as she peeled tight denim down my hips and thighs. It would have been faster and more efficient if I’d done it myself, but the pads of her fingers were exquisite on my skin as she worked those jeans down my legs.

Left only in my bra and underwear, I could have waited to see if she’d strip me of more, but I was too impatient to get my hands and mouth all over her. I felt like a racehorse in its corral, waiting for the starting bell.

With a simple movement, my hands were behind the crook of her knees, and I was lifting her off the ground. She made a surprised noise that I was able to carry her with limited effort, and her hands flew to the back of my neck and shoulders to stabilize herself as I carried her the few feet to the bed I’d only slept in once.

I was thankful I’d taken the time to wash my bedding before I’d packed it up. The sweet smell of laundry soap filled my nostrils as I laid her down on the bed and scrambled to hover over her. Soon it would be the scent of our conjoined arousal that perfumed the air.

I kissed along her rippled torso. I couldn’t imagine the exercise and self-discipline required to achieve such perfection. My mouth found hers again, and my thigh came to rest between her legs. I ground against her and she moaned into my open mouth. She met each thrust of my muscled thigh with her own, and the noises coming out of her beautiful mouth and the sound of her labored breathing had me galloping toward my own release.

As painfully arousing as the sight of the garters were, I had no idea what to do with them. I reached between our bodies and slid her underwear to the side. She was shaved everywhere except for a closely cropped landing strip. I stroked my fingers over smooth, naked skin and through short, coarse hair while she arched into the touch.

Two fingers found their way inside of her, and I ground the heel of my palm into her clit. She released another delicious, throaty groan as I pushed deeper inside. It was about as intimate as a public restroom fuck with her still half-clothed and me more so, but I wasn’t going to mount a protest.

Her palms slammed hard against my shoulder blades, and for a moment I thought she was going to make me stop. But those fingers curled around my shoulders, and she pulled me down tighter against her so our breasts crushed together.

Her hips kept jerking and bucking erratically, making it hard for me to find a rhythm. I pulled away, still on my knees on the mattress, and pressed my free hand flat against her lower abdomen while my other hand furiously pistoned in and out of her. Her mouth fell open and her eyes screwed shut. I could still feel the movements of her hips beneath me, but I was able to keep her pinned to the mattress.

Despite my physical fitness, my right bicep began to burn. Each hard thrust brought a grunt to my lips from exertion. Her cries had become more desperate and high-pitched, and she tightened around my fingers. Her hand shot out and she clutched my right arm, silently urging for just a little more. I wasn’t sure I would outlast her orgasm, but I threw my own comfort to the side and focused on getting her off. I licked my thumb on the hand that had been holding her down and swiped it across her clit.

She jerked hard into me once more. “I’m cumming,” she gasped.

It was the first time she’d spoken since the initial crush of lips unless you counted a heavy sigh or a slipped profanity or celestial praise.

She held tightly to my upper arms as she rode out her orgasm. I couldn’t resist, so I swooped in for another kiss. Our tongues battled for dominance while her thighs quivered around my hand. I stayed inside of her until her legs stopped shaking. It was only then when I withdrew and collapsed beside her.

I was obviously hoping for some reciprocation, but I was too exhausted to say so. My lungs felt like I’d climbed a mountain, not just had furious sex with a beautiful woman. I was in shape, but I supposed that sex worked a different set of muscles than running did. I would just need more practice, I thought with a satisfied grin.

I rolled over at the same moment she rose from my bed.

“Where are you …” The words got caught in my throat.

Her hair was slightly disheveled as she slid her blouse on and refastened the buttons.

“I have to go,” she said simply.

My forehead furrowed. “Go?” The word made no sense to me.

“Yes,” she sighed with growing impatience. She retrieved her skirt and zipped it back into place. “I have an early morning. I can’t dally here.”

I pulled myself to a seated position. All kinds of insecure questions came to mind:
Why can't you stay the night? Was I not any good? Will I see you again?

I refused to allow myself to sound clingy and pathetic. I leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed my T-shirt from the floor.

She sat at the bottom of the mattress. Her head was cocked to the side as she put her earrings back on. I hadn’t noticed her taking them out.  “I trust you’ll be discrete?” Her caramel eyes regarded me.

“I just got into town,” I said, slipping my T-shirt over my head. “Who would I tell?”

Her gaze flickered over me. “Mmm … indeed.”

She stepped into overpriced stilettos and left without another word.

I fell back onto my pillows and let out a deep breath as I stared at the ceiling and drummed my fingers against my abdomen.
What the hell was that?

Leaving my bed, I grabbed my discarded jeans and made a face when I realized they were wet. Somewhere in our frantic scramble to rid each other of clothes, my beer had been knocked over. A puddle of carbonated alcohol pooled on the floor. I threw my pants in a corner of the room to deal with later. At least I wouldn’t have to go far to the Laundromat.

There was another light knock at the door, and I launched into action, pulling on a pair of shorts and senses going on full alert. She’d come back. I felt a cocky grin slide into its usual place as I swung my apartment door open.

“Back for round …” The words died in my mouth when I saw a pixie-haired woman standing in the hallway. “Sorry.” I poked my head into the hallway and looked either way. The other woman was nowhere to be seen. “I thought you were someone else.”

The second woman didn’t appear fazed by my reaction. “Hi. I’m Grace Kelly Donovan. I live across the hallway.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of Apartment B.

“Grace Kelly?” I repeated. “Like the actress?”

“Don’t worry. We’re not related,” she said with a bright grin. “My parents are just obsessed with Old Hollywood.”

“Oh.” I leaned against the doorframe. “I’m Cassidy. Cassidy Miller,” I returned. “My parents didn’t name me after anyone.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Cassidy Miller.” She shoved a wicker basket into my arms.

“Wow. Thanks. This is really great.” I sifted around in the basket, examining its contents. There were cookies and muffins and planted herbs and some other things I’d have to later explore more carefully. “You wanna crack into this thing?” I asked, pulling out a bottle of pinot noir.

“Oh, I-I really couldn’t.”

My smile returned, less cocky and more genuine. “You’d be doing me a big favor. Otherwise, I’ll end up drinking the bottle all by myself. I’ve got terrible willpower for a cop.”