Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (21 page)

And at the sight of her bared breasts, feasted like a man starving.

Everything in Tate went hot, fluid and rushed toward the promise of more.  She clasped his head, heart swelling as she gave herself over, because she knew that this was right.  This night, this man, hell, even this sofa felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

Until the elastic of her panties yielded to Clay’s fingers with a resounding
rip
.

“You
… tore my underwear.”  She twisted around, watched the ice blue nylon fall to the floor.

“I’ve lost the ability to be civilized.”

When she looked back, she saw he was right.  His tousled hair, the feral gleam in his eyes, gave the impression of something untamed.

And something a little wild, a little untamed in Tate knocked against the gate
of her desire. “Guess I better go get my whip.”

With a strang
led sound, Clay practically ripped open his pants. She barely had time to appreciate the sight when he pressed forward with his hips, pushing the tip of his erection against the entrance to her body. 

“
Condom.”  He strained the word through gritted teeth. Fumbling his wallet from his back pocket, Clay tossed it aside, opened the foil wrapper with his teeth, then hastily covered himself. 

Before she could touch him,
kiss him, say his name, do something to add to the proceedings, he drove into her so fast and hard that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

CLAY
held himself still as Tate’s liquid heat surrounded him, trying not to weep with gratitude.

T
he noise she’d made when he entered her nearly made him explode.

He wanted to take it slow, wanted to do everything exactly right, but she felt so good and he craved her like air, and he thought he might die if he didn’t start moving.

So he pushed her legs wider and drove himself deeper, again and again, giving into his baser instincts.

It was so unbelievably erotic – her totally naked, still damp from her shower; him totally clothed and smelling
vaguely of sweat. He couldn’t slow down even if he’d wanted to.  She was…

Light, and goodness, and beauty.

Everything that had been missing from his life.

It was… mind blowing.

With the certainty that he was only going to last maybe three seconds longer, he reached down between them to help her join him.

That was all it took – just his touch in the right spot – and she proceeded to shatter around him.

It triggered his own personal explosion.

He saw lights.  Hell, he saw stars.

He saw Tate, head thrown back, damp hair spread like black silk against the brocade cushion, eyes closed tight against the surfeit of pleasure, and gathered her into his arms as he climaxed inside her.

He never –
never –
wanted to let her go.

Spent, he collapsed on top of her.

When he came to his senses, he was pretty well embarrassed, because he’d lasted all of about two minutes.  It was a personal all-time low. Hell, he’d even performed better in Sara Carlson’s bedroom closet when he was sixteen.

Way
to
make
a
first
impression
on
the
lady
,
Clay
.  Tie one on, ravage her in her living room, and then barely make it worth her while.  He lifted his head, met her dancing eyes, and was relieved to see her smiling.

“Sorry,” he said.  Mortified.  “I’m not entirely sure what happened.”

Tate tilted her head to the side and ran her fingers through his hair.  “I’m pretty sure we just had sex.  You know –
tab A goes into slot B?
”

“No.” Clay shook his head, loving what she was doing to his hair, loving the feeling of still being inside her.  “That was more like spontaneous combustion.  I’d like to blame it all on the alcohol, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually your fault.”

“My fault?” One perfect brow arched heavenward as a lazy smile curled those lips.

“Yep.  Your fault entirely.  You’re just too damn sexy for your own good.”

She laughed, and Clay found himself smiling.  He could listen to her happiness forever.

“I’m also very,
very
naked.  Dicey, when there’s a houseful of paying guests upstairs.  Speaking of which, you’re fresh out of luck, Speedy.  The only bed currently left unfilled is mine.”

“Well now, it seems to me that that’s actually quite convenient.  You’re naked
and
you have a bed.  What more could an inebriated traveler ask for?”

“So you think you’re going to just sweet talk your way into my bed, all drunk and smelly?”

“As a guest, I could offer to pay you for the pleasure, but you might find that offensive.”

Tate shiver
ed as he kissed her, made a little
mmmm
in the back of her throat, and Clay felt like a king.

“We should probably go upstairs,” she whispered.

Looking around, Clay realized how very badly he’d behaved.  Some king. This was the public parlor, for heaven’s sake.  He shifted his weight so that Tate could scoot out from beneath him.

Suddenly the smell of his own sweat didn’t seem quite so erotic. “I could use a shower.”

“No kidding.” Casting her gaze around the floor for her nightgown, Tate scooted over to pick it up.

Clay divested himself of the condom, admir
ing the view of Tate’s backside as she leaned over the couch.

When he considered taking her again, just like that, he could only
shake his head. More like the court jester.

He
put the condom in his pocket.  It wouldn’t do to have a guest find it tomorrow.  Not to mention Tate’s mother.

Or Max, God forbid.

“Clay?”

He looked up.

“I could use another shower. Unless…” she let the word drag out.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’re too
not
precisely
drunk
to try that standing up.”

His crown had been reinstated.  Clay decided it was good to be king.

C
HAPTER FOURTEEN

“
OW
.  Shit.”

Bright morning light seared
Clay’s eyes, lids scraping like sandpaper as he dragged them open. He slammed them shut, hoping his other senses kicked in so that he could discover the source of the incessant buzzing.  But when the bed revolved and his stomach dipped, he cautiously forced one back up.

And determined he’d gone colorblind overnight, because the room he was in was
pink
.

Fuchsia, he guessed you called it, screamed at him from the walls, while a lighter shade laughed amongst the white and yellow flowers rioting on the tangled sheets.  Confused, cautious, he sat up gingerly and held a hand to his head.

Which pounded like the entire Marine Corps band was using his brain as a bass drum. 

When the buzzing started again he vaguely recognized it as his cell phone, probably still lodged in the pocket of his pants.

His pants – as with the rest of his clothes – appeared to be MIA.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, which caused the whole room to spin a slow circle, he peered down toward the floor, locating a pile of discarded clothing.  His pants were lying in a crumpled heap under a small pile of colored confetti.  The kind of confetti that came lubricated and ribbed. 

Bringing memory flooding back in a rush.

Well.  At least he’d proven that he was capable of providing more than a scant minute’s worth of entertainment. 

And Rogan – damn him – should be pleased to note they’d used protection.

Memories, both hot and lovely, drifted in and out of focus like an old reel of film.

Tate, in the shower, laughing as he took her against the tile.

Tate, moving beneath him, whispering words he didn’t deserve to hear.

Tate, warm against him, feeling like salvation in his arms, while the air went soft with dawn. Sometime very early this morning, he’d finally fallen asleep, and she must have slipped out to see to her responsibilities.

Speaking of which, he reached down to grab his phone.

“Copeland.”

“I take it your lazy butt is still in bed?”

“It’s in bed all right, but I can assure you it’s been anything but lazy.” 

Spotting a glass of water on the nightstand, Clay snatched it up, trying to dispel the boll weevils that had knitted a fine new sweater for his tongue.  Tate – bless her – obviously predicted how he’d be feeling.  He popped the analgesics she’d left for him before attempting to read the clock.

There were several more digits than necessary, but he was pretty sure it read six forty-five.  When Kim had said first thing in the morning, she apparently hadn’t been kidding. 

Through the silence on the other end of the line, Clay could practically hear the wheels turning.  “Think a little bit louder, Kim.   My supersonic auditory prowess is a little impaired this morning.”

Kim laughed, and he knew it was because he’d finally gotten into the swing of his vacation.  “Are you alone,” she asked saucily, “or do you need to call me back in a few minutes?”

“I’m good to talk,” he assured her, casting his gaze about in search of his shorts “as long as you do so in dulcet tones.”  Giving up on underwear, he pulled his pants up off the floor, wincing as the smell of alcohol hit him like a bare-knuckled punch.  “Your people are evil,” Clay informed her, thinking of Rogan and his insidious drink.  “It’s no wonder the Irish need so many patron saints.”

“I’m guessing that sometime last night you ran afoul of a bottle of whiskey.”

“At least.”  He pulled on his pants and tried to muster enough brain cells to focus on work.  There was an investigation that needed his full attention.  “But more to the point of your call, I’m thankful that you’re here.  We’re still awaiting positive ID on the vic uncovered yesterday, but after comparing my visual against the descriptions in the missing persons files, I’m thinking that it was possibly a fourteen-year-old by the name of Janie Collier.  I’ll go over her file with you at the station, but she was reportedly seen with a man loosely matching our perp’s description, aside from coloring – which we both know is easy to fake.”  He wandered into Tate’s bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror.

Ouch.
Not a pretty sight. Red-rimmed, scruffy, a little gray beneath his tan, and a victim of hit and run bed-head.  He needed a shower, coffee, and a definite change of clothes before he could even think of meeting Kim at the station.  “After I get a look at the footage, if it looks like there’s a connection, you might want to talk to the agents at the Charleston RA and get them on board with the local investigation.  That stack of files I went through yesterday stem from a number of jurisdictions, so this will definitely be a cooperative effort.”

He pulled down one of his lower eyelids, studied the roadmap of crisscrossing blood vessels, and wondered absently if Tate owned any Visine.  Feeling a little bit like a snooper, he opened up the medicine cabinet to check.

Toothpaste.

Face cream.

Mouthwash.

Kim yapped in his ear, and he made the appropriate noises to show he was listening.  Something about a jerk at the local RA whom she’d had the displeasure of working with before.

He pushed aside a tube of hand lotion with his finger and found a bottle of Visine.  Dropping the liquid in his eyes, he blinked heavily while Kim wound down her tirade.  He swished a little mouthwash around, trying to dispel the Godzilla breath he had to be harboring, and winced as the potent liquid stung his lip. 

He’d opened up that damn cut again, no doubt from overenthusiastically sucking Tate’s various body parts last night.

A toe here.  A breast there…

But,
damn,
it had sure as hell been worth it.

“So how long do you need before you can meet me at the sheriff’s office?” she wanted to know.  “It would probably be politic of me to let you make the introductions, since you’re the invited party guest and I’m the crasher.”

One thing that Clay had to give Kim, she never threw her federal weight around unless circumstances forced her to do so.  “This is one party that I’m sure Sheriff Callahan doesn’t mind you crashing, but if you’ll give me an hour to, uh…”  Say goodbye to Tate, run back to Justin’s to shower and change, try to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Tate’s mother this morning…

Morning, ma’am.  Hope my shagging your daughter all through the night didn’t disturb your sleep. 
God
. 
What
exactly
was
the protocol for this type of situation?