Liberating Lacey (18 page)

“Now they’ve taken a slightly more contemporary turn,” she said finally. Why was it so hard to talk about? Perhaps because dreams arose from the unconscious, but daydreams, fantasies should be controllable and were therefore even more personal?

He wiped his mouth and focused on her. “I’m listening.” The combination of command and invitation made it so easy to give in. “I imagine you persuading me,” she said, giving a little extra emphasis to persuading.

“Not taking no for an answer,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I can do that.”

“I thought no meant no,” she said.

“No means no until we set some ground rules about when it doesn’t.” Her pulse pounded in her throat and she recrossed her legs for the dozenth time that evening. “Why did I have to ask? Maybe I’ve misread you, but I don’t get the sense you have a problem with…what I’m asking for.”

He pinned her to the back of the booth with a look, then leaned a little closer. “Are you hot right now, Lacey? Getting wet? You’re shifting around like you’re sitting on tacks.”

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Her heart stopped. Flat out stopped. She stared at him, her face flushing. He knew.

He watched and knew, but he didn’t push. She could drown in the space he gave her to just
be.

“That’s why you have to ask. Something about it makes you hot. Watching you explore makes me hot.”

Hot
was very, very good. “As long as I’m asking…can you be a modern day warrior while you’re doing it?”

Both eyebrows shot up. “You want me…”

“…to be a cop. But…disreputable.”

She hoped,
prayed
, he understood the fantasy was no reflection on his professional conduct or ethics, just her mind and her body responding to his sheer presence and of course, he had handcuffs at the ready. She held her breath anyway, ready to backpedal and smooth things over if necessary.

Instead he looked her over with a gaze just short of insolent. “You look like such a lady in that dress. Who knew?”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. He finished his lasagna while she picked at her pasta and drank the rest of her wine. A gentle buzz filled her head as she idly studied the charcoal sketch of the Trevi fountain on the wall. She was wet. Her lace panties tugged at her clit with each shift of her hips and all she could think about was going home. What would he do? How would she respond?

Jen brought the check, waiting while Hunter tucked his Mastercard into the clear slot at the top.

His voice was normal despite the heat in his eyes. “I’m on duty tonight so I’ll see you later.”

“You’re working tonight?” she said, unable to keep a note of disappointment out of her voice. “I though we’d…”

She stopped because he was already shaking his head, that intense, demanding look back in his eyes.

“Then when…?” she began, but he was two steps ahead of her. Spontaneous.

Fantasy. What a wicked combination. “You’ll surprise me.” The correct answer earned her a nod as Jen set the leather folder with the credit card slip back on the table. “I took four days off to help Dad finish an addition in Regal Park,” he said as he scrawled his signature. “So I’ll be around.” Apparently that was the only parameter she was going to get. “All right,” she said.

He had her coat at the ready when she stood, but when she braced herself on the table to reach for her purse at the back of the booth she was in such a sensual haze that she planted her hand in the dish of olive oill strewn with ground pepper and bread crumbs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The thick linen napkin smeared rather than absorbed the oil. “I’d better wash up. Don’t wait. I know you have to go.” 126

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He helped her, draping her coat over her bent arm, making sure her purse was secure in the crook of her elbow. “See you later, beautiful. The lasagna was great,” he said, then dropped a quick, perfunctory kiss on her lips and strolled out.

She stared after him, olive oill dripping from her fingers onto the wood flooring.

That was it? All that flirtatious, sexy talk about fantasies left her hot and bothered for him and all she got was a half-hearted kiss?

More than a little peeved she stalked through the almost-empty restaurant to the bathroom. She grabbed a couple of thick paper towels from the dispenser on the counter and wiped off the rest of the oill before hanging her coat and purse on the coat rack to wash her hands properly. She inspected her dress as she lathered up, searching for any telltale oill spots. A drycleaner would be hard pressed to get oill out of this silk, but it seemed clean—

The doorknob rattled.

“Just a minute,” she called, reaching for additional paper towels.

A pause, then a more purposeful rattle, a click and then the handle turned. Hunter slipped into the tiny room, pocketing a credit card as he closed and locked the door behind him.

“Nice trick,” she managed before he backed her into the door, braced a forearm braced on either side of her head and took her mouth with a slow, carnal authority. She ran her hands up under his sweater, caressing the hard muscle and bone of his ribs through his shirt before pulling him firmly against her.

“I’m glad you came back,” she whispered when he slid his lips over the sensitive corner of her mouth, along her cheekbone.

He answered indirectly, his words little more than hot pressure against her ear.

“Show me.”

She didn’t understand until he took her hand from his waist and placed it on her own thigh. Working their fingers in tandem they began to inch up the hem of her dress.

“Look,” he said, nudging her head to the side. A full-length mirror framed them from the toes of her cream heels to the top of his dark brown head, his face half-hidden in the auburn waves of her hair as he leaned into her.

The contrast between her hand, some spots still damp from her half-finished drying, and his darker, bigger one, made her breath catch in her throat. At his urging she pulled up her skirt. His breath hitched, then eased out slowly when the hem cleared the lacy tops of her stockings and crept higher, revealing several inches of pale thigh before creamy lace came into view. She stopped when the hem was just above the elastic edge of her panties.

He took her other hand and slid it over the rucked-up fabric. “Show me how happy you are to see me,” he whispered as he guided her pink-tipped fingers under the lace.

The trimmed curls covering her mound gave way to a familiar wet heat. Lace rasped against the back of her hand as she slid her fingers into her swollen folds, letting 127

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out a little moan as her index finger brushed her clit, taut and slick. The long muscles in her thighs trembled at the contact.

But she hesitated. “I don’t think I could…here…” She meant masturbate. If Hunter began stroking her clit, sank a finger into her wet channel, she’d shatter like a cold china dish dropped in hot water. But to do it herself called for an audacity she didn’t think she had.

Through the scant protection of her panties Hunter covered her hand with his, urging her to begin a slow rhythm. “Think about what we’re gonna do the next time I see you. Show me how good it makes you feel.”

A tsunami of desire swamped her. His big body pressed hard against hers, one arm braced on the door over her head, the other hand dark over her mound, the thumb pressing into her abdomen, the fingers resting lightly on her own as they moved. Her hand obediently held up her skirt while the other stroked delicately in her panties.

Illuminated by the soft light over the vanity her image in the mirror was a column of cream, from her face to her feet, the only break her flaming hair, her flushed cheeks and lips and the carnal vision of Hunter’s tanned hand possessively casual against her mound as she pleasured herself for him.

There wasn’t time for a slow, sensual build, so she used her index and middle fingers and press-rubbed either side of her clit, her body trembling in time to the spasms contracting her inner muscles.

“Nice, beautiful,” Hunter rasped in her ear, his hand still lightly resting on hers. “I didn’t know you liked that touch. I’ll keep that in mind.” Lacey’s head dropped back against the door as a desperate little sob skipped from her throat. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the red-hot scene and she was getting close. Lips parted to sip at the close, warm air, she did as he ordered and thought about what could happen the next time he darkened her door.

She’d kneel for him. His hand would firmly grip the nape of her neck when she took him in
her mouth, his fingers tightening as she flicked her tongue on the super-sensitive spot under the
head of his shaft…

One arm braced next to his head, with the other hand Hunter gripped her waist, keeping her close for slow, rhythmic thrusts against her hip. The matching green of his sweater and his glassy eyes stood out even in the dim light. Their gazes met in the mirror, sending a bolt of lust straight to her clit. She slowed her touch to keep herself at a simmer and flicked her gaze down to the erection straining the front of his pants.

“You, too,” she demanded, her voice a husky whisper in the silent bathroom.

He shook his head and looked down at her hand. “Keep going, beautiful.”

“Oh, please,” she whispered. She wanted to see him do this almost as badly as she wanted to come herself.

He stepped away to snag several tissues from the box on the counter. Still focused on the barely visible movements of her fingers, he opened his belt and zipper to release 128

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his shaft, the tip gleaming wet. The sight of his big hand firmly gripping his straining length nearly sent her sliding to the floor.

A few cursory, almost caressing strokes, then he held his palm in front of her mouth.

“Lick.”

She did, then he began to pump himself in earnest, the motion made slick and easy by her saliva. He focused on the top half of his shaft, clearly intending to get off fast and rough, nothing gentle or tentative about it. His focused intensity sent another shockwave of pleasure through her abdomen.

“Oh, God,” she said, the words light and barely audible in the still air. Sweat broke out at the base of her spine and along her hairline. Her skin felt too tight as her clit swelled and strained between her rapidly stroking fingers. Her gaze skittered between her hand and his, just inches apart, moving in heated synchronicity.

The pleasure built, built,
built
, until she fisted her hand in the folds of her uplifted skirt, arched her back and flew off into space. One soft cry escaped her lips before Hunter crushed her mouth under his.

He growled low in his throat. As the final tremors ebbed she broke the kiss to look in the mirror, her gaze zipping between the last, rough strokes over his swollen shaft and the tense agony etched into his face.

With a hard grunt he clapped the tissues to the head of his shaft and gritted his teeth, his hips jerking in release. Each shuddering pulse reverberated through her body, the musky scent of his semen mixing with sweat and the heat they created together. A groan eased from his throat as he subsided, nuzzling into her hair.

He recovered first, unselfconsciously cleaning up while she leaned against the door and tried to stiffen her knees. After he washed his hands he turned to face her, the only sign of their interlude the flush receding from his tanned cheekbones.

How did he do that, look as if nothing had happened when she felt like a boneless, skinless chicken breast? “Another first for me,” she said.

He lifted the limp hand that had been in her panties and brought her fingers to his mouth. A stuttering breath eased from her throat at the hot, wet contact of his tongue licking her juices from the tips of her index and middle fingers, “You’ve got another one coming soon,” he said, the rich promise in his voice laced with the mildest of threats.

Renewed heat prickled under her arms and at the small of her back, because the look in his eyes could have set fire to steel. With self-assured, gentle hands he straightened her panties on her hips, then shimmied her skirt back down to her knees.

He handled her like he had a right to. She let him. In the softly lit bathroom the act of restoring her clothes to their proper place was sexier, more intimate than taking them off, reminding her of what she wouldn’t have, couldn’t have until he appeared on her doorstep in the guise of a rogue cop.

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For now, her lover stood in front of her, his hand cupping her nape under the disheveled layers of her hair to hold her still for another kiss, the thorough kind, with tongue and a rather punishing nip to her lower lip.

“See you later, beautiful,” he said again and let himself out of the bathroom.

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Hunter pulled himself over the tailgate into the bed of his father’s two-ton dualie pickup truck, muttering to himself as he reconciled the truck bed’s contents to the lumberyard’s invoice from memory. They were on schedule to finish the job by the end of the week and needed grout and tile for the backsplash and hardware for the cabinets.

“That’s all of it, Dad.”

His father scrawled his signature on the paperwork, handed the clipboard back to the employee and walked around the driver’s side of the truck. Hunter leaped over the truck bed and got into the passenger’s side.

“Must be nice to have so much energy,” his dad commented as he started the engine.

Hunter gave his father a sidelong glance. “You keep up pretty well most days,” he said.

His father shook his head. “Not lately. Must be getting old.”

“You’re not even fifty,” Hunter scoffed.

With a shrug his dad turned out of the parking lot and pulled into traffic. “Close enough. You’ve been in a good mood lately. Things going good with Lacey Meyers?” Hunter looked out the window. “Yeah,” he said, flashing back to the irresistible memory of watching her get off in the restaurant bathroom. Jesus, was there anything she wouldn’t do when she was with him? The sex was getting fucking confusing. No condoms. Shared fantasies, something that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she’d told no one else.

Jesus
Christ
.

A woman that strong, that capable, that powerful trusted him enough to put herself at his mercy. Sure, every time he took someone into custody they were under his control. Sure, handcuffs of the carbon steel, leather cuff or pink fuzzy variety were practically standard issue in girls’ nightstands, along with vibrators, flavored or glowin-the-dark condoms, massage oil, lube and a bunch of other kinky stuff he could take or leave, but this wasn’t the typical badge bunny “Let’s play traffic stop” bullshit other girls had asked for. This was different. This was personal. Intimate.

This was him in Lacey’s head and her in his head. This was a woman he cared about far more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re protecting yourself, right?”

Hunter snapped back to the strip malls and fast food restaurants moving past at forty-five miles an hour and stared open-mouthed at his dad, who’d apparently learned how to read minds since Hunter last saw him. “
What?
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His dad coughed and focused on traffic. “I’m asking if you’re practicing safe sex.” Half-relieved, half-dismayed, Hunter closed his eyes. Oh.
That
kind of self-protection. Should he ask his dad to define safe sex? Was it safe to fuck in the parking lot, in the back seat of his car, in a restaurant bathroom, in Memorial Park in the rain?

Was it safe to fuck without condoms? Was it safe to turn loose his darkest alter ego and fulfill her most secret fantasy? He went for the obvious. “Jesus, Dad. I got this speech when I turned fifteen. I don’t need a refresher.” Like the suspect who protested louder and louder that there were no drugs in his car, no sir, look all you want, officer, well gee I don’t know how that cocaine got in my console, Hunter blustered defensively because the question—either one—hit too close to home.

“Sorry. None of my business. It’s just…you know,” his dad said, then clamped his jaw shut and rubbed the back of his neck.

Hunter did know. Sex had consequences, undeniable emotional and physical consequences. Acting like it meant nothing didn’t change the fact that it did and while he never, ever snapped at his father like he just had, well, his father never, ever dug that deep into his personal life.

No Dad, I’m not practicing safe sex. Safe means I use a condom every single time. Safe
means yeah, I don’t fuck around on a girl but she knows it’s not going anywhere. You want to
know why they break up with me? Because any guy, even a greasy craps dealer and a workaholic
neurosurgery resident, is a better bet for a happily ever after than me. And Lacey deserves a
happily ever after.

But Lacey also said she wasn’t looking for Mr. Right. Hell, she didn’t say a word about wanting more, and why would she? She was the most independent, self-sufficient, contained woman he’d ever met. She liked him, she respected him, she loved him in the sack but she sure-as-shit didn’t need him so hallelujah, he was off the hook there. As long as he kept the firsts coming he was living up to his end of the bargain.

That wasn’t true either. The truth was he felt like he had something beautiful and fragile cupped in his palm, something that would shatter beyond repair if he dropped it. Hunter looked at his hands, resting loosely on his thighs. They were in pretty good shape this week but the more typical assortment of scrapes, bruises, and cuts told the truth of who he was and what he did. His hands wielded a nail gun, a hammer, a saw, a

.9 millimeter. They lifted, restrained, contained, controlled. They didn’t handle beautiful, delicate things. Not well, anyway.

He wasn’t protecting himself, not like he could, not like he should, but it didn’t matter. He knew this would end. It was just a question of whether she’d trade up or he’d decide he couldn’t get any deeper with her.

But it wasn’t ending tonight.

Tonight he had a sassy, sexy redhead to interrogate.

* * * * *

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Sheets of cold fall rain lashed from the night sky, giving Lacey all the incentive she needed to dash up the two steps into the mudroom with her laptop bag and purse swinging wildly against her leg. She dumped the bags on the washing machine and rubbed her fingers against her scalp. The rain had dampened her hair on the short sprint from her car and already it began to break free of the blow-dried straightening into its natural waves. Shrugging out of her trench coat as she kicked off her shoes, she hung the coat to dry on one of the hooks by the door and padded in her stockinged feet through the house to the front door to retrieve the mail from the box by the door.

In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of white wine and began to sort through the mail, idly rubbing the top of her foot against her calf as she sipped and opened envelopes. Today was Day Three in Hunter’s vacation. He’d come to her tonight, or tomorrow night, in the house her grandfather built as a wedding present for her grandmother, the house her father was raised in. Lacey’s earliest memories were in this house, playing in the kitchen, helping her grandmother in the garden, having a picnic in the backyard as the sun danced in the leaves of the giant oaks. Every room held dozens of memories for her and images of Hunter, in her bed, her shower, asleep in the living room, waiting for her on the front porch, were beginning to overlay those of Davis.

But Hunter had touched down so lightly in her life, like a wild bird of prey, talons outstretched just above a branch, wings beating against the air. Despite the accumulation of memories, he left no permanent imprint other than a toothbrush in the bathroom. That was it. No clothes, no magazines, books, DVDs, certainly no pictures or other personal effects. Erasing his physical reminders from the house would take five seconds. She’d opened the doors, tried to make him welcome and yet he hovered, poised to fly in an instant.

Best not to think about what that meant on an emotional level, because as Claire so frequently and rightly reminded her, this was casual. But it was three months of casual.

But they were no longer using condoms. But he told her the most heart-wrenching story of child abandonment she’d ever heard, letting her into a side of him he hadn’t yet shared. Her brain compulsively worried over the dichotomy, the lack of a tangible presence in her life and the clear emotional connection she felt growing between them.

She felt. Not he felt. Keep some defenses up, Lacey.

The wine trickled through her veins, heightening her anticipation. She looked at the clock, creeping closer to seven, and listened to the sounds of a dreary fall night. The rain hadn’t lessened, rather settled into a steady pattering against the windows. Cars drove by on the street outside, the tires splashing through puddles before fading into the distance.

The mail included several invitations to upcoming holiday events, addressed to Ms.

Meyers and guest. Carrying the glass of wine she went back to the mudroom and retrieved her BlackBerry, intending to add the parties to her calendar. She’d deal with the guest part later.

Three hard thumps rattled her sturdy front door in the frame, startling her on her way back to the kitchen and sending her heart rate soaring. The wine swayed in the 133

Anne Calhoun

glass before she very carefully set both the glass and the BlackBerry down on the table behind the sofa. The moment of truth was here. Fantasy was about to become reality.

The fist took up pounding on her door again, five…ten…fifteen steady, insolent beats adding a layer of annoyance to the rising heat in her blood. Dressed in her work suit, her hair wavy and tousled around her face, her feet clad only in silk stockings, she hauled the door open.

“What on earth?” she began as she opened the door, then the words guttered in her throat.

Hunter stood in front of her, his face blank and unreadable. Drops of rain, glittering in the porch light, clung to his cropped brown hair and open hip-length black leather jacket. He wore jeans, motorcycle boots and his badge and gun on his belt. A black t-shirt clinging to his muscular chest and abdomen matched the three days worth of stubble on his jaw and the dark threat in his eyes. For all intents and purposes he looked much as he had the first night she brought him home, except never in a million years would she have taken a chance on such a hard-edged man.

Of all the incarnations of Hunter she’d seen waiting on her front porch, this was the first to send a frisson of fear through her veins. But it
was
Hunter and to fulfill her fantasy, he’d brought his best game, playing the part of the man he wasn’t—a dishonorable cop who’d use his power to take advantage of someone smaller, weaker, virtually defenseless. In that instant she decided she’d be everything she
wasn’t
, an uppity, rich, connected divorcee, convinced she was, like Vince Jameson, above the law.

“Ms. Meyers?” His gaze flickered over her, not the caressing look of a lover but rather the eyes of a cop, ticking off details. Something about her appearance must have made her look like an easy mark, because as she watched his demeanor went from dangerous but professional to just plain dangerous.

“Yes,” she said, using her most disdainful voice, the one she saved for uncooperative lenders dragging their feet on due diligence.

“Officer Anderson with the police department. A waitress at Caffe Grazie claims you had sex in their bathroom.”

She had,
fabulous
sex, but it was far too early to confess. “What of it?” she said, not denying it, striving for bored, elitist as she shifted her weight to one hip. “Did she see anything?”

“No,” he said, “but she says she saw an unidentified man follow you into the bathroom. Then she heard noises characteristic of a sexual encounter. Specifically, she heard you begging for more.”

Her response was automatic. “It certainly wasn’t me,” she said, still snippy, letting her eyes roam over him as insolently as he’d examined her. “I never beg. Sorry you had to come out on such a nasty night.”

Let him figure out how to deal with that
, she thought as she stepped back to close the door, but he wedged his booted foot between the door and the frame, preventing it 134

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from latching shut. Inexorably he pushed the door open, then he was in her foyer, all six feet, two hundred and twenty heavily muscled pounds of him.

Without taking his eyes off her he closed the door and locked it, the click of the bolt shooting home echoing through the living room. She spun and scrambled for the kitchen, cursing her unwitting decision to remove her shoes as her feet slipped on the hardwood, then the slate. A muffled thud told her his jacket was now on the floor of her tiled entryway. She put the big island between herself and the kitchen door, the mail scattered over the granite surface, and tried not to think about how he’d spread her out like an offering on this very same island the first night they met.

A wry, twisted grin she’d never seen before spread across his face as he followed her into the room. For a brief moment she considered sprinting through the back door, but bad-ass cop or not, she wasn’t sacrificing a pair of silk stockings to the rough, wet wood of her deck. Worse was the thought of making Hunter take her down in the middle of her backyard. Try explaining
that
to the neighbors.

So the back door was out. His grin widened, as if he could read her mind and found her thought process entertaining. He braced himself between the door to the living room and the French doors to the sun porch at the other end of the kitchen. In the back of her mind she noticed he was using his body in a way she’d never seen before. A weapon. At this point it was a strategic, defensive weapon, but she harbored no illusions he wouldn’t go on the offense eventually.

“My husband’s working upstairs,” she bluffed, getting into the role.

“Where’s the bling?” Blunt and terse, he nodded at her ringless left hand clutching the edge of the island.

“I know people in the department,” she said, trying a different tack.

He shot her a wicked, insulting look, his eyes lingering on her mouth. “Right now your exhibitionist tendencies are just between you and me. You want to take that public?”

Definitely not. Maybe she could negotiate her way through this. “What do you want?”

“What do you think might convince me to forget this ever happened?” And there it was, her fantasy, the soft-spoken question contrasting dizzily with the hard, unrelenting look on his face. Slow, sticky desire pulsed in her breasts, her belly, her inner thighs as she considered her options. Wasn’t there a usual price to pay in these situations?

After unclamping her fingers from the granite countertop she took a shallow, skittering breath and walked toward him. He stood his ground, made her come all the way to him, and she did, feeling even more petite than usual as her bare toes met his biker boots. When she was close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, she lifted both hands to the hard planes of his chest, caressing hard muscle over heavy bone before sliding her palms down his abdomen. His breathing quickened, his flat belly 135