I felt him harden, still deep inside me.
"I'm not done with you yet," he murmured.
I made a groaning sound, not entirely in protest, as he rolled me over until I was straddling his groin, his back to the sheets, his face looking up at mine.
"I have missed you, Lara," he whispered, starting a slow rock up with his hips. "So very much."
The automatic response welled up inside me. I opened my mouth to argue, but he just rolled us back to our former position, pinning me to the bed with each determined pump of his cock inside.
"Must I fuck the detective out of you?" he growled, lifting both thighs wide and up, placing my legs over his shoulders, and returning his hands to the bed to gain the leverage he wanted to impale my body to the mattress beneath my back. "I will," he added, increasing the speed of his thrusts, diving deep on each rock of those beautiful hips.
"I'm not arguing," I breathed out, the words lost in the small grunts of exhaled air each time he fucked into me harder.
"No arguments," he murmured, his voice softening, his rhythm doing anything but. "You are meant to be wrapped around me. Always were."
I couldn't think, I sure as hell couldn't argue. So I lay back and took everything he had to offer, aware he was fucking his frustrations out with me. Frustrations I'd caused by walking away from what we'd had.
And it had been good. I knew that. I was revisiting part of that good right now. We'd only just touched on how good it could be back then, part of me now feeling that old sensation of fear welling up inside. The knowledge that if I let him, Damon Michaels could ruin me.
"Don't think," he growled, slipping his hand between our bodies and pinching my clit.
I bucked up into him, a sound of pure ecstasy escaping my lips. My body close to surrendering, my brain unable to take that last, fateful step.
Then his other hand found my nipple, finger and thumb clamping down hard as the one at my clit squeezed the swollen flesh, together the sensations shattered the last of my reserves and made me cry out loud with a mind blowing release.
I lost seconds, minutes, I don't know. When I came to my senses again, Damon was emptying himself inside me in a low rumble that was almost a howl.
I was too tired to make a sound, just forcing air into my lungs was enough. I watched through a veil of fatigue as he pulled out gently, then let him roll me to my side.
He whispered, brushing tendrils of wet hair from my face, as he wrapped himself around my back, "Sleep, love. Just sleep."
Exhaustion and the weight of what had just happened settled like a thick blanket over my mind, and I didn't even feel if Damon moved to turn the lights down, or stayed at my side. For once in my life I let someone else set the alarm, taking care of me.
I dreamed of Carl. Run, Lara. Run! Of the last time I saw him. Of the moment he left my life. Of the blood that exploded out of his body as he fell backwards over the edge of a cliff, the sound of distant waves slamming against the rocky shoreline drowning out my screams.
"Lara! Lara! Fuck, Lara, wake up!"
I shot upright in the bed reaching for my weapon under the pillow and coming up with empty air.
"Motherfucker!" I exclaimed, on a burst of wretched heartsick breath. I closed my eyes and slowly lowered back to the mattress, feeling Damon wrap himself around me again. Neither of us spoke for several heart pounding minutes.
"Carl?" he finally asked, his voice a barely heard whisper.
"Always Carl," I muttered, rolling over and accepting the warmth of the body at my side.
He didn't turn me away, he didn't try to get me to open up about the nightmares, he exhausted me the only way he could, making sleep, and nothing but sleep, the only option after we'd both again found release.
It was slow and tender, the soft glide of flesh on flesh. The quiet moans of need and hunger. The exquisiteness of sated relief.
"Yes," and "More," and "Please," the only whispers to break the sighs. His and mine.
It was beautiful.
I realised, as I drifted off to sleep for the second time that night, that I'd let him a little further inside. Further than he had ever been. I was risking a lot, staying here, allowing this to happen. But for the life of me I couldn't stop it. No longer strong enough to deny that Damon had always been my drug of choice. My one and only addiction, outside of my job.
Carl had said, Don't let it suck you dry without living a little first. He'd failed to give any advice on how to stop the distraction from becoming more important than the career. There had to be a balance, but previous experience had taught me I was useless at finding one.
I'd walked out because I was scared. Choosing a weak excuse of questionable betrayal as the reason why. Denying it was my problem not Damon's.
And now I was back, in the thick of it, tempting Karma all over again.
No more dreams entered my sleep and I awoke to feather-light kisses along my jaw. It was still dark outside, no morning sunlight shining around the curtains on the window.
"What time is it?" I mumbled, trying to brush Damon's insistent kisses away.
"Five in the morning," he murmured, nibbling on my ear.
"Cut it out," I grumbled, attempting to sit up but finding the sheets tangled around my body and imprisoning me where I lay. "Gotta meet up with Pierce and the guys."
"There's time," Damon pressed.
I made a half frustrated, half desperate sound and he pulled back.
"Are you feeling trapped, Detective?" He held my gaze in the darkness, just enough ambient light in the room to make out some features, while others remained hidden in the shadows.
I could see the thin line of his lips, but I couldn't tell if he had meant the sheets trapping me or what was happening between us, by what I could see of his eyes.
"This was a..."
"Don't say it," he snapped. "Don't you damn well say it. What we have is not a mistake." He rolled out of the bed and strode to the attached bathroom, flicking the light on inside and blinding me with bright white. I lay on the bed and brooded while he started the shower. No voices in my head giving guidance on this one. I was well and truly on my own.
There was too much to worry about out there in the real world to be bringing what happened behind closed doors into the mix. For now I would have to compartmentalise. The Damon and me who went at it like horny little rabbits last night were not the same Investigator Michaels and Detective Keen out on the street.
We had a killer to catch. A drug pushing date rapist to ensnare. And an arsonist targeting HEAT to investigate on the sly. Romance, and what it would lead to, was extremely low down on the list of priorities right now.
I untangled my body from the sheets and pushed up off the bed, following Damon into the bathroom. I was thirty-one years old, quite capable of handling a liaison with a sexy man and not letting it affect my ability to do my job.
I was also too tempted by far to join him in the shower, but then we'd never get ready in time to meet Pierce. So I did my other usual morning routine things, opening and using a new toothbrush from under his sink, and then when he climbed out of the shower, I slipped past and ducked under the spray. He stood there dripping water watching me, openly appreciating the show.
"I want to get back in there with you, but I'm concerned you'd knee me in the balls to prove a point," he commented mildly, then began to dry off with a towel.
My lips curved and with one last metaphoric look over my shoulder at the safety of pushing this man further away than he was, I took a step forward into the unknown.
Why? Because my gut told me to. And I clearly lacked any impulse control.
"You almost had a back scrubber," I admitted. "But I know how you like to take your time in the shower when I'm there. And we're already running late."
He stopped what he was doing and stared at me, his mouth parted, his eyes a little too wide. The towel held ineffectually in his hands. I had a good view of his torso, of the ridges and valleys of his chest. Each muscle p
erfectly honed, smooth, cream skin begging for my touch. He'd missed the odd spot of water, making areas glisten with moisture and my mouth to water. I licked my lips, trying to remember the taste of him.
How could he pare me back to such a basic need as this?
"If you don't stop looking at me like that we'll be even later still," he husked, his shaft hardening and rising up his stomach to punctuate that statement with a visual exclamation point.
"Then go get dressed," I offered, dipping my head under the spray to rinse my shampoo.
I had to close my eyes to do it and when I opened them he was right there. Under the shower of water with me, breathing hard, eyes dark chips of desire, lips moistened from his tongue where he'd clearly licked them hungrily with need.
"I want you," he breathed.
"We're late."
"Not yet," he countered, stalking me into the corner of the shower.
"Damon," I warned.
"Six months, Lara. Six months of watching you from afar. No more."
Watching me from afar? What the...
I was up, my back pushed against the cooler tiles in an instant, my legs purposely positioned around his waist.
"Hold on," he instructed.
"Damon!" I tried again, but all he did was rock his hips, slip the tip of his hard length into my opening and let out a groan.
"Six months," he repeated, as if I needed to know how that time apart had hurt him.
I could see it in his eyes. I could see it on his face. I could feel it in the way he thrust into me, claiming me as his all over again.
But I wasn't, was I? Not truly. This was pleasure, this was a distraction. Nothing more. Once I got past Carl's desertion, once I got this current spate of cases out of the way and found my feet again, I'd make sure I protected my heart. Because if Damon Michaels could make me this eager, this dependent, this quickly, then I knew there was no hope of breaking the addiction if I let it go on too long.
And as I moaned through a soul shattering orgasm, and watched him find his own exquisite release, I wondered if I would ever stop lying to myself about this man, about this electrifying heat that flared between us.
Because I was already addicted. One night back in his arms and I was lost.
God help me, but I was so damn lost.
Chapter Fifteen
"Focus on your surroundings, but don't let them distract. Use a location to your advantage, never the other way 'round. Be ready. Be aware. Be a fucking cop."
If my slightly rumpled clothes and harried expression didn't give us away, then Damon's cocky grin surely did. I rushed over to Pierce's parked car, saw his eyes travel the length of my outfit and then come up and rest on Damon's face.
"You're late," Cawfield growled from inside the vehicle. I didn't reply, I deserved it.
"Nice jacket," Pierce offered in a sly whisper from where he stood leaning against the driver's door. "Have I seen it before?" A thinly veiled reference to the fact I was wearing yesterday's clothes.
I smiled sweetly and then glanced up at the container cranes in motion, the sky brightening but the lights on the docks all on in full force. Loud beeping and orange flashing beacons made the whole area a hive of oversized activity.
"Which one is his, do we know?" I asked.
"Third from the end," Simpson said from the back seat, munching on a pastry of some description. "How do you want to play this?"
I picked Patrick O'Malley's dockside gantry crane out of the line-up, watching as it deftly lowered its cradle down to secure a container on the wharf and then lift it up and slide it out over the huge ship docked in front of it. With precision and speed he had the 40 foot long metal rectangular box stacked on top of another and was returning for his next one.
"I think the best bet," I said, still watching the show, "is to catch him when he comes down at the end of his shift. I sure as hell don't want to climb up that thing." It must have been forty to fifty metres up to his cabin.
"'Fraid of heights, Keen?" Cawfield teased.
"Afraid of getting stuck up there when the killer strikes," I countered and received nods of approval from all four men.
"Good call," Pierce added. "Where do you want us?"
"He's a hard nut, Pat," I pointed out. "Would never meet with Carl when I was around. The fact he's asking for me now could mean any number of things. From a desperate need for instant cash, a sudden attack of conscience..."
"Or he's luring you into a trap," Michaels offered. I swung my head to look at his face, noting the set angle of his chin.
He expected me to argue the point, but I couldn't. I was jumpy about this as it was. But what choice did we have? We needed to corner this killer, and if Pat O'Malley was offering himself up as bait, then we'd accept. But we'd also do everything in our power to protect him. Just in case this was a favour he felt obliged to carry out on behalf of Carl.
It could be an entirely innocent request for a meeting.
Or not.
My eyes trailed over Damon's face briefly, then down his body because I couldn't seem to help myself. He was dressed in black casual trousers, black shirt and a coffee coloured suit jacket. It worked. He looked good. He looked a damn sight better than Cawfield and Simpson anyway. Pierce was passable though, in jeans and a blue jacket like mine.
I cleared my throat and looked back at the three detectives.
"Spread yourselves around," I suggested. "Find decent vantage points, where you can observe but not be seen. If it turns nasty, head on in and save my arse. Otherwise, once the meets over and Pat and I go our separate ways, start following him. We'll keep a tab on him for the next twenty-four hours, if the killer plans to strike, he'll do it tomorrow night here."
"Sounds reasonable," Pierce agreed. "I've got walkies for us all, we'll use channel forty, stay off the main Comms line. Volume down low, and in the case of you, Keen, off entirely. Until after the meet."
He handed out small, short range walkie-talkies to each of us, including Michaels. I checked mine with the others and then switched the volume off and slipped the device in my jacket pocket. It would be useful to connect after the meet and take over the first few hours of surveillance. The guys would have to look after our quarry this evening, when Damon and I would be at Zero.
"Everyone set?" I asked and received various nods and confirmation murmurs. "OK, you lot head out and get into position. I'll approach Pat's crane in another ten minutes."
"Sounds good," Simpson said, climbing out of the car and dusting pastry crumbs off his t-shirt.
"We'll be watching your arse, Keen," Cawfield offered, making an exaggerated jerk away from Damon when he saw my partner clench his fists. Pierce just whacked Cawfield on the back of the head and offered a nod to us both.
They all set off to their hidey holes, leaving me alone with Damon. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then he reached forward and drew me into the circle of his arms, resting his chin on the top of my head.
"Are you ready for this?" he asked into my hair.
"This is what I do, Damon."
"I know. I'll always worry though, so get used to it."
I let a long breath of air out on a sigh and he pulled back, placing a finger and thumb under the point of my chin and lifting my head up to look him in the eyes. His were dark and fierce.
"You will get used to it," he said, voice low. "Because I'm not going anywhere ever again."
"You're so sure," I commented.
"I'm sure I made a mistake letting you walk away, yes."
I ran a hand over my face and stepped back out of his touch.
"I need to get to work," I said, then because it looked like he was about to explode with frustration I added, "I'll see you afterwards?"
His body slowly relaxed. "Yes. Afterwards."
"You better get into position, too. I'm going to start heading through whatever security they have and out onto the wharf." Simpson, Cawfield and Pierce would have bypassed security, I was sure. And I would a hazard a
guess, that Damon could easily manage the same.
I wanted my appearance to be documented. So one last look at Damon, eyes holding fast to mine for several seconds, and then I made my way to the gate.
It took three minutes to convince the Port Authority staff to let me through to see Pat. By the time I made it to the base of his crane, an escort in tow, the whistle was about to blow for change of shift. Pat's replacement had apparently already climbed the ladder and was in the cab with him right now.
Once at the base, I convinced the guard to leave me alone with Mr O'Malley, mentioning the fact that the interview was sensitive and police business only. He agreed easily, quite keen to get back indoors as a light drizzle had begun to fall.
I sheltered under the crane's belly waiting for Pat to exit the door at the base. I couldn't see Pierce and the guys. But I knew they would be watching me from where they hunkered down. I scanned the surroundings, not in an effort to place them, that was trained out of you at an early stage in your career, but to familiarise myself with the location; hazards and accessways, complications that could arise should things turn to shit.
Rows and rows of containers were standing a short distance away; red, blue, rust stained, yellow. Stacked five or six high they made sheltered alleyways between them, some of which were clogged with trucks specifically designed to shift the containers to beneath the cranes themselves. As this ship was being loaded, and not unloaded, there were no road worthy container carrying trucks to be seen on this particular wharf. It was all in-house Port Authority vehicles. Flashing orange beacons, beeps sounding out when they moved.
It was busy, and jam packed, easy enough to get lost in amongst. I shifted my shoulders, aware that more than just my back-up could be hiding in that rabbit warren of concrete and tin. Suddenly I felt like I had a bullseye on the back of my head. I moved to stand partially covered by the crane's struts. If someone wanted to shoot me they'd have to be aboard the container ship to achieve it right now.
The wind picked up, small flurries of debris twirling around my feet, some chains hanging on the side of the crane rattled in a particularly nasty gust. Rusted paint flaked off the crane as the huge metal links clanked against it.
H.E.A.T. Book Bundle (H.E.A.T. Books 1-3) Page 14
