Going Deep

by Anne Calhoun

  But his thick, scarred fingers were gentle when he reached for her old T-shirt doing duty as a pajama top. He pulled it up, again swamping her with that arousing sense of vulnerability as she lifted her arms to facilitate drawing it over her head. His hands swept up from her ribs, going not, as she expected, to her breasts but rather to curve around her shoulders. He lifted her, again gently but implacably, and settled her back down so his cock nestled into her sex. The thin layers of jersey sleep pants and panties were little defense against his button fly, or the thick weight of his shaft, pulsing as he cupped the curves of her breasts. His fingers were so close to where she wanted them, close but not touching, just holding, letting her feel his rough palms against her tender skin. A single rocking move rubbed her clit against all that hardness, sending sparks along her nerves to her nipples. They peaked, pleading for his touch.

  His mouth hovered over hers, swift, flickering licks that did nothing to stifle her soft gasps as his hands scudded down to her breasts. He alternated pinches and sweeps of his thumbs over her nipples as his hips rhythmically ground into her sex. She clung to him, letting it wash through her and drive her responses, holding nothing back as slick heat gathered between her legs.

  “I want more than this,” she said, and bit his shoulder.

  “You sure?” he said. “I can make you come like this.”

  “I need more.” She nipped her way up to his ear, then bit down on the lobe hard enough to make him inhale and close his fingers tight around her nipples. “I need you inside me.”

  He gave a soft growl, then wrapped one arm around her hips and pushed away from the wall with the other. Her bedroom was dark, the covers twisted awkwardly where she’d tossed and turned before giving in to her body’s basic need. He stopped to set her down on the bed.

  “Do you have condoms?”

  So the duffle didn’t hold condoms. That was rather sweet of him. Wordlessly she reached into the top drawer of her nightstand. She’d unpacked them from her tour bags, where they stayed in an inside pocket, ready for action that never came. Still looking up at him, she reached for his belt and plucked apart leather and metal.

  “That’s the hottest thing ever,” he said.

  “What? This?” She popped the top button on his fly, revealing dark cotton underwear distended by the heavy thrust of his shaft. She glanced quickly at the mirror over the dresser opposite the bed and saw exactly what she’d expected to see. “Oh. Topless girl kneeling while she opens your jeans.”

  His big hand clasped her chin, calluses scraping rough over her jaw as he lifted her face to his. “You showing me how much you want me.”

  It was a confession, offered up in darkness, too tender to be exposed to the light. Still looking up at his face but unable to see his expression, she opened the next button. His shaft flexed in response. With the next button, his thumb stroked her lips, and with the next, dipped inside. By the time she had his fly open she was sucking on his thumb, letting him see her face, her eyes as she did.

  She eased his jeans and underwear over the tight curve of his buttocks. Denim and cotton thudded to the floor under the weight of his gun and handcuffs. His cock bobbed free, and he wrapped his hand around the shaft, stroking. She bent forward and opened her mouth, but he stopped her.

  “That’s going to have to wait,” he said, and reached for her sleep pants.

  Everything came off at once, pants, panties, and the thick socks she wore to bed. He opened the condom and rolled it down his shaft, then studied her for a second, his face unreadable.

  She was small, blessed with a frankly skinny build and the ability to eat pretty much whatever she wanted as long as she stuck to some kind of workout routine. She’d lost weight on tour, too active to stomach junk food, and bored with hotel food. She was built like a tween girl, and she knew it.

  Conn seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. “Okay if we try it like this?” he asked, guiding her to face the headboard.

  “Um, okay,” she said, trying to get with his program, shifting gears from a fairly intense desire to get pounded into the mattress to whatever he had in mind.

  “Give it a minute, and if you don’t like it, we’ll change it up.”

  The rough, sandy swirl of his voice in her ear, sending goose bumps down her nape, loosened her spine. She let him position her on her knees with her arms against the wall. He swept her hair over her shoulder, kissed her nape, and slid his fingers into her folds.

  She was ready, really ready, swollen and slick, but he didn’t rush, gently circling her clit until she quivered and gasped. Then he knee-walked closer to her, aligned his hips with hers, and nudged the tip of his cock into place, sliding in an inch. She went rigid. What had been a very nice handful only a minute before now stretched her sharply.

  “Easy,” he murmured, and stopped moving. “Take it when you’re ready.”

  He waited patiently, teasingly stroking her clit while his other hand brushed over her jaw, stroking her lips, then wound into her hair. She closed her eyes and focused on her pounding heart, the stinging sensation just inside her sex, the way it was fading into a more generalized ache. Experimentally she wriggled her hips, taking another inch or two of his length. His abdomen was hot and bare against her bottom, his rough thighs holding hers open, and she was well on her way to losing her vocabulary, just as he’d promised.

  The slow, light circles around her clit made her want to move. The thick pressure of his cock inside her made her want to open to him, to take as much as she could. Freed from the restraining pressure of his chest she could now breathe, except she couldn’t. Finally she had the full length of him inside her. She lifted her body so only the tip held her open, then slid back down and cried out as he seated even more deeply inside her.

  Again. With this stroke his fingers tightened in her hair; he was breathing short and sharp, forcing it to even out while his fingers relaxed a bit and the arm around her waist loosened its grip just a little.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine.” She adjusted her arms on the wall and did it again, beyond desperate. “You,” she gasped. “You move, too.”

  The first stroke made her head drop back. Involuntarily she spread her knees and tipped her hips back, her body’s demanding plea for more, more, more. He set a slow rhythm, once again surprising her. She’d figured him for a hard and fast man, but he held back, the muscles in his forearms quivering with the restraint, and matched every thrust with attention to her clit, sweet, secret circles that sent her into whiteout overload. She let her head drop between her forearms and stopped caring what kinds of sounds she was making because it was good, so incredibly good. Soles-of-her-feet-on-fire good. His hips slapped against her bottom with every thrust, the sound sharp and lurid in the darkness.

  Between one moment and the next her orgasm went from possible to certain, her entire body quivering as she flattened her palm on the wall and pushed back into his thrusts. Then she was there, there, buried under collapsing panes of white noise as the spasms wracked her body. He thrust through it, still slow, still measured, drawing out her pleasure until she shuddered in his arms.

  “Oh, God,” she said in a voice completely unlike her own.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  The arm around her waist tightened. The other slid under her arm to grip her opposite shoulder. He thrust deep and hard and steady, setting satiated nerves alight once again. She reached back blindly and clasped the sweat-damp hair at his nape, gasping from the impact of his body into hers. When he came she cried out, his pleasure eddying from his muscles, through her skin, into her bones.

  They panted together for a few moments, then he pulled out, steadying her until her leg muscles stopped quivering. “You okay?”

  “Great,” she said. “Never been better.” She was halfway down the long silk slide into sleep. All she’d wanted was release, something to wear down her edginess. Instead she got something surprising. Hotter. Mind blowing.

  Complicated. Not what she expec
ted.

  The last thing she remembered was the bed dipping when he got out of it, and the covers drawing up to her chin as if by magic. Then, nothing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Well, that was confusing.

  Conn had assumed no-strings-attached sex with a hot celebrity would be fantastic. He didn’t think he was all that unusual—being used and left by a Hollywood star was supposed to fulfill every red-blooded American male’s wildest fantasy. The sex fit the bill—hot enough to turn his bones to ash, obviously just a thing she did to come down off the high of touring. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, and neither was he. No strings; no harm, no foul. He should have been cool with it. Thrilled.

  He was, and he wasn’t.

  Thinking about that while lying beside a sleeping Cady seemed dangerous, even more so when, beside him, Cady made a soft, throaty sound and snuggled into the pillows. He pulled the comforter up to her chin, scooted out from under the covers, snagged his jeans from the floor, and backed quietly out of her room, snagging his T-shirt from the hallway floor once he’d closed the bedroom door. Jeans on and buttoned, he put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the front windows, a change in the way the light lay over the porch’s railing, nothing more. His heart rate spiked. His room overlooked the porch, while Cady’s faced the more private backyard. He ducked into his bedroom, pulling on his T-shirt as he did, and crept along the wall to the window. Parting the slats with his index finger, he scanned the front yard, thankful he’d spent the last thirty minutes in the dark with Cady since his eyes were already adjusted to the near total blackness. He found himself wishing for a few good, old-fashioned streetlights, because he couldn’t see anything beyond the ornamental evergreen pots lining the porch.

  A car door slammed down the street, then an engine turned over.

  “Fuck.” He sprinted for the front door, clearing the steps to the slate sidewalk in a single drop. By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway, the car was gone, red taillights visible rounding the bend.

  He almost, almost sprinted up the hill in his jeans and T-shirt, but the thought of leaving Cady alone in the house stopped him. This could have been a distraction. He trotted back up the driveway, steam rising from his skin into the cold air. He’d left the front door wide open. He closed it and went into full cop mode.

  The first room he checked was Cady’s. No difference there. Only her hair was visible above the comforter. He checked the closets, bathroom, and under the goddamn bed, all the while listening to her steady, deep breathing. Trustingly out for the count.

  The rest of the house was empty. A quick search of the likely hiding places in the backyard turned up a possum who scared Conn almost as badly as Conn scared him before scuttling into the safety of the woods. Conn sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that he wouldn’t have to write a report explaining why he’d shot a really ridiculous animal, holstered his gun, and tried to bring his heart rate under two hundred.

  Two things were now clear. One, whoever had been in the car acted alone. Two, this gave him a valid reason to talk to Hawthorn. Back in the house, he called Hawthorn’s cell. The LT answered with his last name, as usual.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. I’m at Cady’s house. Do you have the address?

  “Yes,” Hawthorn said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Conn gave him the gate code. “Don’t ring the doorbell when you get here.”

  Hawthorn disconnected without even asking why. Conn took advantage of the delay to take a fast shower, with all the doors between him and Cady open and his gun on the sink. He was dressed in his game face and all his gear when Hawthorn tapped one knuckle on the window. Conn unlocked the front door and opened it.

  “Why can’t I ring the bell?” Hawthorn said from the porch.

  “Cady’s asleep. She finally crashed a couple of hours ago,” Conn said, truthfully. After Hawthorn walked in, Conn peered into the darkness. Hawthorn’s SUV was parked behind a stand of evergreen trees, out of sight from the road. Conn shut the door behind him, then explained what happened, leaving out the sex-with-the-star part.

  “No one’s here?” Hawthorn leaned against the kitchen island, looking at Conn like he knew all his secrets.

  “I checked the house and the property. Nearly shot a possum in the process.”

  That got him one of Hawthorn’s rare quick grins. “How many people know where she lives?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’ll get a list tomorrow. Not many. She said she just bought the house, through a holding company or something. Her family. Her manager. Maybe a few friends?”

  “People talk. ‘I know where Queen Maud lives’ is big-time social currency. Get that list and we’ll start running it down. Chances are it was a friend of a friend after a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and famous.”

  Conn looked around the house. Hawthorn had grown up on the Hill, so he doubted the house was all that different from what Hawthorn was accustomed to. “What if it’s not?”

  “That’s what you’re here for.” Hawthorn studied him. “You kept my file on Jordy Bettis.”

  Conn shot him a look that stopped just short of insubordination. “You knew I would.”

  Hawthorn folded his arms. “Any ideas?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Jordy’s known associates.”

  “The Strykers.”

  “They’re in a turf war with the Demons.”

  “Go on.”

  Conn tried not to feel like he was back in college, giving a presentation to his classmates. This wasn’t his comfort zone. This kind of thinking was one step above the typical patrol cop’s response to calls, normally reserved for detectives and officers well above his pay grade “Someone from the Demons would have access to him in jail.”

  “Go on,” Hawthorn said.

  “What’s strange is that I’m named in the complaint. When gang violence spills back into the prison system, usually no one saw nothing, including the guy who took a beating. Even when cops or COs do give a beatdown, nobody saw nothing. “

  Hawthorn quirked an eyebrow.

  “So,” Conn said slowly, working it out in his head, “either someone in the Strykers has it out for me, or one of the guys at the jail does.”

  Hawthorn nodded. “Exactly. Start thinking about all the people you’ve pissed off, McCormick. Make that list. Then we’ll talk.”

  “It’s going to be a long list, LT.”

  “You got another idea?”

  “Were there any cameras in the vicinity of where the beating went down?”

  Hawthorn shook his head. “This was pretty carefully planned.”

  After a long pause, Conn said, “Looks like I’m making that list.”

  Except he did have another idea, one he’d keep to himself for the time being. His LT was still thinking by the book, like he always did. But Conn had other channels for information, and tomorrow, he’d follow up with Kenny.

  * * *

  He slept fully clothed and lightly, waking at the slightest scratching on the roof or a sharp crack of wood outside. When the sky turned gray, he got up, searched for coffee until he remembered she didn’t drink anything high octane, and settled for a diet soda, grimacing at the chemical aftertaste. The woods seemed less threatening this morning: bare trunks and branches stark against the thin winter sky. Mounds of leaves and fallen logs gave the hillside a rustic look, if you were into that sort of thing. He had a long time to stare at them while he ran on her treadmill and worked his way through a TRX routine, his attention split between listening for any signs of life upstairs and looking for movement outside.

  Turning the TV on gave him something to do. Alternating between texting Shane to check on the fuel pump repair and starting the list of people who could carry a grudge against him filled the commercials. Around eleven Cady’s bedroom door opened. He looked up and d
id a double take. Her hair was a wild rat’s nest around her head, and not in a good, sexy-angel-just-out-of-bed way.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said through a huge yawn. “Welcome to reality.”

  He watched her shuffle over to the counter and run water into the steamer, then drape a towel over her head and hunch over the machine. A few minutes later she emerged, red-faced and with some hair clinging to her damp face. She rummaged in the fridge and came up with two hard-boiled eggs, already peeled, and an English muffin.

  “We’re due at Eye Candy at four,” he said as she shuffled back toward her bedroom, chewing a big bite of egg. “Yeah,” she said again, giving him a distracted wave of her hand. The door closed, the bedsprings creaked, and then silence.

  This was more boring than the days he spent doing surveillance on Matt Dorchester’s house last summer. He channel-surfed until he found one of the Bourne movies, and settled down to pass the time.

  Just after two he heard the shower turn on. Forty-five minutes later the blow dryer shut off and Cady Ward, singer-songwriter, celebrity, walked out of her bedroom, slipping the wide green bracelet she always wore onto her left arm. She wore skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a soft V-neck gray sweater that exposed her sternum and throat. Her hair had been tamed and curled into thick waves, and she wore enough makeup to look slightly mysterious. He caught himself before he did a double take, because her boobs were noticeably bigger. She carried a guitar case she set down beside the door, then turned for the kitchen. A minute later she had a thick paste of honey in the bottom of the travel mug and water boiling in an electric kettle. A quick stir, then she was back in the foyer, digging in a huge, fancy-looking leather bag.

  “I’m starving,” she said without looking up. “Lunch?”

  “Whatever you feel like,” he said.

  “I feel like Sunny Side Up.” She cursed, then set the bag on the bench beside the door, went to her heels, and started taking things out of it. Wallet, keys, tablet, bottles of over-the-counter pain relievers, an e-reader, gum, lipsticks, a pair of leather gloves. He stared, fascinated. “But you ate there yesterday.”