by Rhyll Biest
But far more unsettling was when she rubbed antibacterial cream on the cut and his gaze shifted to rest on her. ‘Thanks for taking care of my war wounds.’
‘Don’t mention it. I like to keep the local population in good health in case I want to harvest their organs later.’
‘Very cunning.’
She pressed one end of the sterile bandage to his skin. ‘Can you put a finger on that, please?’ She wound the gauze firmly but not too tightly around his thick forearm, her wilful preoccupation with keeping the bandage pressure even and the edges straight the only thing keeping her from falling into acutely self-conscious sexual awareness. Up close, Luka took on a larger level of reality.
One where she heard his steady breath, the wet sound as he swallowed, and was unable to ignore the visible pulse at his throat, the steady beat of life.
She breathed the pine scent of his skin. Some kind of soap. If cleanliness was next to godliness, he was smelling and looking divine.
Was it improper to drool over someone while they were bleeding?
She sealed the bandage with a butterfly clip. ‘I’m sorry you hurt yourself trying to put that stupid thing together. It must be faulty or something.’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head, looked down at Stumpy who’d dragged himself closer to them, shuffling across the carpet like a grey zombie puppy seeking brains. Belovuk scratched Stumpy’s ears. ‘I just lost focus for a second. Shift work can do that to you. Nothing wrong with the equipment.’
I’ll just bet there isn’t. ‘Why didn’t you go straight home if you’re tired?’
Stumpy slowly capsized by Belovuk and looked at him expectantly. Luka obliged by rubbing the proffered pot belly. ‘Sometimes I need to unwind a bit, put a blanket on work before I can sleep.’
Her ears, so finely attuned for the sound of trouble, picked it up immediately. ‘Did something happen?’
He hesitated. ‘Nothing pleasant, no point in sharing it.’
Okay, time to change the subject. She nodded at his hand. ‘I feel bad you stabbed yourself trying to build Stumpy’s mobility cart. Why don’t you let me make you some toast so you can take some analgesics without murdering your stomach. I’d bake you a giant analgesic pie but my cooking skills don’t extend that far.’
Shit, what was she doing being kind to Belovuk?
Hello bad idea, nice to meet you. No, no, the pleasure is all mine.
He cocked his head, as if having trouble processing her words. She’d bet no one ever offered him help because he was the human equivalent of a guard dog, someone who got pointed at offenders to sort them out and stuff it if he got bruised and bloody in the process.
‘That sounds … great.’
The words came out a deep rumble. Not that there was anything sexual about that. Well, maybe a little. ‘Okay, no problem.’
A furrow formed between his ferociously straight brows, as if she’d just confessed to a misdemeanour. ‘You sure? I don’t want to put you out.’
‘I wouldn’t offer if I minded.’
‘Thanks. Unless you’ve drugged my coffee and this is all part of your plan to steal my kidneys.’
‘Eh.’ She cocked her head. ‘I haven’t made my mind up yet. Though if you wake up in a tub filled with ice, you’ll know for sure.’
He patted Stumpy’s head. ‘Your owner pretends to be a hard woman but the mobility cart pieces say otherwise.’
She blinked. An essential part of her armoury against others was her thick-skinned act but people rarely called her on it. She stood, straightened her shorts which had ridden up while she was playing nurse. ‘What would you like with your toast?’
Had her kneecaps spoken? His gaze was down there instead of up where her face was. And when he did raise his eyes, they said You, I’d like you on my toast, wearing nothing but butter.
‘Anything. I like everything.’
Her lady parts gave a chirp of interest. I just bet you do.
Hmmm, perhaps she’d find some restraint and good sense in the kitchen. ‘I won’t be long.’
As she walked away she felt his gaze burning like a laser on the back of her bare legs. She resisted the temptation to sprint.
Her DIY kitchen consisted of an esky, plastic cups and cutlery, a kettle and a toaster bought at the local supermarket. As she retrieved the butter from the esky and opened a jar of Vegemite she analysed her motives. Why was she being nice? Because she felt sorry for him having to deal with some horrible unnamed thing at work? Pity was a dangerous thing. Hadn’t her mother always said that pity was next to love?
But I’m not like my mother, and I’m not going to make the same mistake, however pleasurable that mistake might be.
Galenka sneezed the word ‘bullshit’.
Fine, perhaps those had been merely brave words hurled at a tsunami of attraction. Throwing bread into the toaster with more force than was necessary, she fortified her walls by reviewing the countless miseries of her parent’s marriage. Screaming fights. Missiles hurled. Felonies. Stalking. Revengicide. What was love but the bedfellow of grief once things went wrong?
The toast sprang up, as if in defence of love, and she threw it onto a plate, slapped butter on it. Next to the toast she placed two painkillers like garnish. If only there were a prescription for attraction, some tablet she could take twice a day until symptoms subsided.
Is called self-discipline, Galenka sneered.
Like you even understand the meaning of the word.
She carried the plate of food and a glass of water out to the lounge room. At the threshold she paused. While she would have bet her capsicum spray that she’d find a grumpy, half-awake officer being gnawed on by a persistent Stumpy, instead the little troll was sound asleep in the crook of Luka’s arm, who dozed upright on her couch.
Chapter 9
Walgarra’s very own Robocop had shut his eyes—with the intent just to rest them, she’d bet—but now his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. One arm was flung out so that his bandaged hand waved like a flag of surrender.
Something shifted inside her, stuffed her heart so full of forbidden emotions that the congestion stabbed her at least seventeen times.
She glanced at the plate in her hand and returned to the toast-scented kitchen. As she set the plate on the bench she ran through her options. Waking Sleeping Beauty was out of the question, he was exhausted.
But what was she going to do with a giant law enforcement officer snoozing on her couch? Maybe she could wait it out. He had to wake some time.
She grabbed her e-reader and sat on her folded sleeping bag, resting her back against the wall. As she curled her legs beneath her, Stumpy’s head never even lifted from Belovuk’s chest.
Traitor.
Her gaze lingered on the arm wrapped around the pup. Even she had to admit that his arm was a work of art, a complex arrangement of muscle, vein and sinew. And was it her imagination or did those veins spell out ’Hello, sexy danger’?
Hello, Galenka purred.
Shut up.
Her eyes wandered at leisure, only the stalks keeping them physically attached to her head.
Luka’s police shirt had twisted sideways so that the collar gaped, revealing a sliver of tanned chest, and the sort of physique most commonly used to sell everything from exercise equipment to sports supplements.
His shirt, a slim, woven veneer of civility, only underscored the rawness that lay beneath. He couldn’t fool her. Nice Officer Belovuk helped little old ladies across the street and made nice apologies, but she’d bet Stumpy’s new leash that he wasn’t always nice. That thick column of a neck, for example—exposed by the angle his head rested—said things like ‘mess with me and I’ll make you sorry you were ever born’. And the insanely powerful arm cradling Stumpy whispered ‘if ever a pair of arms were made for holding you down during sexy times, it’s these’.
There was really no point denying those things roused her curiosity. They did. But surely she’d reached an age b
y now that when she saw a pit of doom gaping at her feet, she didn’t just leap headfirst into it.
Belovuk’s body jerked with a sleep twitch. It wasn’t violent enough to dislodge the parasitic Stumpy, but several muscles flexed and tightened.
Jesus H Fucking Christ, Galenka shrieked, look at that, look.
With a small huff Kat switched on her e-reader and opened the crime novel she’d started the day before.
Throw yourself on handsome man. Galenka leered. Like soldier throws self on hand grenade to save comrades.
Can it, you sow.
She snatched her mini iPod from her pocket and stuffed the earbuds firmly in her ears, turned the volume up to play Tool and Alice in Chains loud enough to drown out Galenka.
After several futile minutes she exited the crime novel she’d been reading. There was no way she could follow the elaborate plot with Belovuk only two metres away.
As she searched for another book, one that would hold her attention better, Belovuk stirred on the couch.
She stiffened, glanced at him. Nope, sleep still held him hostage. Truthfully, she liked him better when he slept, when he didn’t pose any danger to her. And she could observe, uninterrupted, how his lips—surprisingly smooth in such an otherwise rugged face—had parted.
Was that how he slept at home?
Belovuk at home, in bed.
She could almost picture his sheets—those lucky, lucky sheets—wrapped around his hips nice and low, allowing the elastic band of his Underoos to peek out.
I want some Serb lovin’. Galenka mimed thrusting her hips, a difficult task since, as a figment of Kat’s imagination, she had none.
I bet he fucks like a force of nature.
What? Kat rapidly backpedalled away from the idea. Big, controlling alpha types were not for her. She had feminist principles and valued intellect over physique. What she needed was an equitable partner rather than some bruiser who would probably try to dominate the shit out of her. Messing with a bossy cop would work out for her about as well as it had for her mother.
As she studied him his eyelids twitched. Dreaming?
‘No.’ The word escaped him, low and dread-filled. ‘Mark.’
Okay, not dreams. Nightmares.
‘Fucking bastard.’
Sleep swearing. Impressive.
‘Get a body bag.’ He twisted. Jerked. A series of choppy breaths escaped him.
She stared, both appalled and fascinated. Who’d have thought Robocop had a vulnerable side? Not her. But he did.
Should she wake him? Hadn’t she once read that it was dangerous to wake someone from a nightmare?
The decision was taken from her as Stumpy roused, sat up, and casually planted a paw in the middle of Belovuk’s face.
He gave a muffled yell as he jolted awake.
She stared at his wide, wild eyes, his heaving chest. ‘Everything okay?’ A stupid question given it so clearly wasn’t but it seemed like the right thing to ask as it offered a hint of reassurance but not too much.
He ran a hand over his face. ‘Shit.’
After licking Belovuk’s face in greeting, Stumpy dropped to the floor to gnaw on a piece of mobility cart.
Belovuk straightened, sat up. ‘What time is it?’
‘Around eleven.’
‘Damn.’
Belovuk’s voice, scratchy with sleep, gave her a jolt. His deep, penetrating voice was the sort that made a girl melt, made her want to kiss a sleepy, disoriented cop’s face.
Davai! Go for it, Galenka screeched.
Kat frowned at herself. But why? Why did she want to kiss him? Because he was willing to build a mobility cart for a puppy without hind feet? Because he was capable of apologising for something? Because he looked tired and broken? Vulnerable? Or because he’d had a nightmare on her couch?
But what if he put those big hands on her—put them everywhere—and she liked it so much that she forgot important things like balance, independence and self-control? What if all her instinctive caution slipped away like a broken halter?
What if she ran wild?
Belovuk muttered something but she was too focused on the way his lips moved to make sense of what he said.
I bet his kiss is like a cuss word, quick, dirty and satisfying in the mouth.
She met his expectant look. Had he asked her a question?
‘You fell asleep about half an hour ago,’ she told him. ‘On Evert’s second-hand brown couch of doom, and despite Stumpy doing his level best to wake you up. I’m impressed.’
No answer. He looked stunned.
She shrugged. ‘Okay, I need to feed the dog and give him his meds. Won’t be long.’ She scooped Stumpy up, took him to the kitchen to feed him, and then put him out in the back yard to do his business.
When she returned, Belovuk was still rubbing his face and having a hard time waking up.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’
She shrugged. ‘No harm done, though Stumpy’s heart may break when you leave. He thinks you’re dating now that you’ve slept together.’
The joke fell flat. He really was rattled.
‘Did you have a bad dream?’ She cocked her head. ‘You woke up really suddenly.’
He looked away, but not before she caught his haunted expression. No, not haunted, exposed was more like it.
‘I don’t remember.’
Okay, not in a sharing mood. She was familiar with that play, knew better than to offer help or to pry for details. Her guess was that he’d dreamed about Mark Fairly. Strange that he also had that in common with her, being trapped in a bubble of unwanted memories. With so much in common, soon they would become besties and have sleepovers where they braided one another’s hair.
And had lots and lots of hot sex.
‘Would you still like some toast?’
‘Yeah, I’m starving. I can make it, though.’ He staggered to his feet, lurched sideways as he stood on a piece of mobility cart lying underfoot.
She put out a steadying hand and the action brought her a whole lot closer to him than she’d planned, along with filling her hands with a pleasantly warm, hard male chest.
Impossible to miss the way his heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her hands on his chest. ‘You’re stronger than you look.’
But you feel exactly how you look—hard and delicious. Without permission, her hand snaked up his body, curved around his neck and yanked his head down to bring his lips to hers.
She had to stand on tippy toes to get what she wanted but by god she got it, a firm snog and—bonus—a big paw on her rear that pressed her to him—hard.
Belovuk proved himself tactically ready for both the situation and the height difference. Mouth never leaving hers, he slid both hands under her butt and lifted her effortlessly, so that after the friction and heat of their bodies grazing she felt the cool wall at her back. He shifted his weight to pin her more firmly and her head thumped against the wall.
‘Ow.’ She rubbed the sore spot.
He pulled back to look at her. ‘Sorry.’
That goddamn mouth, those cursed lips, surely they could be considered a public nuisance given the way they’d hijacked her reason.
‘Are you okay?’
She slid her fingers through his short hair, gave it a tug, thrilled when he submitted to her wild kiss rather than resisting.
Heart hammering fit to wake the neighbours, she had her way with him, kissed him and pawed and scratched his hard body until she’d satisfied a whole gaggle of Galenka’s grubby fantasies and a few of her own to boot.
When they came up for air, breaths ragged, he searched her eyes, gasped when she trailed her lips along his exposed jawline. He breathed a question. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who the fuck cares?’ She nipped the warm, salty curve where his neck and shoulder met.
He tangled a hand in her hair before taking a deep drag of her mouth, approval rumbling deep in his chest as her hands wandered over his hard body, searching, savouring. S
he brushed the spot high on his nape where clippers had sheared his hair to a dense stubble that pricked her skin. Arousal bloomed in each fingertip, left them swollen with the desire to be used.
Her gaze dropped to the iron-on ID tag on his shirt. Just a number. A police identity number, like her old man’s.
Her old man, Officer Daily.
The name snagged memories bad enough to blunt the wild edge to her pulse. What was she doing? Belovuk was the one person she could not afford to fuck with.
***
Those breasts of hers were out and proud, nipples staring at him, practically begging to be introduced to his mouth, and he would give them. So. Much. Pleasure.
He traced her breast, frowned as his fingers hit a hard, jagged edge under her bra strap. ‘What the …?’ He tugged it free. A sachet of hand sanitiser. He raised his brows.
‘Sorry.’ She pushed him away.
He blinked. ‘What? I don’t care about the hand sanitiser.’
She ran a hand over her lips, as if unable to believe what they’d just done. ‘This is not a good idea.’
His body screamed with need. What? Was she talking about the two of them together, not being good? ‘Feels like a very good idea.’ But although it was hard to hear above the clamour of his pulse—and the baying of his libido, that low-down, dirty hound hot on the trail of her arousal—he respected ’no’.
He set her down, the cut on his bandaged hand stinging with the friction. ‘What is it?’
Her eyes were all over the place, looking everywhere but at him. ‘Like I said, this is just not a good idea.’
He kept his hands by his sides but, hell, shockwaves still travelled from his lips to his junk from that kiss. ‘Did I fuck up?’
And then he remembered—she was engaged. And he’d just kissed her. Hot and cold washed through his veins. His blood, his lips, his face tingled with the contamination of shame. He was a cheater, just like Mark. The urge to wipe a hand across his lips to scrub them clean burned.
And she just stared, a guilty expression on her fox-like face.
