I told myself it was not personal. It was not because I hadn't stopped fantasising about him for six long and lonely months. And it was not because I planned to start up with him intimately again.
I told myself all of this. And I believed it.
Right up until I said, "OK, I'll help. Count me in."
And he stood there for a moment, staring at me with those dark, steady eyes, boring into my very soul. And then abruptly sprang forward, covering the distance between us in three long legged strides, bringing his chest to mine.
At that point I knew damn well that I had lied to myself; utterly, completely, without conscionable thought. Because when his hand wrapped around the strands of my hair at the back of my head and pulled me hard against his chest with that one move, I gave up all pretence of this being impersonal and kissed him hard first.
Chapter 14
"Run, Lara. Run!"
We tumbled to the bedroom, which was quite a feat as it was up a flight of stairs. Clothes were strewn on the steps, across the hallway, throughout the entire house, I was sure. He wasn't giving me time to reconsider, his moves frantic; a desperate, hungry man determined to seal the deal.
I knew what he was doing; making it impossible for me to walk away from this without there being an emotional consequence. A small part of me, that made me a sceptical detective, wondered if he was doing this to ensure I stayed and helped with his HEAT case. Another part of me, that is all woman, arched her back and let out an encouraging moan.
It had been too long, too fucking long, since a man had groaned against my naked skin as though I was his heaven.
"Lara, Lara. Fuck, Lara," he breathed above my collarbone.
It sounded like he meant it.
My hands delved into the curls on his head, savouring the sensation of thick hair between my fingers. I tugged and kneaded as he moved lower down my body, lips coasting over skin, fingers stroking over flesh.
His palm cupped my centre. This was moving fast. And not fast enough. I lifted my hips, spread my thighs. He dipped a finger through my folds finding me soaking wet.
"Fuck," he breathed again, this time lips hovering over a nipple.
A tongue flick, a plunge of his finger into my core. Both of us moaned at the delicious sensations.
His thumb stroked my clit lovingly, while his finger started a rhythm his mouth matched at my breast. Sucking, stroking and pumping in unison. My blood thundered through my veins at the return of sensations I'd thought I'd never feel again. Heat coursed through my body, making my skin flush and then alternately pebble with goosebumps, small hairs rising everywhere.
He added a second finger, pressed harder with his thumb and bit down on my nipple, sending me over the edge of the abyss, silently screaming my release. He didn't wait for me to come back down.
Whispering, "Again," he doubled his efforts. A twist of his wrist, a pump against my G-spot, a flick to follow up, and then he had me riding his fingers, desperately seeking that next hit of bliss.
His attention moved to my neglected breast, the nipple he'd been sucking and biting felt raw and distended. I flicked open my eyes trying to focus on the swollen tip, trying to think past the oncoming orgasm, trying to remember to breathe. My head flopped down before I could clear my vision, my body writhing with a mind of its own.
I moaned and bucked beneath his touch. I began to beg for a release he kept just out of my reach. Vaguely aware I was his to command, his to reward, his to punish as he saw fit. But the press of his hard length against my thigh let me know he wasn't nearly as in control as he made out. Plus the rock of his hips against my body, seeking his own friction as desperately as I was seeking my release.
"Come," he finally breathed, his mouth at my ear, my nipple zinging with the return of blood to the tip.
I whimpered, he thrust harder at just the right spot with his fingers and said, voice a husky murmur of wicked intent, "I won't stop until you surrender. Come."
I wasn't sure what he meant, but it was too late to think clearly. I tumbled, screaming and shaking over the edge, plummeting down into a foggy void of pulsating sensations. My breath stuttering, my limbs heavy and beyond my command, my lips crushed against Damon's as he drank my climax down.
I floated for a brief and beautiful moment and then felt Damon shifting from down my side, rising above me, slipping between my jelly-like legs. One hand clasped the nape of my neck, lifting my face up to his, the other gripping my hip tightly. He held my sated gaze for a second, made sure the blur of my latest orgasm had cleared and with a rock of his hips, sank himself inside. Stretching me beyond comfortable, making me take all of him, not allowing me a second to catch my breath before he started to thrust again. And again. And again.
It took a second, possibly two, before I was rocking up to meet each determined thrust. My ankles wrapped around each other behind his gloriously tight butt, my fingers dug into his shoulders as I tilted my head back and let Damon ride me, taking me with him, unable to utter more than a keening sound.
I came in a rush of euphoria, Damon's intense and focused gaze locked on my face, taking in every expression I made. Three more hard thrusts inside and I felt him tense, lose his rhythm and then sink himself deep, shuddering through his own release.
Sweat soaked and looking utterly replete he sank down to blanket me with his body, his face buried into the side of my neck. His chest rising and falling too quickly, his hand shaking slightly where it still held a death grip on my hip. I was sure if I had been able to see, from where I lay trapped beneath him, that his knuckles would have been all white. I'd undoubtedly have bruises tomorrow.
Badges of honour. A smile curved my lips and Damon laid a soft kiss against the skin on the side of my neck.
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 perfectly 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 15
"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.
A Flare Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 1) Page 13
