Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  “You knew Brita too.”

  “We got to be good friends. I have to say, she wasn’t happy leaving Meiers Corners.”

  “No. She wasn’t.” One of the reasons I thought of her as Brita instead of Mom. “Dad had to go. His talent was wasted here, defending shoplifters and jaywalkers. He got bigger cases in Chicago.” No traffic on Sixth. I trotted across.

  “More money too.”

  For some reason, that stung. “He was still a lawyer of integrity.”

  “Integrity? Is that why he moved to Chicago? Got them fancy digs on Lake Shore Drive, instead of commuting?”

  “Come on, Alice. You know the place was part of the job. He needed it to entertain, to lure in the big clients.”

  Alice huffed a sigh. “All right, I admit I only heard Brita’s side of it. She felt like a fish out of water after he joined that firm. The parties, the jet-set lifestyle wore on her.”

  Another sting, worse because I knew it was true. I hit Fifth, almost turned south, but that would take me past the lonely, spooky Roller-Blayd factory where loony Count Wannabe hung out. I decided I’d skip it.

  “It wore on both of them. Alice, I’m sorry about your bowling, but I have to go.”

  “Elena, wait. Don’t hang up.” She paused. “Look, kiddo. I apologize for upsetting you.”

  “De nada. It’s okay.” I glanced down Fifth. On the other hand, was I man or mouse? Or in my case, woman or…um, wombat. I turned south. Drac still owed me a proper name and addy.

  “Elena, I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry over it. If Patrick had listened to her, they might be alive today. Hell, if he’d just followed his own feelings for once, instead of going by that stupid book—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Elena—” Alice never searched for words, but she did then. “Brita called me that night. The night they…crashed. Four years ago. She called because she and Patrick fought.”

  “No way. Dad and Brita never fought. They loved each other.” Jumbled feelings pushed me back into motion, faster now. I made for Roosevelt at a trot.

  “I’m telling you, that day they fought. Over a stupid party, of all things. It was the last in a month of holiday shindigs. Brita was sick and tired of the posing and posturing, and didn’t want to go. Your father said it was part of the job. He didn’t want to go either but declared they had to whether they wanted to or not.

  “Dad insisted on doing things properly. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Elena, it was a party. They were both tired, wrung out. And a little out of their element. It wouldn’t have hurt them to miss one party. All that drinking…well.”

  I spun east and hit Roosevelt at practically at a gallop. Like a gaggle of Dirks was after me. Or would that be a gabble of Dirks?

  Then I realized I was unconsciously running toward Nixie’s. My friend, a haven of safety.

  Not while I was on the job. Patrick wasn’t the only By-the-Book O’Rourke, dammit. Resolutely, I turned south again. “You’re not implying Dad was irresponsible, are you?”

  Alice laughed, not a happy sound. “Your father? He was more reliable than death and taxes. But reliable didn’t stop that snowstorm. Didn’t stop that truck. Didn’t stop the alcohol from throwing fuel on the flames.”

  “Dad would never drink and drive. They got a ride home from the senior partner that night. In the company limo. Dad knew his limits.”

  It was a verbal slap, but Alice only said, “I heard one of the seatbelts was pulled out. Like someone had started to buckle up, but stopped.”

  And there it was, of course. My dad always wore a seatbelt. Not wearing one was a spanking offense in our family. If Dad and Brita had been wearing their seatbelts that night…I might not be alone now.

  The Roller-Blayd factory loomed ahead, desolate, dead. Seeing it so empty hurt for some reason. I walked faster. “That truck hit them pretty hard. The seatbelt might have been dislodged in the crash. The belts were tucked into the seat cracks. Dad probably didn’t even know they were there. He—”

  “Your gut tells you differently, Elena. Your father was a wolf in the courtroom. But socially? He hated to make waves or stick out in any way. I think that’s one of the reasons he followed the rules, so he didn’t make waves. No matter what it cost him. Or Brita. He did it to be normal.”

  Oh God. To be normal. Nixie was right. That’s why I did it. “You think the partner talked him out of it. Scolded him, or belittled him. ‘Oh, we’re too rich to die’.”

  “Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Nothing about that night makes sense!” I ran from the warehouse, not even bothering to check for traffic. “All I know is, if Dad had followed the rules and worn his damned seatbelt, he would have been okay.”

  “Or if had he followed his heart and stayed home. Patrick and Brita would also be alive if he hadn’t played by anybody’s rules but his own.”

  I ground to a stop, sagging against a street sign. Dad wouldn’t have died in that stupid, meaningless way—if he had followed his heart. His heart, instead of the rules.

  Maybe I should—

  No. I had decided never again, just this morning. I kicked the post, resumed my trek. “Rules have a purpose, Alice. They make life better, safer. Make us fit together.” Made the abnormal normal. Gave deviants purpose and path. “You should know. We’re both police. We defend law and order.”

  “Honey, I just don’t want to see you end up like your dad.”

  “My dad was honest and brave. It would be an honor to end up just like him. And Alice—he would have wanted this case solved. He would have wanted me to solve it.”

  “Maybe.” A pause. “But Brita would have wanted you to go bowling.”

  “Goodbye, Alice.” I hit disconnect. This was why she made me her project. I wasn’t sure if I was warmed by the idea or pissed, but one thing I did know. By the book was the answer. For this case. And especially for me.

  Punching up voicemail, I listened to a message that had come in while I was talking—or arguing—with Alice. “Hello? Hello, Detective Ma’am? Hello? Where are you?” I recognized Ruffles on the first syllable. “I waited at the station so I could join you but you weren’t there and Detective Blatzky said you weren’t coming in but I knew you wouldn’t leave without me unless this is some sort of test of my detective abilities to see if I can find you—”

  The message went on for another five minutes. Good thing I hadn’t answered. By the time I got back to Alice, she might really have died of old age.

  As I hiked toward the widow’s, slower now, I pulled out my notebook. The widow, Drusilla, the bar. Employee or vendor. But I was missing a name. That annoyed me. The most important investigation of my career. Who the hell—

  “Hello, Detective.”

  Oh yeah. Strongwell.

  While I did not believe Fakeula’s accusations (really, how reliable was a guy who called himself Dracula?), there were niggling questions. Why had my sister warned me off the case? What did her warning have to do with Bo?

  Why was he so damned sexy? Why did I feel like a volcano about to erupt around him?

  No, no, not those questions. What was it with that odd basement of his? Why did my lie meter not work with him? And most interest…irritating of all, “Why do you keep showing up where I—” I whipped around.

  My bark vaporized into a pant. Bo’s tight sleeveless tee showed off his mammoth biceps. Worn jeans limned his bitable butt. He looked like a muscular Mount Everest just waiting to be climbed and conquered.

  Celibacy was apparently eating away my brains.

  His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. “Mmm. That scent…” His eyes flew open, a startling violet.

  “What?” Couldn’t be me. Hulk It was way out of my salary range.

  He stalked closer. “I try to stay away. But you’re too much for me.”

  “I am?” I had to steel myself not to back away. I kept forgetting that, up close, Bo was big. Tall, imposing, yes. But physically, that c
hest could have fit two men with muscle to spare. A warrior’s arm band circling one of those thick biceps could have belted my waist. “Er, too much cop?”

  “Too much woman. What a pretty top, Detective.”

  Too much woman? Wow. No one had ever said that about me before.

  Bo traced my lace neckline with one finger, grazing my skin. “You have the softest, sweetest breasts.”

  No one had said that, either. Unless he was buttering me up…ooh, butter. Slipping and sliding, in and out… I batted his hand away. “Hey, buster. That’s sexual harassment.”

  “And such lovely pants.” The hand came right back, splaying across my rump, branding me. “You have a delectable ass, Detective.”

  “Stop it, Strongwell. That’s totally inappropriate.” I tried to put a sharp warning into my voice. Not only did I have questions, starting with disappearing blood and ending with dirt-floor rumpus rooms, but we were on the fashionable East Side of Meiers Corners, for pity’s sake. Right in the middle of a nest of upper-class residential busybodies. It reminded me uncomfortably of this morning’s indiscretion. Carried away by lust, then rejected. “Stop. This is way too public.”

  But as he kneaded my glutes, my eyes fluttered closed and I leaned eagerly into his six-four. That (and my little whimper) might have undermined my “stop”.

  “Stop what, Detective? This?” Bo pulled me close. His erection strained hot against my belly. “Or perhaps this?” His fingers delved down the back of my jeans.

  Half my brain cells dribbled out my ear. He cupped my buttock, skin to skin, caressed firmly. The rest of my brain jumped out to find them.

  I groaned. “Stop…both…” My mouth said stop but my hips angled back and up, trying to slide my pussy under his firm grip.

  “Or maybe you mean this.” One big hot finger slid in, then a second. I shuddered. My pelvis started rocking into his fingers.

  “No, stop…hell.” Why couldn’t my head and hormones agree? Or one of them just kill me and take over? “All of it. You’re a suspect. I’m a civil serv…civil ssss…shit!”

  Bo had yanked my pants and thong to my ankles. On his knees, he splayed hands between my thighs and spread. His mouth landed on my pussy. His breath was scorching.

  “Madonna’s metal mammaries! Stop it, Strongwell. We’re in public.” I leaped away, horrified. Dolly Barton’s gossip network would slaughter me, Captain Tight-ass would crucify me. Goodbye badge, hello part-time janitor using my own hair as a mop.

  My jeans-hobbled ankles threw my balance. My leap turned into a series of frantic hops. Windmilling, I went down.

  Bo rose smoothly to his feet and caught me, one-handed. He yanked me in, hand splaying across my naked butt. My entire butt. Either the man had huge hands or Sass-Cgal’s “Tight ’n Tiny Tush in Three Minutes a Day” really worked.

  “I want you, Elena.” His voice was all animal growl. “And you want me. I can smell how ready you are.”

  “I’m not ready to get fired! What if someone sees?”

  “Easily taken care of.” He lifted me off my feet, effortlessly carried me into the deep night shadows of a towering tree, and pressed me against its dark trunk.

  My naked butt hit bark. Rough, living wood scratched skin made hypersensitive by his touch. Warm summer air played softly over my damp and throbbing lips. Stars above, I wanted this man. Needed him.

  Bo dropped to his knees and took up right where he’d left off. Thrusting my thighs apart, he invaded.

  His mouth landed right on the sweet spot. He kissed me deeply, intimately. Wetly, with a swirl and a suck that nearly sent me through my skull.

  “Stop it!” My fingers dug into his thick blond hair. To push his head away, but his tongue flicked my little red light-switch. I pulled instead, practically grinding into his face. My slick wet lips slid against his granite jaw. Stubble added to the blazing friction.

  He sucked me in rhythm to my grinding hips. My body clenched against the sweet buildup. “Dammit, Bo, you can’t make me come in the middle of someone’s yard!”

  “No one can see us here, you know.” His assault changed from sucking to lapping. “Mmm. You taste wonderful, Elena. Woman-sweet.”

  A house light flipped on down the street. It didn’t touch us in our dark shadows. “Woman sweet?” I writhed under his expert onslaught. “I’m a cop, not a woman.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.” He lapped harder. “Sweet, yet strong. Piquant.”

  “Pee-kent? What the hell is that?” My breath rasped as my body began to gather.

  “A tangy contradiction. Endlessly fascinating. You tremble when you’re close to climaxing. You’re so strong, yet you tremble.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Pee-kent?” I rolled myself faster against his burning wet tongue. “You’re a janitor throwing around thousand-dollar words. A murder suspect patrolling like a cop.” I groaned. “More. Give me more.”

  “Bossy thing, aren’t you?” Two hard fingers slid into me, filled me. “I like that.” He began thrusting.

  I gasped. “I’m so close…harder. Faster.”

  “My pleasure.” His tongue worked my clit harder while his fingers shot in and out. I pumped against him in counterpoint.

  “So close…more.”

  He sucked. The hot tugging sent a shocking thrill through me. My fingers tightened painfully in his hair. He gave a grunt, muffled, his mouth full of me.

  I braced my shoulders against the tree, jacked my pelvis into him so hard I nearly pushed him off his knees. It drove his fingers in to the hilt. I ground myself into them with a choked cry. “Oh, more, please.”

  His mouth left me. A breeze cooled where he’d been. “Elena.”

  I stood there, throbbing helplessly, his sudden stop pulling my gaze to his face. His eyes glowed like blue moons from between my thighs. Staring intently at me, he slowly, deliberately opened his mouth—and rested the points of two very long eyeteeth on my mons.

  I gasped. Jerked away.

  He grabbed my thighs, slammed me back against the tree trunk. His hands locked me in place, jailing me with his hard male strength.

  When I was immobilized, he bit down.

  Live wires drove into my mound. Streaks of lightning hit deep in my pelvis. Exploded back, arcing through belly and breasts. I throttled a scream as a climax’s onset sheared through me.

  Licking my clit like a thirsty animal, Bo shifted. Thrust a hot finger home.

  The orgasm hit me hard, rammed my body like a truck. A two-ton load of ecstasy. It slammed into me again and again. Rolled over me until I was flatter than butter on August blacktop.

  And then he thrust a second finger and bit harder, and I climaxed again.

  Bo lapped up my orgasms like pudding. “Elena…oh, Elena you taste wonderful.”

  Yeah, well, I felt wonderful. I came down slowly, pulsing with aftershock. The earthquake climaxes washed me clean. Made me limp and sated as a…as a really limp and sated thing. I tried to say it but it came out more like, “Yuh waffle winful.”

  “Come home with me.” Bo’s voice rumbled against my thighs. His words pulsed with that mysterious catlike vibration, that deep purr. Except there was no cat.

  The only thing against my legs was Bo.

  My brain cells climbed back in. Only Bo. So Bo was purring. Bo was—a cat?

  I didn’t freak (which alone should have worried me) but I did try to disengage. He pressed kisses to my naked belly. “Bo.” My voice was a croak. I cleared my throat, tried again. “Strongwell. Let me go.”

  The kisses stopped. The purr, if that’s what it was, died. His mouth was slightly open, and he was panting. Very slowly, his gaze lifted.

  His eyes were practically incandescent. The intense desire I saw there shocked me. Unrelieved desire, made stunningly visceral by the heavy erection pulsing against my knees. Which reminded me that I’d gotten orgasm with a capital O, but he’d gotten squat. I felt like the worst kind of tease, regardless of purr-related issues.

  �
�Um, Bo…I have to go to work. But, uh, maybe we can make a date for later.” The lacy curtain of a nearby mansion was just dropping back into place. Too dark for anyone to have seen anything, but I winced. “Somewhere a little more private.”

  Bo’s eyes clamped shut. “A date.” His voice held a world of pain.

  “Well…maybe we can do more than lick. After work.”

  “Oh? Even though I’m a suspect?”

  “You’re not very high on the list,” I mumbled, flushing.

  His eyes opened directly on mine. His gaze was that piercing, mind-reading one. He rose. “I suppose. My apartment?”

  He didn’t sound happy, but he wasn’t rejecting me. I let my breath out. “Yeah. Great.”

  “Until later, then.” Bo glided away.

  Five years, three months and five days. My vigil was near an end, at last. I stood there, watching that tight ass, until the darkness swallowed him. Then I started swearing.

  I had totally forgotten to question him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unfortunately, I had that ten o’clock appointment with the widow. So I couldn’t run after Strongwell and grill him like I wanted to (with oil on a bearskin in front of a very large fireplace). So after pulling up my jeans, I resumed my determined stride toward the Schrimpfs’ residence. Not noticing the row after row of stares from behind fancy curtains. Much. They couldn’t have seen anything. Nothing terribly lewd, at any rate.

  I clung to that. ’Cause our police captain wasn’t called Tight-ass for nothing.

  My cop sense tingled, alerting me to the approaching rumble of a powerful engine. I turned. A black Town Car crept past me. I watched myself slide along its mirrored windows, my image stretching and scrunching like I was in some creepy funhouse. But Town Cars were the Meiers Corners fleet vehicles, so I wasn’t too worried.

  Until right behind me, big, black and mobbish did a U-ey.

  Well. Maybe they were only lost. Still not worried—much—I started forward again.

  The Town Car shadowed silently behind me.