She unbuttoned his uniform shirt, discovered the white cotton beneath it. Her fingertips fluttered over his chest, his belly, rubbing the T-shirt against the ridge of muscles, the strength of bone. When she shoved the shirt from his shoulders it hung trapped by his heavy utility belt. Her palms slid up his arms, until the sleeves of his T-shirt tickled her hands and answered her earlier question about the nature of his underwear.
Her lips curved against his, and she yanked the shirt free of his belt, then did what she’d been wanting to do from the beginning. She touched her hands to his skin.
His indrawn breath tightened the muscles of his stomach. She ran her fingers up his rib cage, tangled them in the soft hair across his chest. Then she tore her mouth from his.
“Off,” she muttered, and pulled up his T-shirt.
He obliged, tugging the garment over his head. And then he stood before her in khaki trousers, his utility belt filled with sexy cop tools, his chest even more beautiful than she had imagined.
Copper skin enhanced by crisp black curls glistened in the lamplight. She trailed her fingers across his chest, over the spike of his nipples, then through the path of hair that disappeared into his pants.
She hooked her fingers in the belt and tugged. “Off,” she repeated.
He grinned, and she had to smile, too. She felt as though she could demand anything of him that she desired. How was it possible that she had known him less than a week?
He unbuckled the belt, removed his gun from the holster and the clip from the gun. Then he put the gun on top of the refrigerator and everything else on the table.
“Safety first,” she murmured, and lifted her mouth toward his.
He swore.
“Excuse me?”
“Safety.” He ran his hand through his short hair. Leaned down and grabbed his T-shirt. “I’ll be right back.”
“Like hell.” She took a fistful of his shirt and tugged. He wouldn’t let go. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I have to. I don’t have anything, Izzy.”
“You’ve got everything, from where I’m standing.”
He laughed. She loved making him laugh. He didn’t do it often enough.
“I was talking about safety. I need to go buy some at the five-and-dime.” He cursed again. “Or not. If I buy condoms downstairs, I won’t be able to come back up here afterward. Although by morning, everyone in town will know that the sheriff bought condoms, and they’ll be speculating why.”
He sighed. “Sorry. Most guys keep safety in their wallets, but I always figured if I did it would fall out when I was paying for my groceries. Maybe it’s for the best. This is probably a mistake.”
“No.” She yanked on his T-shirt, and this time he wasn’t holding on, so the thing flew across the room.
“Isabelle, be reasonable. No condom, no sex. I might not be a new millennium Casanova, but I know that much.”
Funny that he could know that much, yet not even consider that she might have a condom or two. She was almost embarrassed to say so, except that the reason she had them was she’d never used them. She hoped the things didn’t disintegrate with age. Besides, if she didn’t admit to condom possession, he was going to take that incredible chest and innovative mouth out of her apartment, and knowing Gabe Klein, she’d never get him undressed again.
“Don’t move.” She ran into the bathroom, grabbed her cosmetic bag and returned. He was bending over to retrieve his T-shirt. “Freeze,” she ordered. “Drop it!”
He did, then turned to her with an amused tilt to his lips. “Cop talk, Izzy? Did you want me to keep the handcuffs close?”
She ignored his jokes as she pawed through the jumble of tubes and bottles, then upended the thing with a growl. “I own every shade of lipstick I might need for any occasion. There’s got to be a condom in here somewhere. Aha!” She snatched two packets from the depths of the mess. “I knew it.”
She raised her head. He still held his T-shirt loosely in one hand. The way he looked at her made Belle uneasy. Did he think she had a case of condoms stashed somewhere so she could take a lover in every city where she stopped? It was a common opinion, one she usually shrugged off because she knew the truth. But she didn’t want him to think that.
“My jokester brothers gave me these the last time I went home. I—I had to hide them from my mama. In there—” She waved vaguely at the empty cosmetic bag.
“I don’t care where you got them.” He dropped his shirt, and she let out the breath she hadn’t known she held. “I’m just glad you found them.”
He crossed the room. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she watched. For a man his size, he moved with uncommon grace, comfortable in his skin, in a way that she could never be in hers. When he reached her he held out his hand. She placed the packets in the center, and he pocketed both.
“Now—” he skimmed his palm down the side of her face, and she rubbed against him like a cat “—where were we? Oh, yeah, I was just about to do this.”
He dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to the skin between her shirt and her shorts. The arousal that had faded during her mad search and their conversation came thundering back. His tongue circled her belly button, and the shudder that racked her body made her knees tremble. He steadied her with his hands on her hips, then drew a taste of her skin into his mouth and suckled.
Her fingers on his shoulders clenched. His skin was hot and smooth; she touched his back, caressed his hair, then held his mouth right where it was.
His hands lowered, cupping her rear, sliding down her thighs, then his fingers explored the tendons of her calves and his thumbs stroked higher and higher until he traced the quivering skin just beneath the ragged hem of her cutoffs. She held her breath, waited for him to go higher still, but he didn’t. Instead, he pressed one last openmouthed kiss to her belly and stood.
Without a word, he took her hand and led her to the bed, then lifted his fingers to his zipper.
He saw her watching and hesitated. “Should I wait?”
“No.” She placed her hands over his. “Let me.”
Surprise, then pleasure, lit his eyes. “Whatever you want, Izzy.”
“You,” she said. “I want you.”
“And I’m right here.”
Emboldened by his assurance, she caressed him through his trousers, ran her finger over his tip. He went still, but a glance at his face revealed he enjoyed the way she touched him; he didn’t want her to stop. So she made quick work of his zipper, then slipped her hand inside.
He was hot and smooth, pulsing against her palm. She looked up once more, and his mouth took hers. No longer gentle, she didn’t mind. She stroked him with her hand as his tongue mimicked the movement within her mouth.
Moments later he lifted his head and stilled her caress. “I need to lie down before I fall down.”
His voice was breathless; his hand atop hers trembled. The idea of making this strong man need, of making such a serene man yearn, aroused her.
She shoved his trousers and his briefs from his hips. To stand there fully clothed while she removed every last stitch that he wore felt strange. Strange, but at the same time empowering and seductive.
He didn’t care that he was naked and she was not. He didn’t tug at her clothes; he didn’t yank her onto the bed. Instead, he lay down and let her look at him.
For days she’d been nearly senseless with desire at the mere thought of what was beneath his uniform. Now, seeing him, she knew that her imagination had not done him justice. Even his feet were perfect—long and slim and pale—and his hands… From the first she’d adored his hands—callused from work, yet tender when they touched her, they were the hands of a man, and he knew what to do with them.
“You’re going to give me a complex if you keep staring at me like that,” he murmured.
She raised her gaze and caught a flicker of uncertainty in the depths of his sky blue-eyes.
“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,”
she whispered.
He gave a short bark of laughter, then held open his arms.
She sank into them gladly. Having his arms around her was almost as good as having her hands all over him. She hadn’t realized how much she needed a hug until he’d started hugging her. She hoped he would hug her a lot—every chance that he got.
His palm kneaded the soft skin at her waist. His fingers played with her rib cage. His breath tickled across her neck as his mouth warmed the skin just below her ear. He appeared inordinately fascinated with the bones beneath her skin.
She shifted, restless, needing him to touch her where her body tingled and begged. Surely his hand would move upward soon. He had not touched her breasts once, and in her experience that was very unusual. Ordinarily men’s fascination with her breasts bored her. Right now, all she could think was that he was never going to touch them, and if he didn’t she might explode.
“Do you want me to take off my clothes?” she asked.
“Only if you want to.”
She’d found his patience comforting, but the tension in her belly, her breasts, her being, was past soothing. She sat up and yanked her T-shirt over her head. She had no idea where it landed, because her gaze returned to his face.
She expected him to be staring, even ogling, the impressive size of her breasts, but was surprised to discover he was watching her face, as well. Would she ever learn that he did nothing the way she expected him to?
Her fingers lowered to her cutoffs, but his hands were there before her, easing the sweatpants over her hips, sliding them down her thighs and dropping them over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Her white, cotton granny underwear sagged. His lips twitched, and he drew a fingertip across her belly. She arched into his touch.
“I take it you don’t get too many free samples at work.”
“Ever had a wedgie?” she managed, even as her body shrieked for him to lower his fingertips to the place where she wanted them the most.
“One or two.”
“If you took a peek at the underwear in those catalogs, you’d know I’ve had one for five years.”
His smirk turned into a full-blown grin, and she couldn’t help but grin, too. How could she feel at the edge of reason one minute, then be laughing with him the next? Because in his arms she felt everything was all right—whatever she said, whatever she did, whoever she was.
The last thought sobered her. She needed to be a part of this man who made her feel special and distinct, and she wanted him to be a part of her.
Taking his hand, she placed it on one breast. “Touch me, Gabe. Look at me. Please.”
Even then, he pressed a kiss to her temple first before he leaned back and lowered his gaze. The brush of his eyes was a near physical thing; heat spread over her body.
“You’re a very pretty girl, Isabelle.”
For some reason his words disappointed her, or maybe it was his use of her professional name and not the “Izzy” she’d begun to crave.
Then he lifted his gaze, and she was captured by the intensity on his face. “But the most beautiful thing about you is that you’re aware how very little pretty means in the scheme of life.” He pressed his palm against her heart. “It’s what’s in here that counts.” He lowered his head to kiss the skin that his hand had covered. With his breath warm on her breast he murmured, “The longer I know you, the more I see that you’re even more exquisite inside than out.”
He was wrong. Inside she was a whirling, dark storm of lunacy—weak and confused and stupid. Ugly beyond redemption.
She meant to tell him; she really did. She even opened her mouth. But all that came out was a moan when his lips closed over her breast.
He might not have been interested in them before, but he made up for it now, driving her to a clinging, shaking peak with his mouth alone.
All thought lost, sensation took its place. Gentleness abandoned, madness overcame the two of them. He touched her everywhere, in every way. Drove her up, then held her as she fell, and drove her right back again.
When at last he made use of a condom, she was already limp and hoarse, but when he filled her and kissed her once more as he’d kissed her already a hundred times before, she arched to take him deeper, felt him touch her inside where it counted, and called his name as she followed him home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KLEIN LAY with Isabelle sprawled over his chest as the moon slanted silver across the bed. While he couldn’t believe he’d just done what he’d done, he also couldn’t regret it, even though he had no doubt this would end badly.
He couldn’t let himself become emotionally attached to her. He was asking to have his heart ripped out again. Isabelle was special and different, but she wasn’t going to stay, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to go with her when she left, even if he could. There was no future for them, and he couldn’t delude himself into believing there was, as he’d deluded himself once before.
Tonight might be the only night they would have, and perhaps that was for the best—though he didn’t know how he would be able to keep from touching her, wanting her, needing her every minute of every day they had left.
He sighed, and she lifted her head. Her loose and tangled hair drifted across his belly, tickling as well as arousing him. He stared at the ceiling and counted backward from forty.
She pressed her mouth to his stomach, rubbed her face in the curling black hair that dusted his skin. “Mmm,” she murmured, the sound of her voice and the drift of her breath making him lose count at about twenty-nine.
“Izzy,” he groaned. “There’s only one condom left. Hadn’t we better pace ourselves?”
She licked his belly button, then blew on the moist trail.
Twenty-nine, twenty-nine, twenty-nine, he thought.
She tossed her hair over her bare shoulder and winked at him. “Tonight maybe. But tomorrow one of us will have to go to another town and buy more safety.”
His heart stuttered, and he forgot to count. “Because?”
“Because one more time isn’t going to be enough for me.” She paused, and uncertainty flickered over her face. “Will it be for you?”
Her skin slid along his as she took a deep breath, then waited for his answer. How could a woman like Isabelle have so little confidence?
“After what just happened, enough is no longer in my vocabulary.” He held open his arms.
The relief in her smile, the way she came to him with no hesitation made his belly roll up toward his heart. There was something about Isabelle that called to the caretaker in Klein. The way she cuddled against him like a child made him want to hold her whenever vulnerability shadowed her eyes.
He’d come here to confront her with what he’d discovered. But suddenly he wanted her to confide in him, to trust him with a secret, even two.
“Did you know that Serafina makes the best homemade pizza in the state?” he asked.
“I didn’t. But then, how many Italians live in Tennessee?”
“You’d be surprised.” He kissed her hair and disentangled himself from her arms.
The uncertainty returned to her eyes. “Where are you going?”
“To order pizza. Murph will bring it over.”
“Oh. Sure. If you’re hungry, go ahead.”
He raised a brow. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not for food.”
“Lame line, Izzy.” He sat down on the bed and ran his fingers through her hair. He couldn’t stop touching her even if he wanted to. “Do you mind that I call you Izzy? Everyone can’t call you Isabelle. It’s a mouthful.”
“My family calls me Belle. The world calls me Isabelle.” She turned her head and pressed her mouth to his knuckles. “I like it when you call me Izzy. No one else ever has.”
He kissed her, long and thoroughly, then stroked her shoulder for a while. He’d never get enough of the sweet, scented softness of her skin.
“Aren’t you going to phone Serafina?” she asked.
“Nah. If you aren’t hungry, I don’t need anything. I can eat when I get home.”
“You should eat. Go ahead and order.”
“I can’t sit here and stuff my face while you watch.”
“I suppose I can manage a piece.”
He was shamelessly manipulating her. Klein knew it, yet he did it anyway. After what he’d read on the Internet that afternoon, he was afraid. Afraid if he told her he knew her secret she’d deny it, admit it, leave him or make him leave. But what scared him the most was that he wanted to help her more than he’d ever wanted to help anyone, and he had no idea how.
“Great,” he allowed, and picked up the phone.
While he dialed, then waited for Serafina to get her order pad, he watched Isabelle get dressed. He was fascinated by the way she moved, the precision with which she picked up his far-flung clothes and smoothed them as she laid them on the bed. Serafina yelled, “Sceriffo!” twice before he remembered what he wanted to order.
When he hung up, Isabelle was staring out the window, braiding her hair. “All set?” she asked without turning around.
“Yeah.”
The need to go to her was as overwhelming as his need to help her, so he crossed the room and together they contemplated the moon. She leaned back against his chest and pulled his arms around her, crossing his hands over her belly. Something deep inside him shifted, and his throat went thick. He glanced around the apartment.
Tousled sheets, kitchen table spread with papers, his clothes folded and waiting for him on the bed.
Just like his white picket fence and wraparound porch, his funky kitchen, sad-eyed dog and well-stocked library, this apartment made him feel at ease. Maybe he was beginning to fit into Pleasant Ridge at last.
“Gabe?”
“Hmm?”
“You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?” She echoed his question.
Amazingly he didn’t. “Most people call me Klein. A few call me Gabe. Only my mother calls me Gabriel.”
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