by Susan Fox
“Mmm,” she purred in anticipation. “I’m looking forward to seeing all your parts.”
“Guess you want to do some more talking first?” He sounded resigned.
That was what she’d planned for tonight. But now, what she needed wasn’t more words. It was physical and emotional intimacy. Lovemaking. “I do. After.”
“After?”
It gave her a delicious sense of feminine power to keep the undercover cop off balance. “There’s a time for talk and a time for—” Leaving the word action unsaid, she stepped forward, clasped her hands behind his neck, and tugged his head toward her.
His eyes gleamed. “Hell yeah.”
This time, Karen gave herself fully to the kiss, her heart full of hope, her body ripe with desire. She stroked down his back, so powerful under the soft cotton of his shirt. Hooking one leg around his, she pressed close to him, reveling in the hard, tantalizing thrust against her belly as his erection sprang to life again. Impatient to touch bare skin, she tugged his shirttail from his belted jeans, then greedily ran her hands over ripped muscles that flexed under her touch.
His fingers were busy with the back zipper of her sundress. “I like this dress,” he muttered. Then he stepped back, freeing himself from her grip.
Impatiently she shrugged her shoulders to send her dress sliding to the floor. She was about to step back into his arms when he said, “Mmm, I like that even more.” He studied her appreciatively. Clad only in a silky peach-colored bra and panties, she straightened her shoulders and delighted in his gaze.
“What happened?” He gestured to the scar on one hip, above the top band of her skimpy panties.
She ran a hand over the puckered flesh. “I was arresting a husband for domestic violence. His battered wife hauled herself up off the floor and grabbed a kitchen knife. She got in a swipe before I could stop her.” She studied his face, wondering if he found the scar ugly.
Instead, his hand cupped her hip in a warm caress. “Yeah, shit happens.”
A cop respecting her as another cop even when the thing most on their minds was lovemaking. Yes, she liked it.
And she liked it even more when his caress moved up to her breast. His large, dark hand was so masculine compared to her soft curves and the peach silk. She was a tall, fit woman who prided herself on her strength, yet how lovely to revel in her femininity, her sexuality. Her nipples tightened and he caressed one bud through her bra with a slow, circling fingertip.
Eager to see him naked, she unbuttoned his shirt. He stopped teasing her breast long enough to pull off his shirt and toss it on the floor. Even as he did, she was at work on his jeans, and soon they slid to the floor too.
Oh God, Jamal in nothing but black boxers. Boxers tented by an impressive erection. Dusky skin gleaming in the late afternoon light that slanted in the window. Muscles any athlete would envy and any woman would drool over. He was beautiful—and he, too, was flawed by scars. She touched one on his side above his waist, guessing from the shape that he’d been creased by a bullet. One day she’d ask. Now, she was just glad, so glad, that he’d survived all those years of undercover work and was ready to move to something less dangerous.
“Bedroom down the hall?” He hoisted her into his arms.
She let out a startled squeak. “Yes, but I can walk.”
“This is more fun.”
And it was, being carried as if she weighed next to nothing. This was the first time in her adult life except for training exercises that a man had carried her. She snuggled against Jamal’s hot, naked chest as one powerful arm curved around her shoulders and the other hooked under her bare legs. Leaning her cheek against him, she breathed in his scent, slightly musky and totally male. Seductive, addictive.
Her bedroom was plain and functional, only a few family photos for décor, but Jamal didn’t glance at anything other than the bed. He laid her down, her head on stacked pillows. A moment later he was on the bed too, leaning over her, unfastening the front closure of her bra and sucking her nipple.
Pleasure arced through her and she pressed into him, demanding more. Her fingers stroked through his wavy hair, its texture springy and slightly rough, as masculine as everything else about him.
He licked around her areola, flicked the tip of her nipple with his tongue, took the bud between his lips, and alternated sucks and licks.
Gripping his head, she moaned, arched, and her hips twisted as need hummed between her legs.
His erection was sandwiched against her thigh, thick and hard. She wanted to touch him, lick and suck him, explore every inch of his body. But even more than that, she wanted him inside her. Later, there’d be time to do everything. Right now she wanted to merge their bodies, to seal the deal so there was no going back. God knows, her body, celibate for over a year, was primed and crying out for release.
“Jamal, now. I want you now.” She stretched out a hand to open the drawer of the bedside table, where she’d stashed a brand new package of condoms.
He raised his head, studied her face, then glanced at the box she’d pulled from the drawer. “What happened to foreplay?”
“We’ll do that later.”
“Thank you, God.” Deftly he sheathed himself, then kneeled between her spread legs.
She gazed up at him, dark and powerful, muscular and gorgeous, that thick erection all hers. Their first time. Another woman might have wanted it tender and romantic, but tender wasn’t the way she felt right now. She wanted him; he wanted her; they belonged together. It was that simple, that primal.
“Kiss me,” she demanded.
When he moved forward to comply, she reached between their bodies to grasp his penis. It jerked in her hand and she firmed her grip.
As Jamal’s lips took hers in a fiery kiss, she eased the tip of his erection between her damp folds, guiding him inside her. She gasped with shock—it had been so long since she’d felt a man enter her, and he was so big—and with pleasure as her sensitive flesh responded to his touch.
He thrust in and out in small movements, working his way deeper as her body loosened to accommodate him. Had anything ever felt so good? The sensations, combined with the fact that this was Jamal, had her wrapping her arms around him, holding him like she never wanted to let him go.
Their kiss was frantic now, a mix of tongue thrusts, nips, and moans. Much of her attention was focused elsewhere, on the quick, irresistible build of arousal that intensified with his every thrust. Sexual tension and need coiled, a tightly wound spring that begged for release.
“Faster,” she panted. “Jamal, I’m so close and I need—”
She broke off as he obeyed her command, driving into her. If she’d been a smaller, less strong woman, his thrusts might have hurt. As it was, she rose eagerly to meet them, reaching down to grab the taut curves of his butt and urge him even deeper.
Tilting her hips to increase the pressure of his shaft against her aching clit, she said, “Oh yes! There, like that. More! Oh God, Jamal, that’s—” And she cried out with the pure, sharp pleasure of orgasm as he took her over the edge in a fierce crash, followed by throbbing waves of aftershock.
She’d barely started to breathe again when his hips jerked harder, he groaned, and his climax poured into her. His sharp thrusts crashed her into another orgasm of her own.
Vaguely, she was aware of her heart beating like she’d raced up ten flights of stairs. Of Jamal collapsing in slow-mo on top of her. They lay, sealed together by sweat, chests heaving.
Finally he blew out a noisy sigh and managed to roll off to lie beside her.
She lay flat, arms and legs flung out, limp and used up. Grinning with utter satisfaction. How perfect was that, for a first-time memory?
Jamal reached for her hand and gave a throaty chuckle. “Guess I’m better at taking orders than I thought I was.”
She turned her head on the pillow and gazed at him. Naked and gorgeous, he looked as used up as she felt. “Did it bother you, me telling you what I needed?”
>
“Hell no. I like it. It’s better than trying to guess what you want.”
“You, Jamal Estevez. That’s what I want.”
His eyes twinkled with humor. “Again? Now? I’m a little—”
“Idiot. You know what I mean.”
“Oh.” The humor faded as comprehension dawned. “Well, uh, yeah. That’s . . . good.” He shoved himself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom.
She rolled her eyes. His communication skills definitely needed work. His sex skills, though, were outstanding. Stretching luxuriously, she ogled his rear view, noting another scar but mostly just appreciating all those firm muscles flexing.
When Jamal came back, he sat on the edge of the bed and offered her a glass of icy cold water. “You know you’re too good for me, right?” His expression was surprisingly serious.
Still, he had to be joking. Tongue in cheek, she said, “Totally.” Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she felt the pleasant ache of muscles, inside and out, that hadn’t been used for a long time. Muscles that had never been so thoroughly exercised. She took the glass and had a long, refreshing swallow of water.
“Okay then.” He still looked serious. “Just as long as you realize I’m not exactly perfect.”
He was probably thinking about how his two crappy families and his undercover work didn’t give him much of a foundation for knowing how to build a relationship. A family. She put the glass on the bedside table and captured his hand. “No one’s perfect.”
“You have high standards.”
“And you’ll measure up. We need to keep talking, keep trying. Be honest with each other.”
He freed his hand and reached for the glass. “Want to think about dinner?”
“I thought we could go to the Wild Rose.”
“Tomorrow.”
Her brows rose. On the job, he outranked her. If he thought he could boss her around in their personal lives, he had a lesson to learn.
“I brought Thai food,” he said.
“The cooler bag,” she remembered.
“You said you like Thai and can’t get it here.”
Okay, not bossy. Considerate. “I love Thai. Jamal, that’s so sweet of you.”
He winced, which made her chuckle.
Chapter 7
Half an hour later, after Jamal and Karen had shared a shower and a steamy quickie, he sat at her kitchen table. He could get used to this: having great sex; spending time with a beautiful, strong woman; contemplating a future he’d never before imagined. Didn’t hurt, either, that the kitchen smelled of spicy Thai food.
They’d heated the tom kha gai soup and spooned it into two large bowls. The rest of the food—chicken with red curry and bamboo shoots, ginger beef with onions and mushrooms, pad Thai, and a big container of jasmine rice—sat on the counter waiting to be nuked.
Karen, again clad in that sexy green sundress, leaned into the fridge. “Beer?”
“No, thanks. I’m good with water.”
“Seriously?” She poured a bottle of Caribou Crossing Pale Ale into a glass for herself and came to sit across from him. “Beer’s perfect with Thai food.”
“You think? I like water.” He swallowed, imagining the taste of beer, the way he’d done millions of times in two years of sobriety. Hurriedly, he spooned up some soup. The flavors of chicken, coconut milk, mushrooms, lemongrass, and spices mingled on his tongue.
This was going to get tough, finding reasons to avoid drinking. He couldn’t do the empty-the-bottle thing in Karen’s kitchen, like he did in the bar after shooting hoops. On the job, he sometimes used that trick, but had other pretenses as well, depending on the circumstances. He might say he was into drugs, and booze was too lightweight. Or he’d pretend to be “above” the pitiful people who needed drugs and booze.
“I’m not much for drinking these days,” he said. “Like I said before, when you work undercover, it can get to be a bad habit. Besides, the last couple times I had a drink, it didn’t agree with me.” Back in the bedroom, she’d told him they had to be honest, and every word he’d spoken was true.
“Hmm. Maybe you’ve developed an allergy. You should see a doctor.” She lifted her glass. “Not that I’m a big drinker, but it’s nice to have a beer or a glass of wine when you feel like it.”
“Yeah.” She could say that again. Maybe it’d be okay now—now that he wasn’t doing undercover work, now that he’d gotten his life under control—to have the occasional beer.
His fingers itched to reach across the table and curl around that sweating glass of golden brew. Under control? Hah! He was an addict. That meant no more drinking. Ever. He wouldn’t give in to weakness, wouldn’t fuck up again.
Karen was way too good for him. She thought he was a better man than he was, and damn it, he was going to be that man. No need to tell her about the loser he used to be. This was a fresh start.
She raised another spoonful of soup to her lips. “Mmm. Delicious. Thank you so much.”
“Perks of the big city.”
A nod, then she leveled him with a steady gaze from those tawny eyes. “We’ve got a long-distance problem in this relationship. If we got serious . . .”
“Commuting between Vancouver and Caribou Crossing would get old pretty quick,” he agreed.
“You really plan to give up undercover work?”
“I do.” A pang of loss, of regret made him pause and reflect. But he knew the decision was right. “On this last assignment, I was thinking there are things I’d rather be doing.”
Her lips curved. “Basketball hoop?”
He nodded. “Eating Thai food with you.” A grin snuck up on him. “Or doing what we were doing before this.”
“Making love with me was more fun than stalking drug gangs? Gosh, I’m flattered.”
They both chuckled.
Karen cleared the empty soup bowls and put the rest of the food in the microwave. Turning to face him, leaning back against the counter, she asked, “D’you hate small towns? All the country stuff?”
He’d put some thought into that, knowing how fond she was of this place. “Don’t have enough experience to say for sure. But you know that if we got together, we probably couldn’t both work in the Caribou Crossing detachment. It’d be different if it was bigger, but—”
“I know. If you took Miller’s place, you’d be my boss. A member can’t date her supervisor.”
“Or even work the same shift as someone she’s dating. With only a handful of members here, it’d make for a logistical nightmare.”
“Williams Lake is a bigger detachment.” Again with that steady gaze. “The staff sergeant there is retiring in a couple of months.”
“Huh. It’s an hour and a half drive. Nice scenery along the way, but it’s a long commute,” he mused.
“There are nice places to live between here and Williams Lake. If we wanted to split the difference.” She gave a soft laugh. “And we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.”
Funny how it didn’t scare him. At least not much. “Well, this weekend we’re both here. How about you show me Caribou Crossing, Karen?”
A grin flickered. “Sell you on it, you mean?”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way, but . . .”
She flicked her head. That multicolored dark brown hair slipped and slid over her bare shoulders, making him want to plunge his fingers through it and caress the skin below. Then her chin went up and her eyes sparkled. “I’ll accept that challenge, Sergeant Estevez. I bet I can make you love Caribou Crossing.”
Right then, looking at tall, toned, curvy Karen in that little green dress, Jamal figured she could make him love pretty much anything. Including her.
He should’ve known there’d be horses.
It was Saturday afternoon and Jamal was in the passenger seat of Karen’s truck, on his way to go riding for the first time in his life. A female voice on the radio sang that she knew some guy was trouble from the moment he walked in. Outside the window, the sun shone in
a clear blue sky and the scenery unfolded. They’d passed some craggy hills and a low-key tourist attraction called Gold Rush Days Park. Karen told him that the town had its origins in the 1860s gold rush. When the gold died out, a few enterprising men turned from mining to ranching.
They were definitely in ranching country now. Split-rail fences lined the two-lane country road, marking off rolling hills with grazing cattle and fields with horses. Here and there a farmhouse, often with a barn and outbuildings, gave evidence of the humans who tended the livestock.
The morning had started the best way possible, with great sex. After, Karen had gone into the detachment and he’d caught up on rest. Sleep had been scarce the last few days, as he and Jake had tidied up the Black Devils case.
Now, he was glad to feel more rested. He might not have cowboy boots and a Stetson, but if he could ride a motorbike on challenging roads at high speed, he could stay on top of a horse.
On their left, a wooden sign with a couple of stylized horses said “Ryland Riding.” Karen turned. “This is where I keep Montana. Sally is a widow who boards horses and teaches riding. She was a barrel racer when she was younger. I called her, so she knows we’re coming.”
The white fence alongside the narrow road could use fresh paint. So could the house and outbuildings, which included a large barn and what he guessed was an indoor ring. It seemed the widow was having trouble keeping up with things after her husband died.
Karen parked in the barnyard beside a Ford truck with a horse trailer attached. Closer to the barn, eight horses sporting Western saddles and bridles were tied to a couple of hitching rails. They gazed curiously as he and Karen exited her vehicle.
She opened the canopy and Tennison jumped out, panting with excitement. With the German shepherd at her heels, Karen strode across to the barn door.
Jamal hung back a moment to watch. Snug-fitting jeans on a good-looking woman. One of life’s pleasures. With them, she wore cowboy boots, a Stetson, and a blue-and-green plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up her forearms. Jamal, used to blending in on undercover jobs, felt out of place wearing Nikes and a black tee with his jeans.
