by Kati Wilde
Hardly daring to breath, I ask, “Your leg?”
A short nod is the answer. Then a gritted, “Fuck.”
“It’s okay,” I say and carefully begin to unwind my legs. “Stop me if I make it worse.”
“You’re making it worse,” he immediately grates out.
I freeze.
A tremor wracks his big frame, followed by a soft grunt. A laugh, I realize. The best laugh he can manage right now. “Bad enough we have to stop,” he says a moment later, his voice strained. “Not having your thighs squeezing me tight is worse.”
It is. I hate letting him go.
I hate hurting him even more. Slowly I scoot back farther onto the table. His eyes are closed, his mouth in a flat line edged with white. “Was it me pressing against you? Or the way you were moving?”
“Moving.”
His clipped reply tells me the pain isn’t easing yet. Softly I bite my lip, waiting, afraid that anything I do will jar his leg and increase his agony. “Should I run upstairs to get your crutches?”
“No. It’ll just be a minute.” He gives another short grunt of a laugh. “Though maybe a lot longer before I can follow through on what we started.”
Before we can have sex. A hot little thrill races through me again at the thought of it—and the wondrous delight of knowing that he eventually wants to try again—but I do my best not to seem like an overeager dork with a crush when I say breezily, “That’s okay. I’d rather not have you crying and screaming while I’m trying to get off.”
He laughs again, harder this time, then his muscles go rigid again and he groans. “Shit. And me, I’m glad I’m not poaching on another man’s territory, after all.”
Which must have been the reason for all that talk about damning his soul and blaming. Because he’d despised the thought of touching someone else’s woman. Yet he’d wanted me enough to touch me anyway.
For an instant, that feels amazing. Like a blast of warmth through my heart, which is so used to the cold. My mother’s frigid disdain. My father’s icy control. In all my life, Jason’s really been the only person to want me for who I am.
And Cole wanted me so much that he’d betrayed his principles just to have me.
But it only feels amazing for an instant. Because in the next moment, I realize who Cole believed I was. A woman who would cheat on her boyfriend. Who would flirt with a guy and fuck him in a laundry room, even though she was seeing someone else. And if he believed that of me…well, that’s not the kind of woman you’d want anything more from than a fuck in a laundry room.
Cole might have wanted me. But if I was who he’d believed, whatever he felt couldn’t be the kind of want that would last beyond a furtive screw or two.
And he knows better now, but the ache of that realization is blooming in my heart like a corpse flower. Maybe it won’t bloom long, but right now it’s huge and fetid, turning all the sweet warmth into a rotten poison. He believed I was a cheater. Someone so selfish, I would hurt a guy as sweet as Jason without a second thought.
He wanted me. But whoever he wanted—that selfish, cheating girl—isn’t who I am.
And I knew my heart didn’t have enough armor yet. Which must be why it hurts so much now. I was so stupid to start this. So desperate for someone to see me, to want me. And if that someone was Cole Matthews, who’d fascinated me from the moment I first saw him? To suddenly have him kiss me was like a wish come true.
Maybe I should have been careful about what I wished for.
Throat aching, I avert my face, unable to bear seeing his pain, unable to bear how helpless I am to stop it—unable to bear how beautiful he is to me. I haven’t dared move much, so he’s still incredibly close, his hands braced on the edge of the table, my knees drawn up between us.
For a long time it seems the only sound is the tumble of the dryer. But it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before his quiet, “You all right?” draws my gaze to his face again. His eyes are dark and intense on mine, with a frown shadowing his expression—as if he can sense the hurt that’s still blooming inside me.
And I might not be a selfish cheater, but I’m apparently a liar. “Yes,” I tell him. “You?”
“Yeah. But wishing I’d killed Lowery.”
The man who shot him. Despite the pain in my heart, I have to smile at that blunt reply. But I don’t have it in me to give any other response. I simply don’t know what to say.
“Shit.” Hard fingers catch my chin, force my gaze to his. His eyes search mine. “You’re not moving, but I can feel you backing away from me. What’s going on in your head?”
A whole mess of things that I can’t control and don’t want to share. I don’t know how to do this relationship stuff, even if that relationship only consisted of a few hot kisses. And I don’t know how to get out of this without hurting more and exposing how stupidly vulnerable I am.
Voice thick, I finally say, “I think that maybe I better go now.”
And wait until this storm of uncertainty passes. Until I can think clearly again.
His brows push together in a dark frown. Bitterness laces his harsh tone. “You’re disappointed, then? Maybe wishing you’re with someone in good enough shape to give you what you need.”
The pain that pierces my chest leaves me speechless. I had been afraid of more hurt. But I didn’t know it was actually coming. Because maybe now Cole doesn’t see a cheater when he looks at me, but he must see someone shallow and petty to suggest something like that, even though I’ve never given him reason to believe it. Which makes him a judgmental dickhead who’ll immediately assume the worst of someone—and makes me an idiot for thinking he might be different.
But I’m not sticking around to let him hurt me some more. Jerking my chin out of his grip, I hop down from the table and began tossing my clothes into my basket. “This was a mistake,” I tell him, and only the tightness ballooning in my chest keeps the tears burning in my throat at bay.
“A mistake?” he echoes hoarsely. His hot gaze follows me as I push past him. “Seems to me you were having a fucking good time. So you’re just walking away from what we could have had here?”
No. I’m not walking away; I’m running away. Before I cry right in front of him.
But pride stops me before I take a single step. My breath hitches, yet still I manage to force out the words. “I’m not who you think I am. And if I’m disappointed, it’s only because you’re even more of an asshole than you said you were.”
Then I run.
5
Cole
Mia’s running away from me, but I can’t chase after her. If I try there won’t be some amazing romantic scene where I sweep her up into my arms. Instead I’d end up flat on my ass. So I watch her go, my heart like a hot lump of lead burning in my chest.
A mistake, she called this. Me touching her, kissing her. A mistake.
That’s something I get told often while I’m on the job. Every time we bring someone into the interview room.
You’ve made a mistake, detective. I didn’t steal anything.
If you think I killed anyone, you’re mistaken.
You’re making a big mistake, accusing me of this.
They’re wrong. They’re all wrong. It’s never a mistake talking to someone during an investigation. Because even if they’re not guilty, we can rule them out, or get information we didn’t have before.
But I’m not thinking of them now. Instead I’m thinking of someone else telling me I was making a mistake—but back then, I was the one walking out the door. It was the last thing my dad ever said to me. You’re making a big mistake, you little bastard. You think you’re going to make something of yourself? Those fuckers out there are never going to let you, just like they never gave me a chance. They’ll always look at you like a piece of shit. Then you’ll come crawling back home, begging for help from your old man.
Since then, not a second has passed that I haven’t proven him wrong. I’ve never gone back home. I made somet
hing of myself. And the sweetest part of it is, my old man taught me a hell of a lot about the job without even meaning to. He taught me how a man will use aggression and belligerence to conceal his inadequacy and fear. He taught me how many excuses a man will make when he’s done wrong, how he’ll paint himself as a victim. He taught me that a man will imagine everyone else is thinking and acting just like him, no matter how weak or corrupt it is. He never imagines anyone is truly better than he is, just better at pretending they are.
Hell, I use that in the interview room all the time. Just let the bastards run their mouths, ask them what they believe happened, and often what they accuse others of thinking and doing—turns out that’s exactly what the bastard thought and did.
This time I’m the bastard. Mia was already pulling away from me before she said this was a mistake, but maybe that’s because I called her brother a brainless fucker. Or maybe it’s what she said about her dad cheating on her mom, and there I was, assuming she was cheating, too. Maybe all that was sinking in.
Her saying that this was a mistake, though—that came right after I asked her if she was disappointed I couldn’t fuck her. When the truth is, that was all me, feeling like a tiny, inadequate piece of shit because I couldn’t give my woman what she needed. I just projected that crap all over her.
Some days there’s more of my old man in me than I want to admit. But I’ve spent most my life finding those parts and scratching them out. Right now, he’d be cursing Mia, calling her a whore and a tease.
Me, I’ll do what I should have from the start—thinking instead of raging, listening instead of talking. And she said something loud and clear. I’m not who you think I am.
So I’ll find out who Mia Bennet is. That shouldn’t be too damn hard. I’m a detective, for fuck’s sake. Reading people is my job. But I’ve got to stop assuming shit—and stop letting my dick lead the way. And, considering my leg’s so fucked that my dick isn’t going to be doing any leading for a while, that shouldn’t be too damn hard, either. The hardest thing might be getting her to talk to me again.
But I’ll find a way. I’ve had a taste of her and it was the sweetest damn thing I’ve ever known. Maybe another taste is more than I deserve. Or maybe that’s just my old man in me again, saying I don’t have a chance in hell of being with someone like her.
She’s too damn good for me, that’s a fact. But she’s too damn good for any man. So if she’s going to be with anyone, might as well be me. I just have to work harder to get there. That’s all right, though. That’s what I’ve been doing all my life.
My leg still feels like a shark made a snack out of it, so I settle back to wait. She left that tiny white sweater on the table. And Christ, it’s soft as hell. I’d joked about wearing it like a mitten and stroking my cock, but feeling it now, maybe it’s not such a joke.
Especially since I remember seeing her wear it last week. She’d just come out of her apartment, that dark hair pulled back in the ponytail she’s always sporting for work, her lips like red velvet, and this white cashmere clinging to her full breasts. Just so fucking beautiful—and now I know how soft it felt against her skin. So, yeah. I’ll be wrapping this little sweater around my dick before the night’s out.
Along with something else. Because I kill the time until the dryer stops by watching a game on my phone that I’m only half-paying attention to, because I’m still thinking of her legs in those little shorts, her nipples through that thin shirt. And there’s a sock in my dryer, the one she unloaded as fast as she could. A sock…and a pair of panties.
A little thong. Black lace that’s cupped her pussy. That’s soaked up her juices.
Like a fucking stalker I sniff them, though there’s nothing left of her scent on the fabric. Still, I know what she smells like, tastes like. The heady flavor that I licked from her fingers still lingers on my tongue.
And that was the dirtiest thing she’d ever done.
I stare at the panties as that realization sweeps through me. When she’d said it, I was so fucking torn up thinking about her boyfriend never touching her like she ought to be touched. But now it hits me again. That was the dirtiest thing she’d ever done? Then she’s either not done much…or it’s been done badly.
Christ. Maybe that’s another reason she pulled away. I came on to her like a freight train. Almost fucked her against a table. And I know what kind of man I am. I’m big and demanding and vulgar. There was no doubt she was right there with me, wildly turned on and looking forward to the ride. But, hell. As soon as we slowed down a little, maybe she started having second thoughts.
And maybe that means I shouldn’t slow down again. But more likely, pushing too hard will just set me further back with her than I already am.
So I’ve got to slow it down. Even if it kills me.
But at least now I’ve got a good reason to knock on her door.
Which is where I’m standing a few minutes later. There’s a long wait between my knock and the door swinging open, and the reason why strikes me the second I see her. She’s put on a big sweatshirt and a long pair of pajama pants. My chest tightens. I don’t know whether those oversized clothes are supposed to say “hands off” or to serve as some sort of protection, but either way they’re a clear sign that she doesn’t want to pick up where we left off.
Her pale blue eyes regard me warily. “Detective.”
So we’re back to that, even though she panted my name against my lips. All right.
That wary light fades when I hold up the sock. “This yours?”
“Yes.” As if relieved to discover the sock was what brought me to her door, some of the rigidity leaves her posture when she reaches for it. “Thank you.”
Since I’m keeping her panties, she shouldn’t be thanking me. But I don’t mention those at all and risk embarrassing her. Instead I draw in a deep breath. There’s the paint I smelled earlier—and something warmer, spicier, familiar. “You making pumpkin pies?”
“Pumpkin muffins.” Her tone is guarded, and her gaze lands on my bare chest before skittering away. “I plan to give them out to our neighbors, since mostly everyone’s been really nice about me moving so much stuff in and having my deliveries in the way all the time.”
Not all that much stuff, as far as I can see. In the living room, there’s just that big leather couch and a huge stack of boxes. “You better at baking than you are at laundry?”
Her lips twitch a little. “I think so. I haven’t done it much. But it’s just science, and I’m pretty good at that.”
Tasty science. Generously I offer, “I’ll test one, if you want me to.”
“Yeah, well. I said my neighbors were mostly nice. So you don’t get any of my muffins.”
I grin. Maybe she’s wary, but she’s sassy, too. And I’m crazy about her. “You going to invite me in?”
“No.”
“That’s all right.” I brace my shoulder against the door frame and look over her head. “I can be nosy from here. Is that all stuff from IKEA?”
She glances over her shoulder at the boxes marked with the store’s brand. “Yes.”
“You going to assemble it yourself?”
She seems to stiffen a little before shrugging, and I realize what she thinks I’m going to say. Why doesn’t a rich girl just pay for better furniture…or to have it assembled for her?
And that is what I was thinking. But maybe she already told me the answer.
“Because you like puzzles,” I say.
The look she gives me is more surprised than guarded. And maybe I hit that nail on the head, or maybe it’s more than that. Because she’s baking, and she mentioned going to Home Depot, taking classes…she just likes doing things. Putting shit together. Figuring out how it works. Not just dead bodies. Everything.
That’s sexy as fuck.
“Some of that stuff will take two people to put together and move around,” I tell her. “You need help, knock at my door.”
Again that wary surprise flickers in he
r eyes. “Thanks.”
Yeah, I bet she won’t. She’s got a brother to help her. Still, I mean it when I say, “The painting, too. Those the colors you’re thinking of?”
On the far wall, long stripes of rust, brown, and a deep golden yellow are painted in thick swatches. Mia turns to regard them from across the room. “I don’t know. I wonder if I’m too influenced by the season. Maybe next month I’ll be picking out red and green.”
Now that she mentions it, those colors do scream Thanksgiving—which is only four days away. “Maybe that’s not so bad. You like the holidays?”
“Historically, no.” A wry little smile tugs at her lips when she turns to face me again. “But I’m hoping the future ones will be better.”
“Now that you’ve moved out of your parents’ place?”
She nods.
“I know how that goes,” I tell her. “If you think I’m an asshole, you should meet my dad.”
Not that I’d ever wish that on anyone. But her smile widens briefly before a shadow falls across her expression again. Maybe thinking about why she called me an asshole. And why I deserved to be called one.
So it’s time for an apology. “Listen, Mia…” I probably should have practiced this ahead of time. What the hell do I say? That I was in a jealous snit? That I’m terrified I’ll never be at one hundred percent and be able to give her what she needs? “I made some shitty assumptions, and I shouldn’t have.”
Though her shoulders stiffen up again and her focus goes a little distant, she doesn’t toss the apology back in my face. Instead she quietly says, “Thank you.”
So far so good, then. “I’d like to make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me?” Her brow furrows and her light blue gaze returns to mine. “You just did. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Then I’d like to give you something.” Something other than a tongue down her throat in a laundry room. “Let me take you out tomorrow night. A drink, dinner. Whatever you like.”
