by CP Smith
Dallas grabbed my hips as I rode out my orgasm, pounding deep, bringing what had started to die out back to life. I’d never had multiple orgasms during sex, only ever with a mouth or my favorite toy. However, Dallas seemed to know how to work a female body, to make it sing, to make it fly.
The second climax hit me harder than the first and it wasn’t so much a moan as a shriek that spilled from my lips. Yet, even over my own noise, I still heard, and felt deep inside, the rumble of his own groan as he surged in, held, and then spilled inside of me.
It was beautiful, better than I could have imagined in my writer’s brain. On paper, sex was like choreography of sorts. Choosing which way they flip or what position they should use. However, this wasn’t a book; this was messy, sweaty, excruciatingly beautiful, and bone-tiring sex.
Sated, we tumbled to our sides. Dallas reached down, pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed, and covered us both as we tried to catch our breath. I rolled until my head was resting on his chest; my legs tangled with his, and listened to the thundering sound of his heartbeat.
“You ok?” Dallas asked as he ran his hand up and down my spine.
Nuzzling my head into his chest, I kissed him and answered with, “Mmm.”
Dallas chuckled at my inability to speak and the low tones vibrated in my ear as my lids grew heavy from exhaustion. I could have drifted off to sleep within a minute and I was thinking about doing just that, but he squeezed me once and I lifted my head to find him looking down at me. He leaned down, took my mouth, and gave me the sweetest kiss I’d ever had. Then he stunned me.
“Get under the covers, baby. I have to hit the road.”
You have to what?
I wanted to blurt out, “I’m sorry I must have misunderstood,” but I didn’t want to be that woman, the kind that questioned everything, the kind that acted like a leech—clingy. He had his own place, a job, and he might have a cat or dog that needed feeding. Hell, there were any number of reasons why he had to leave, yet, I, figured it was me, of course.
Oh, don’t groan at me for thinking that. I’m a novice at this stuff. I write these guys, I don’t actually know what goes on in their heads.
He squeezed me again to get me to move. I untangled from him to let him up. He tucked me in (which was nice even though I needed a shower now), before he pulled on his jeans and tagged his shirt and boots off the floor. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages before leaning down to run a hand gently down my cheek. I held my breath thinking this is where he’ll say, “You’re the best I’ve ever had.” I was sadly disappointed though, when his intense eyes slightly softened before he asked, “What’s your alarm code?”
What’s my alarm code?
Why is it never like it is in books, where the hero spews forth words of love or flowery poetry that made the heroine weak in the knees? He should have said something romantic like, “Waited my whole life for someone like you,” not “What’s your alarm code.”
“Um, five four five two,” I answered feeling morose.
“I’ll let myself out and set the alarm. You’ve got my number now so I want you to check in with me tomorrow after your book signing and let me know where you are okay.”
“Okay,” I whispered back, wondering why I had to call him. Aren’t the heroes in a story supposed to pursue the heroine? Yeesh, one lunch and a romp in the hay and already he wants me pursuing him.
“Hate to leave, babe, but duty calls,” he mumbled, then brushed his lips across mine twice, then whispered “Later,” and he was gone.
Duty calls?
I should call him?
Snape jumped up on the bed while I was thinking “wham bam thank you ma’am” had been the order of this evening and asked him, “Did you hear his phone ring or vibrate, Snape?”
“Meow.”
“Yeah, I didn’t either . . .”
***
“What’s so important that you needed my help?” Dallas asked Reed as he approached the tarp covered body.
Reed looked up at his partner then looked at his watch. He’d called him over an hour and a half ago to tell him they’d caught a case. He’d never known the man to take this long to arrive on a crime scene.
“You get lost?” Reed asked.
“I was taking Nicola and her friend home from a bar when you called.”
“Were you now?”
“Yeah,” Dallas answered cautiously, “I was searchin’ her friend’s house when you called, makin’ sure she was secure then I had to take Nicola home.”
“That still doesn’t account for an hour of it,” Reed grinned.
“Are we here to work or here to gossip?” Dallas asked with a sigh. He didn’t need reminders of what he’d been doing. Never in his career had he postponed leaving on a call if Bill needed him. But after what Nicola had said at the bar, the minute she had opened her door and the scent of vanilla had wafted up from her hair, he’d lost control of his brain functions. His neurons hadn’t started firing again until his head hit her pillow and she’d curled her body around him like a kitten. Even then, he hadn’t wanted to crawl out of that bed, he wanted to lay there with her until he’d recovered, then roll her to her back, and begin a slow seduction all over again. He could still hear her mewling cries rambling around in his head and all he wanted to do was turn around, head back to her house, and crawl into that king sized bed until she was breathless and screaming his name.
“I’m thinkin’ work, but your face is tellin’ me, you’re someplace else,” Reed grinned.
“Victim?” Dallas snapped, not about to admit to being so weak for a woman’s touch that he couldn’t focus.
“You’re not gonna like this one,” Reed stated, instinctively knowing when to stop pushing. “You know Jerome Warner, the kid Nicola took out?”
“Are you tellin’ me he’s out on bail already and is now lyin’ dead in the street,” Dallas asked surprised.
“Nope, I’m tellin’ you that the only witness to his crime is lyin’ in the street, due to a drive-by shooting.”
Dallas moved quickly to the sheet-covered body and pulled it back. Staring wide-eyed back at him was the seventy-six-year old man who’d bravely testified that he’d seen Warner pull a gun during a drive-by shooting that ended the life of a five-year-old girl.
“Goddammit,” Dallas seethed. “First a kid and now an old man, who fought in a war, so this bastard could live free, just to get killed.”
“Warner is still in jail, so he couldn’t have killed the man.”
“Right,” Dallas replied in disbelief. “You know as well as I do the punk is responsible for this man’s death, whether he pulled the trigger or not.”
“Oh, I know that, partner, but without this man to testify, your kid walks free. And with him behind bars, he’s got the perfect alibi. The kid may be an idiot, but he’s not dumb.”
Gently covering old man Jeffery’s face, Dallas stood and looked around at the crowd that had gathered. He saw indifference on all the faces to the fact that this old man had died doing what was right. He also saw fear that if they testified to what they’d seen, they too would be lying in the street covered with a coroner’s sheet.
“Tell me something, Reed,” Dallas demanded. “How many of those gawkers do you think know who did this and won’t lift a finger to see justice served?”
Reed scanned the crowd and saw the same thing Dallas had seen, fear, and indifference. “I’d say most of them know and none of them will.”
“Yet, we’ll spend most of the night and part of tomorrow interviewing everyone.”
“It’s the way it works,” Reed agreed.
Dallas looked at Reed and thought about what he’d left behind to stand over the body of a man who’d risked his life twice to do what was right and for the first time since becoming a cop, he wished he hadn’t.
“I’ll start on the left and meet you in the middle,” Dallas mumbled before heading toward the gathering crowd.
***
One of my favorite places in the world to be in is a small and intimate bookstore. Actually, any bookstore sends my heart racing, but there’s something about a smaller bookstore that makes the experience special. With the larger warehouse stores and their designer coffee taking over, the smaller stores that have been home to generations of booksellers are hard to come by. In Tulsa, the smaller stores have all but disappeared. Thankfully, one bookseller has remained in business by selling some new, but mostly used, books.
Gardner’s Used Books has a vast space filled with classic tales, fiction and non-fiction, children’s books, and even a music section where you could dig for hours hunting vintage vinyl treasures. A huge, green, Incredible Hulk greets you when you walk through the door, and aisles and aisles of books. But it’s the aroma of coffee mixed with the smell of ink and paper that makes me dizzy with glee.
Gardner’s supports local writers and because of that, they offer our current titles on a special shelf to ensure customers know they are supporting our work. In addition to supporting local talent by promoting their books, they decided to host a book club for the first time this month, allowing authors to read from their books and answer questions from readers.
My mother liked to accompany me when I had book signings. With her children raised and my father at work most days, she had the time to tag along. Be it at home or out of town, she’s been my travel companion, and biggest fan, since my first book was published.
Today was no different.
At fifty-six, Maggie Royse retained her girlish figure and good looks that had caught my father’s eye all those years ago. She still wore her blonde hair longer than most her age and hadn’t fallen into the trap many women of a certain age do, by letting herself go. Her style was causal, hip, but not so hip she looked like she was trying too hard. As the wife of a doctor, she knew that she needed to keep her look fresh in a world where women couldn’t care less if a man was married. Not that I thought for a minute my father would cheat (yes, I’m Daddy’s little girl), but mother was realistic and thought if she wanted to keep her man focused on her, she needed to take care of her appearance, and of him. Daddy adored my mother and from the looks he gave her and the hand that always seemed to make it to her ass if she was close, I’d say she gave him good reason.
Anyhow, mother was with me and as always a big help restocking books if the need arose or taking payments while I chatted with my readers and took pictures. She was talking with the owner of Gardner’s and I was seated at a long table with four other authors from the surrounding area.
Earlier, during a question and answer session, I couldn’t take my eyes of a woman that I could swear I met before. She’d asked whether or not Broderick and Rebecca, the couple in my upcoming novel “Highlander’s Pride,” would unseat Douglas and Heather from “Highlander’s Bride” as the most passionate couple I’d ever written. Now she was handing me a book and I had the oddest feeling she was dissecting my every answer, maybe even looking for flaws. She was attractive, somewhere in her late forties, I’d guess, with dark-brown hair, a curvy figure, and green eyes that seemed to miss nothing as she took in the room.
“You can make that out to June,” she smiled as she scanned my face, hair, and body.
“It’s nice to meet you, June. Thanks so much for reading my books,” I replied as I signed her copy making sure my curly Q’s were attractive as I wrote her a note of thanks.
“You seem to know a lot about relationships. I suppose you’ve been married for a while?”
“No, I’ve never been married,” I smiled back. “But my parents have a great relationship. I learned from them how to pick your battles, the give and take in a marriage, and how to trust someone with your heart.”
“I’m shocked you aren’t married as cute as you are. Surely you must have men begging you for dates,” she inquired.
An image of Dallas popped into my head followed by sweaty limbs tangled with mine, hot breath on my neck as he pushed me up against a wall, and the memory of how he made my body burn. Feeling a blush creeping up my neck, I mumbled, “Um, no, no one begging me for dates.”
“Are you interested in marriage?” she asked, almost as if I was under interrogation.
“Um, to the right person,” I responded as I dotted my I’s and crossed my T’s before closing the cover and handing it back to her.
“But you haven’t met him yet?” she continued like a dog with a bone.
I started to answer her with “maybe,” but the lady behind her moved to her side and handed me her book. “It was nice meeting you, June, thank you for coming,”
“One last question before I go,” she blurted out.
“Ok.”
“Do you have a problem with guns?”
“What?” I squeaked, looking around the room, wondering if there were any brawny sized men close at hand.
“You know handguns, shotguns.”
“Um, is there a reason you’re asking me this?”
“Definitely . . .”
“And that would be?”
“Well, if you and Dallas work out and get married, eventually you’ll have guns in the house. You need to be prepared. If he’s anything like my Bill then there will be lots of guns. I’ve learned to live with them and our girls know not to touch them. I’ve even learned to shoot too, so when you’re ready, we could go to the range together, maybe blow some pop bottles up.”
“You’re Detective Reed's wife aren’t you?” I knew I’d recognized her from somewhere. She’s the same woman from the picture on his desk.
“Oh, sweet joy!” my mother gasped. “What’s this about her getting married?”
Hell’s bells.
“I am, I married the man over twenty years ago, and I wouldn’t change a thing. If you tell him that though, I’ll deny it.”
“It’s wonderful you’ve been married this long, but what’s this about Nicola getting married?” my mother continued, her breaths coming quicker at the thought of marrying me off.
“Mom,” I tried to jump in when June turned to look at her.
“Hi, I’m June, and you must be Nicola’s mother,” June replied, sticking out her hand to my mother.
“Nice to meet you, June, but what’s this about her getting married?” my mother shrieked as she grabbed June’s hand and started pumping it excitedly as her eyes glistened with uncontrolled euphoria.
“I’m not getting married,” I interrupted, knowing this would end badly if I didn’t get my mother under control.
“Not yet, but we’ll work on it,” came June’s answer and she and my mother moved to the side and began scheming.
I had at least twenty women waiting in line, which meant I couldn’t jump up and curtail whatever was happening between my mother and Bill’s wife. As if she’d forgotten why she was here, my mother, disappeared with June into the café attached to Gardner’s, while I struggled with signing books and taking payments at the same time. By the time the line had shrunk in size, I had a bad feeling that bridesmaids dresses and location for the wedding had been discussed.
After I’d handled the crowd, packed up my books, and loaded them into my car, I went in search of the two women. I found them in a booth drinking coffee, chatting away as if they were best friends. Flopping down in the seat next to my mother, I turned and scowled at her.
“Thanks for the help,” I said when she turned to me, but she didn’t look the least bit chagrined about leaving me shorthanded.
“You’ll thank me later, sweetheart,” mother laughed, unfazed by my mood.
“June,” I said, ignoring my mother, “Dallas and I have only just started dating. It’s a little early to be planning our wedding.”
“Don’t crush my hopes, Nicola,” mother bit out on a sigh.
June had been watching my mother and me as we interacted with a knowing smile.
“Nicola,” June jumped in, “Dallas has been single for two years and in all that time he’s been on four dates of which all ended with him not call
ing for a second. The way he rushed out of my house when you called the other day told me you were different.”
“See, you’re different, sweetheart,” my mother spouted, vibrating at the thought of marrying me off. “Wait, why did he rush out of the house?”
Oh, boy.
My brothers and I had agreed not to say anything to my parents because they’d worry for no reason. Now the cat was out of the bag. Looking at my mother, but coming up empty, June saved the day with a knowing look and replied, “She was having a cookout, and her grill wouldn’t light.”
“Oh, a cookout, that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll talk to your father and see if we can’t organize one this weekend. We can have you and Dallas, the twins, the girls and you’re welcome to come as well, June.”
“Mother, I don’t think—”
“It’s all settled, Nicola. The sooner Dallas gets to know everyone the sooner he’ll feel like part of the family.”
“But—”
“Humor your old mother,” she snapped, “I could be dead before any of my children get married at the rate you three are going. The least you can do is give me this.”
“She’s good,” June replied, laughing at my mother’s obvious manipulation.
That she was.
“Fine, but I can’t guarantee Dallas will come. I think he’s on call this week.”
“Nope, it’s Bill’s week to take after hours calls.”
“Dallas isn’t on call?” I asked, thinking about how he had to race off last night.
“Nope, they take turns if anything comes in after hours. It’s Bill’s turn this week.”
“Oh.”
Duty Calls? How could I have been so stupid? I laid there like some lovesick fool waiting for pretty words from a man who was just trying to leave quickly.
“Nicola, are you ok?” my mother asked.
“Hm? Oh, yeah, just worried about Kasey is all,” I lied. “I need to hit the road mother; I have a ton of stuff to do.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” she answered as I scooted out of the booth.
