Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  “Ethan Booker? Sheriff Ethan Booker?”

  “Yes, and yes.” Not in uniform, no, but otherwise looking as authoritative, and—damn her perverse hormones—hot as ever in a charcoal V-neck that did all kinds of justice to his shoulders and chest, and dark pants that did justice to everything else. The porch light found the sun-streaked strands in his thick brown hair and turned them copper.

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “No clue.”

  Perverse or not, no red-blooded woman could deny Booker was an eyeful, but she ought to be used to it. She’d been looking her fill for a while. In the years since rookie Booker had first hauled her sorry ass home from Nido Beach, he’d worked his way up the ladder of command to sheriff, and she’d outgrown her juvenile rebellions. Mostly. She owned a business, paid taxes, and, aside from a few speeding tickets, abided by the laws like any upstanding member of society. Didn’t matter. Booker’s assessing stare always regressed her to teenaged troublemaker at the same time it sent her grown-up sex-drive surging.

  She was no longer a wayward delinquent resorting to reckless behavior in a desperate search for the attention she didn’t get at home, but only a blind woman would miss the fact that he saw a shadow of that girl when he looked at her. And he looked at her a lot. As if he knew exactly what his quiet stare did to her. As if he was biding his time.

  “Think he got a noise complaint?” Chelsea asked.

  All her neighbors were here, so it seemed unlikely, but she raised her chin and channeled the defiance she defaulted to whenever Booker appeared. “So what if he did? It’s New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake.”

  While she watched, those keen eyes scanned the room. For her.

  Someone killed the music, and people started cheering.

  Ten… The walls of her apartment shook as revelers broke into the countdown. “Ten lousy seconds and the party will be over anyway. What’s the point of barging in now, except to be a hard-ass?”

  Nine… “Maybe he wants to wish you a happy New Year?”

  Eight… “Yeah, right. From a jail cell.”

  Seven… Booker’s attention locked on her. Her stomach took a free fall, as usual. She realized she was worrying the corner of her thumbnail and made herself cut it out.

  Six… “Uh-oh. He spotted me.” His gaze turned oddly…purposeful. No other word fit the lowered brows and tractor-beam stare. The man was clearly on a mission, and the determination in his expression raised the tiny hairs on her arm. Whatever he wanted, it had nothing to do with a noise complaint. Booker’s voice echoed through her mind from a full decade ago. We can revisit the topic in ten years.

  Five… “Don’t assume the worst.”

  Four… She downed her champagne, and set the glass on an end table while he shouldered his way through her small, packed living room. Her rapid pulse rushed the bubbles straight to her head.

  Three… “I better go.”

  Two… “Happy New Year. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  One… “I may only get one phone call. Happy New Year’s, Chels.”

  Booker took her phone, hit disconnect, and slipped it into his back pocket at the same time confetti went flying and the room erupted into shouts of “Happy New Year!”

  “Hey, give me my pho—”

  His mouth crashed down on hers. Strong fingers sank into her hair, and…holy hell. However many years she’d had to envision this moment, one thing became startlingly apparent. She’d failed to adequately prepare for it. Waves of excitement and alarm rolled through her at the realization.

  Then again, how could she have prepared for Booker’s kiss? How could she prepare for this much intensity, and all this hunger?

  His mouth moved on hers, parting her lips wider, then wider still, and just when she’d gotten a grip on his shoulders and started to make a move of her own, he swept in with long, deep strokes she couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to resist. And he was so sure she wouldn’t he didn’t even hurry, simply kept up the slow, commanding slide of his tongue. She didn’t consider herself the kind of woman who obeyed commands, but he was dragging them somewhere she desperately wanted to go. A place she’d fantasized about for too long. Though it wasn’t smart, or particularly sane, she took two fistfuls of his very nice, very expensive sweater, and held on.

  From somewhere nearby, a voice yelled, “Take it to the pub, yanks. First round’s on me.” In a vague recess of her mind, she registered people leaving, calling their thanks as they squeezed past, but she didn’t respond. More urgent priorities demanded her attention. Priorities like the scrape of his rough jaw against her skin, and whisper-soft cashmere covering hard muscles. Her hands found a route under his sweater and raced along his warm, smooth, withstand-anything back.

  “Aaand we’re out. Cheers to you. Happy New Year.” The door closed, and she sensed without looking they had the apartment to themselves. Apparently he sensed it too, because the next thing she knew, he’d backed her up against the hallway wall. He pulled his mouth away long enough to level a serious look at her. “Ground rules.”

  “Uh-uh.” Rules would require negotiation, and negotiation implied they had more at stake here than rampant lust. In other words, negotiation would ruin this. She wrapped her arms around his neck, came up on her toes, and sank her teeth into his upper lip. He groaned, and slammed his hips into hers. The position pinned her to the wall, and gave her a forceful preview of what he had in store for her. Her body responded with a rush of anticipation guaranteed to send her silk shorts to the dry cleaners along with her champagne-splashed top. Against the lip she’d just abused, she murmured, “Booker, don’t confuse me with one of your well-bred, easily-shocked, country-club girls. I’m not well-bred and nothing shocks me. My only rules are fast, hard, and so filthy dirty it leaves a stain on your soul.”

  Chapter Two

  Her words put to rest ground rule number one. Express mutual consent. Too bad the accord he sought involved a hell of a lot more than fast, hard, and dirty. He pushed her wild mane of blond corkscrew curls back from her forehead, framed her face with his hands—okay, trapped her—and waited until she looked him in the eye. Hers brimmed with impatience, which made him all the more determined to go slow. “Declining a review of the ground rules constitutes your agreement to everything I’ve got in mind.”

  The smart-ass gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “My goodness, Sheriff. Are you going to whip out your cuffs and restrain me? Push me up against the wall and give me a thorough frisking?” Her smile returned, sly and defiant. “Should I assume the position while you unholster your big, dangerous weapon?”

  Graphic images played in his mind, and challenged his commitment to go slow. Some things hadn’t changed in ten years. She still liked to test the boundaries. He held his ground and returned her cagey smile. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you, Lauralie?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her little nose went up a notch. “Don’t call me that—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed a firm kiss against her stubborn mouth. “No rules, remember?”

  He used his tongue to sweep the next smart-assed comment out of her mouth. The methodology worked, but took a toll on him, too. He’d dreamed about having her pressed against him like this, and those dreams always proved he had a vivid, masochistic imagination, but nothing his subconscious mind had manufactured came anywhere close to reality.

  “You smell like vanilla.” The sweet scent clung to skin that was warmer, silkier, and more sensitive than in his darkest fantasies. Her lips were far more giving, and nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to her taste. He promised himself he’d savor every inch of her before the sun rose.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “I like it.”

  Slim fingers skidded down the front of his trousers. She moaned approvingly—thank Christ, because his cock had reached zipper-straining proportions and there was no camouflaging it—“I see that you do. What else do you like?”

  Before he could answer, sh
e reached lower and cupped his balls. Not a polite, gentle cradling, but a hold tight enough to wring a groan out of him. Then she squeezed, and while a paralyzing mix of pain and pleasure shot through his groin, she managed to undo his belt and unfasten his pants.

  Blinking the haze from of his vision, he clamped his fingers around her wrist. “I’ve waited a long time. Don’t even think about rushing.” He caught her other wrist, and pinned her arms to the wall over her head.

  Her pent-up breath gushed out against his cheek. He breathed it in, absorbing her through every available means, then banded her wrists in one hand and brought the other down in a long, sweeping caress from the bend in her elbow to the swell of her breast. He loitered there, memorizing the tantalizing curve beneath the spangled top. No bra. The discovery sent currents of need scorching through him, followed by an annoying afterburn of jealousy. Irrational jealousy, he silently acknowledged, as he lifted her breast and let it fall. A million shiny, silver disks shimmered. She bit her lip, and arched off the wall for more of his touch—his touch—but the possessive emotion refused to back off.

  “Did you plan to torment every guy at the party with the sight of your tits bouncing around under your shirt, or were you aiming to torment one in particular?” He punctuated the question with a quick slap to the side of the lush swell. She rewarded him with a breathy moan, and an involuntary twist of her hips.

  “Like everything else I do, I dress to please me.” She tipped her head, and aimed defiant eyes at him.

  Defiant or not, the truth in the words restored his equilibrium—marginally—even as they riled his curiosity. “Going bareback pleases you?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied, drawing the word out in her huskiest voice and lowering her long lashes.

  A calculated maneuver, but still 100 percent effective. And her smile told him she damn well knew it.

  “My tits are very sensitive. Each sequin in this top is anchored by a little knot, and when they shift, I feel it against my skin. It’s incredibly…stimulating.”

  The visual stimulated him to no end. The slim cords in her arms tensed, testing his hold on her wrists. Not frantically. More like an obligatory escape attempt. He thwarted her, catching how the small show of force sped her pulse. This stimulated her, too, at least to a point. Fiercely independent Lauralie got an illicit thrill from feeling a little dominated. How far could he take that? He rubbed his chest over the fancy shirt, just enough to disturb the sequins.

  An uncensored, completely uncalculated noise came from the back of her throat. Honest and needy. Too honest for her comfort, apparently, because this time she tried to break his hold for real. He knew exactly the moment she realized she couldn’t, and counted down the seconds until…

  “No fair.”

  Quite a sight she made, with her enormous, artfully-smudged eyes flashing, and remnants of some shiny, pink gloss still decorating her swollen lips. “Fairness implies rules. I could have sworn you said ‘no rules.’”

  “Screw you, Booker.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get to that, but I’ve got a score to settle first.” He whispered the promise in one unprotected ear, and then kissed his way along her tense jaw. At the same time, he eased his hand under her shirt, up her slender ribs, to take the weight of her breast. “You can dish it out, but…” he squeezed. Not quite as tightly as she’d tormented his balls…“can you take it?”

  The way she drilled the tight peak into the center of his hand gave him his answer, even before she said, “Harder.”

  She wanted harder. He wanted her off balance and begging. He swept the top up her body, releasing his hold on her wrists long enough to drag the thing off, and toss it aside. She stood there—pinned—with her arms stretched high and those sensitive tits she loved to please lifted toward him like a gift.

  Just to make her wait…make her want…he took his time appreciating the view while her chest rose and fell with quick, urgent breaths.

  “Booker—”

  “How hard?”

  “What?”

  The impatience in her voice made him smile. “How hard do you like to be handled?”

  She cocked her head and gave him an imperious look. “Do I look like the kind of girl you need to be gentle with?”

  In answer, he braced his forearms against the wall, leaned in, and slowly, deliberately let his sweater graze her nipples. To his satisfaction, she nearly dissolved. Her eyelids drifted down, her cheeks flushed, and her breath hitched on a helpless sound.

  “Was that a whimper?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Really? It sounded like a whimper to me. Next time, I’ll—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No next time.”

  “Next time,” he continued, ignoring her interruption because there sure as hell would be a next time, “I’ll spend days teasing your tits like this, just to hear you whimper for me again, but now”—he released her wrists and lifted her until he brought his head level with her straining nipples—“I’m going to taste them.”

  She gripped his shoulder with one hand, plunged the other into his hair, and arched up, trying to take control. “Finally.”

  Resisting her attempt to use him to her satisfaction, he rested his mouth against one pink crest. “Patience, Lauralie,” he murmured, and gave her the barest of kisses. She let loose a strangled curse. Her nipple throbbed between his lips. Her knees turned into a vice, and the back of her head hit plaster. He kept the kisses slow, and the pull light, until she writhed against the wall with feverish grace.

  Gentle worked for her, regardless of what she claimed. Time to see how rough she liked it. He gradually increased the depth and suction of each kiss, filling his mouth, allowing his teeth to score her skin. Her body lifted toward his, as if connected by a network of wires running from her nipple to the farthest reaches of her nervous system. When she panted his name, he kissed his way to the other breast, and lashed his tongue along the underside until she shoved herself into his mouth. He lavished the same attention, sucking gently, then not so gently, then gently again, enjoying how she alternated between showering him with praise and damning him to hell.

  Music to his ears. Agony to his dick. He wanted to be inside her more than he wanted his next breath, but he’d endure. If he gave in to the urgency, as soon as he pulled out she’d reduce this to a one-night stand. Easy to compartmentalize and dismiss. He wouldn’t allow her do it. He’d push past her barriers, even if need tore at him. Even if they both crawled away a little worse for wear by the time he finished. He intended to share more with her than an orgasm. Or a series of orgasms. Though drawing one out of her now, just to make sure she knew how effectively he could, seemed like a good place to start. Releasing her, he dropped to his knees, and pulled at her slippery white shorts. They caught on the flare of her hips. “How do I—?”

  “Back here,” she gasped, already reaching behind her. “There’s a zipper—”

  That’s all the information he needed. He spun her around, gaining ridiculous satisfaction from her startled, “Oh!” It took less than a second to rip the zipper down, and drag the weightless fabric out of his way. The shorts pooled around the ankles of the metallic cock-teasers some designer had the balls to call shoes.

  Lace as delicate as a butterfly’s wing stretched across the span of her hips, framing the graceful curves along the top of her ass, and delving into the valley between flawless, unprotected cheeks. Hard to believe she hadn’t planned that view for someone. Out of line as they were, the territorial thoughts returned in full force.

  While he watched, goose bumps rose on her skin. To torture them both, he pressed a kiss to the small of her back, then to the divot on one side of her spine, and then the twin on the other side. She sighed. Fidgeted.

  “Who’d you wear these skimpy panties for?”

  “Me,” she shot back. “They’re pretty. I like the way they fit.”

  “You like having a thin strip of lace wedged all up in here?” He plucked the
strip in question and let it snap back into place.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Don’t you think it looks good?”

  She looked fucking amazing, and he had a primitive urge to make sure nobody else enjoyed the sight. Ever. He leaned in and scraped his teeth over bare skin until he snagged the line of lace just above where it disappeared from view. A jerk of his head rent the fabric. He opened his jaw and let the ruined lingerie drop to the floor.

  “Oh my God.” The wall muffled her voice, but nothing could disguise the way her legs trembled. “Did you just tear my underwear off with your teeth?”

  “I owe you a new pair. Now answer my question, or three guesses where my teeth go next.” He menaced the plushest part her ass cheek with his incisors.

  “Get over yourself, Booker. I wore them for me.”

  He couldn’t get over himself. He wanted to hear her say his name, even if it wasn’t true. His frustrated growl gave her fair warning, but all she managed was an edgy cry when he sank his teeth into one ripe, peach-like curve. He snuck his fingers between her thighs, and curled them, barely brushing hot, damp, unbelievably soft flesh before she bucked away.

  “Don’t,” he warned, and gripped a cheek in each hand. “Put your forehead to the wall, close your eyes, say a prayer—whatever you need to do—but don’t you dare hold anything back from me. That’s one of those ground rules you didn’t need to review. Now let’s try this again. Who’d you wear the panties for?”

  “For me,” she insisted, stubborn as ever.

  “Wrong answer.” He bit the other cheek, and worked two fingers between her legs again. She stiffened, then let out another groan, and opened for him, as far as the shorts around her ankles permitted. He took advantage, stroking, parting, easing his thumb into her tight, hot center and sweeping the inner wall while he rubbed her clit with his knuckle. Firm muscles bunched and released under his lips. Her breath came in ragged bursts.

  “Who’d you think of while you slid those panties on and guided them along here?” He flicked his tongue over the path.