"That's funny," she said, her voice flat. "I'm trying to forget."
"About that," I said, stepping to her side. "Time to go home. Lead the way and I'll follow."
She couldn't produce her wallet or keys, or any idea where she left them. The choices available to me weren't good. Either I was picking the lock to her apartment above the bookshop or I was taking her home with me. Neither situation was conduct becoming a sheriff.
On the off chance she'd left her door open—not uncommon in this town but worrisome nonetheless—I tried helping her up the back stairs without allowing my touch to turn into anything more than supportive. It would've been easier to throw her over my shoulder or cradle her in my arms, and I would've enjoyed it a lot more. But my hands hovered at her waist, barely there.
But the door wasn't open, and there were no potted plants or decorative bullfrogs hiding a key. Now we were faced with a trip down the stairs.
"I'll go first," I said, gesturing down the steep incline. "You stay right behind me. I don't want you falling."
"Yay," she grumbled. "The indignities of this day won't quit."
With my torso twisted toward her, I took several steps, my hand outstretched if she required assistance. "Are you doing all right?" I asked when she wobbled onto the next riser.
"I'm so far from all right, I'm all left," she replied.
I shifted to glance down at the stairs, and then a petite pile of girl slammed into my back. Before I could make sense of this, her arms tangled around my neck and her legs around my waist. Her breath was warm on my neck, and when I moved just a twitch, her lips brushed over my skin.
"Careful there," I said. "You're too fragile to be launching yourself at people."
"I am fragile," she whispered. "Please don't leave me in the drunk tank for the night. Don't…don't leave me."
It didn't matter that Talbott's Cove didn't have a drunk tank, or that inebriated citizens who posed no danger to themselves or others were rarely arrested for public intoxication. The lady didn't want to be alone, and I wasn't about to contradict her desires. I wrapped one hand around her ankles and another around her wrists, the least I could do to hold on to her, and continued down the stairs.
"Okay then," I announced, mostly to myself. "You can sleep it off at my place."
"That's almost as bad as the drunk tank," she muttered.
"Not that bad," I replied with a laugh. "Is there someone you'd like me to call? Somewhere else I can take you? What about your fam—"
She cut me off with, "Nope. Going to your house in the middle of the damn village is less awful than calling my family."
"You're sure?" I asked. I stroked her wrist as I crossed the street, wanting her to say yes. She murmured in agreement, her head still on my shoulder.
When I first moved here, back before I understood much about life in Talbott's Cove, I rented a house near the town center. It seemed like a great location, with glimpses of the ocean and a short walk to the station. What I didn't account for was having the entire town in my front yard. Residents liked to pop in with a plate of pot roast and potatoes—not that I complained about that, of course—or to gather my opinion on Old County Road's traffic issues. Others simply made my comings and goings their business. It wasn't uncommon for me to step into DiLorenzo's, the local diner, and field questions as to why my lights were on past midnight. They wanted to know if I was sleeping well enough, if I had company, if I was tracking safety issues. Apparently, I was the only guy around here who fell asleep on his couch, not more than ten minutes into the local news.
I had to force all of that from my mind as I hiked up the hill toward my house with Annette Cortassi plastered to my back and her lips on my neck. I was thrilled to have a near-moonless night.
Once inside, I shifted her off my back and into a chair.
"You sit here," I ordered, unbuckling my duty belt. "I have to—uh—handle a few things."
First order of business: adjusting the erection hammering away at my trousers. Next up, pulling every curtain shut. That would probably set off alarm bells of its own with the locals, but that was an issue for another day. Once the house was adequately buttoned up and my gear and firearm were stowed in the safe, I poured a glass of water for Annette and snatched a banana from the fruit bowl.
That was when things went pear-shaped.
Annette wasn't in the living room anymore. She was right behind me, standing in the middle of my kitchen, bare-ass naked. My fingers tightened around the banana. "Annette," I warned. "What—what are you doing?"
"I might be fragile," she purred, swaying a bit as she stepped closer to me, "but that doesn't mean I always want to be treated like I am."
I was working hard at keeping my eyes above her chest. I had a peripheral awareness of her nudity but I'd yet to allow myself the kind of long, quenching gaze at her lush curves. Goddamn, I wanted to look. I wanted to drop to my knees and press my face to the soft lines of her belly, drag my fingers up her calves and grab her ass like I meant it. I wanted to feel her spine arch under my hands and her body tighten around me. I wanted to get lost between her legs and never, never find my way out.
Clumps of pulverized banana filled my palm, and I turned away. "I'll get you something to wear," I said over my shoulder. I tossed the fruit in the garbage and then rinsed my hands at the sink, but I knew she was watching me. I felt the intensity of her stare on my skin, and I wanted to give it right back to her. I wanted it more than anything.
Turning, I said, "Annette—"
She wasn't hearing it. She flew into my arms and pressed her lips to mine, and for the second time tonight, I was paralyzed. Dumbstruck and frozen in place. But then my body and brain returned to me in pieces. I sighed into her kiss, forgetting my job, my duty, myself. She tasted of liquor and juice, and something succulent and special all her own. I couldn't help myself. I curled my arms around her torso, backed her against the refrigerator, and rocked myself into the valley of her parted legs.
I stayed right there, trapping her between the hard lines of the refrigerator and my body while I drank in every ounce she offered up. I couldn't even process the glory of her naked skin under my hands. It was one gift too many.
Annette broke away first, turning her head a few degrees and hiccup-giggling against my cheek. Then her hand slithered down my back and she slapped my ass.
At first, I was stunned into silence. That was becoming my default reaction to this woman. But then I remembered she was sloppy drunk, and I wasn't the type of man who capitalized on that condition.
Her palm cracked over my backside again, and another hiccup-giggle rang out. "You're so…hard," she whispered.
I surrendered to her words rather than my judgment and rutted against her core. If she wanted to know something about hard, I was happy to illustrate. "You have no idea," I replied. "Not a clue."
She tipped her head back against the refrigerator and gazed up at me, her lips parted and her eyes unfocused. "Whoa," she murmured. So beautiful and so drunk. "Whoa."
Right then, my responsibility came down on me. It was lightning fast and there was no way I was coming back from it this time. Not tonight.
I tossed Annette over my shoulder and blocked out the sensation of her smooth thigh against my cheek. No, that wasn't true. I was keenly aware of her thigh. But I wasn't letting myself enjoy the thigh.
"Please tell me we're going to a bedroom," she called. "That would be fabulous."
"We're going to a bedroom," I replied, "and I'm putting you to bed. Alone."
"That's the story of my life," she whined, dragging her fingertips up and down my flanks. Goddamn, that felt good. I could die happy after nothing more than a night of her hands moving over my skin. "Me, in bed, alone. It's never my turn."
I wanted to argue with her, insist that she'd get more than a turn from me as soon as she sobered up. But it occurred to me that she was offering this information under drunk cover, and chances were good I wouldn't hear the same tune tomorrow. Anne
tte had been pleasant to me since my arrival but hadn't given me much more than passing, platonic glances. She wanted someone right now, and I was that person only because JJ called me in to collect her. If he'd walked her home, he could be receiving the same treatment. He could've been the one getting her hungry kisses and gently demanding touch.
That idea did terrible things to me. Terrible. I tightened my grip on her thighs and gritted my teeth as I stomped through the house, barely fighting off the urge to throw her down and make her crave me the way I'd been craving her.
I could do it too. I'd lay her down on my bed. Make her comfortable. Kiss my way from those sexy ankles to her full lips, the ones that looked even more delicious now that I'd tasted her sweet smile. I'd skip the places she wanted me most. I'd make her wait the way I'd waited for her. She'd ache and squirm and beg, and then I'd hike her legs over my shoulders and show her everything I'd held back. And then she'd know. When I was deep enough to steal her words and everything else save for screams, she'd know I'd wanted nothing but her for months.
Instead, I set her on my bed and only allowed myself an extra moment with my hands on her body before turning away. I couldn't meet her hungry, needy gaze again. Not without tearing my pants off and feeding her my cock. I moved toward the door but couldn't leave. I stood there, my hands gripping either side of the doorframe while I stared unseeing down the hall. I needed this moment to gather myself, pull the loose threads of desire tight and sew them up. Set aside the urge to forget myself and take everything she was offering.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her voice was small, almost childlike. "I want you to stay with me. You're not leaving. Are you?"
Go ahead and flay me open, woman. Go right ahead and gut me where I stand.
"No," I choked out. There was no way in hell I could walk away now. "Just going to grab some water for you." I shot her a glance over my shoulder. That was a huge fucking mistake. She was tucked back against my pillows, her knees drawn to her chin and her ankles crossed. It was a modest pose, her most private places covered, and I didn't believe there could be anything more intimate. Or anything that could make me want to crawl to her on my hands and knees more. I wouldn't be able to look at those pillows again without wanting her right there, exactly like that. "Put your head down. I'll be right back."
I stood in the kitchen for several minutes, my hands curled around the lip of the countertop while my cock thrummed against my zipper. I had to remind myself I didn't know Annette, not beyond her reputation as the town sweetheart and everyone's favorite book mistress. But that bright, joyful woman, the woman who had a smile and buckets of patience, wasn't the one begging me to join her in my bed right now. The slightly heartbroken and fully drunk woman was asking, and there was a world of difference between the two.
With a growl aimed at any number of frustrations, I grabbed the glass and headed back down the hall. I was busy playing out several scenarios in my head and finding the side of right in each one. I could hold her for a bit, and kissing wasn't off the table, but it couldn't go any farther until she was sober. If she really wanted something more, well, I'd just handcuff myself to a chair, tell her what to do, and watch from a distance. It would probably result in a broken wrist and equally broken chair, but I'd do it if it kept that lonely, vulnerable bite from her voice.
I was so busy with those plans that I missed the sound of Annette snoring like a chainsaw. Water sloshed over the rim of the glass as I stuttered to a stop at the door, and I choked down a laugh. This woman was something else. Within minutes she'd gone from the picture of sweet sin to classic drunk chick. Her hair was tangled around her face like a veil, one leg was over the blankets, and her hands were pillowed under her head. She was just as alluring as always, but now she wasn't Miss Congeniality or the white-sundress-wearing book mistress of my fantasies. Now she was a real woman, raw and flawed, and miles away from the pretty girl on the town's pedestal. If it was possible, I liked this version even more because she saved it for me.
That was the story I was telling myself.
I set the water on the side table and tucked a wastebasket next to it in case that liquor came back to haunt her, and then pulled the quilt over her shoulders. The breeze off the water was cool and damp tonight, and I didn't want her waking up with a chill. I did my best to brush her hair from her face but sensed I was doing it wrong when she batted my hand away between snores.
"Sleep well, Annette," I whispered. "See? I told you I'd remember."
With a t-shirt and pair of athletic shorts in hand, I left Annette in my bedroom. It was odd stripping off my work clothes in the middle of the living room but it was one more thing I was ignoring for the time being. This entire evening was odd but while I collected her abandoned clothes and set them in my bedroom, I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. Even if we both wanted me in that bed right now, it was best for me to find rest elsewhere.
My couch wasn't meant to sleep men like me. Not intentionally. It was too short, and the arms were bad pillows, and the fabric itched the patch of skin exposed when my t-shirt rode up. Worse than all of that was the erection throbbing against my belly.
Since I couldn't do anything about it—I mean, I could, but I wasn't going to—I folded myself into a tolerable position and yanked an afghan over my legs. Nothing to kill a boner like Gramma's orange and blue afghan. That lady never quit with the Syracuse pride.
And the blue, it was especially fitting.
Chapter 4
Annette
Reconstitute
v. To restore to a former condition by adding water.
I woke naked. That was my first clue that my evening had gone horribly, horribly wrong. The second clue was that I had no idea where I was.
My hair was a ratty disaster and I could smell the vodka seeping out of my pores. When I sat up to take in my surroundings, the contents of my stomach sloshed like a snow globe and I reconsidered ever moving again. I could stay here, in this strange bed, and make a new life for myself. Easy peasy. No need to account for my mistakes.
Carefully, I turned my head to glance at the framed photographs atop the dresser. I couldn't make out the fine details from this distance but I knew I was looking at a graduation photo. It wasn't a simple cap-and-gown setup though. It was military or…Oh, shit.
That was a police academy graduation photo and I was naked in Sheriff Lau's bed and oh my god how did I bring this many disasters upon myself in a twenty-four-hour period without earning some kind of medal? Where were the roses and cupcakes for being a prize train wreck? Because I wanted both, and the sash, too.
My only consolation was that I was naked and alone, and yes, that was better than being naked with Sheriff Lau. Only vodka used my body last night, and that was preferable. It was bad enough Owen dumped me…or whatever it was that went down between us…but I'd have to pack up and move to a new town if I'd drunkenly bedded the new sheriff. I didn't drunkenly bed anyone. Ever. I didn't possess the language to make those kinds of advances or negotiate those terms.
Then I caught sight of my sundress. It was neatly folded on the dresser, and my bra and panties sat right beside it. I stared at my clothes for a minute, wondering where I'd left my purse. As I dusted off hazy memories of yesterday, every minute of last night came rushing back to me. The bar, the cosmos, the water down his pants, the piggyback ride to his house, the kiss, the ass slapping—my god!—the way I'd begged him to take me to bed. The way I'd begged him to stay.
My embarrassment was much larger and far more powerful than my hangover, and it propelled me out of bed in a flash. I finger-combed my hair, threw on my clothes, and made the bed. I couldn't leave an unmade bed behind. I couldn't do it at my apartment, and I couldn't do it after inviting myself into the sheriff's bed. With the stealth of a cat burglar, I flattened myself against the hallway wall and tiptoed toward the door. I knew the sheriff was going to be around here somewhere, but I wasn't prepared to find him washed up on the couch.
; He had one arm bent over his head, the other under his t-shirt, flat on his belly. Dark golden skin peeked out from where his t-shirt was rucked up and I spent a solid minute studying the muscled cuts on his torso. I thought those things only appeared while flexing but Jackson was as loose as linguini this morning.
His sandy blond hair was roughly tousled, as if he'd spent the entire night running his hands through the thick strands. He was a tall guy, too tall for this couch by at least six inches. Both legs dangled from the arm at angles I couldn't imagine were comfortable. There was a truly hideous blanket tangled around his legs but I couldn't spend a second wondering why anyone would knit such an atrocity after I caught sight of the tent in his shorts. At first, I didn't believe it was an erection. I'd never seen anything that, ahem, proud. I assumed it was something else. Maybe he had a cell phone in his pocket or…some zucchini. Sure, those were crazy options but no crazier than the possibility he was working with that kind of equipment.
As I stared at him, I was reminded of him pressing me against the refrigerator and fitting himself between my legs. His dark eyes had clouded over with need when he ground into me. I'd felt every inch of him then, and I'd—I'd slapped him. Yes, I'd slapped this man's ass and I'd done it more than once.
"Oh my god," I breathed.
With a shake of my head, I slipped out the front door. It was early, even for a fishing community that lived and died by the dawn. I had to pick my way through the woods ringing the village to get back to my shop. It wasn't the most direct route, but I couldn't risk a walk of shame past the docks. Also, I had to stop every few minutes to vomit into the bushes, and that kind of local news would make it back to my parents in nine seconds flat. My mother would be on her knees at St. Cecelia's, lighting candles for the salvation of my soul. My father would threaten to pack up my apartment and move me back home. Somehow, I couldn't have that.
Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set Page 69
