Heat: An Alpha Male Criminal Romance (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 1)

by Holly S. Roberts

  The perplexity in his expression deepens. “Some of it. I trust Alex’s instincts.”

  “Same crib,” I murmur.

  Surprise changes Moon’s expression. “Alex is the most closed-off person I know, but he obviously talked to you.”

  I want to scream. Alex, I mean Gomez, said almost the same thing about Moon. Truthfully, I don’t care what Moon or Gomez think. I want them out of my life. Maybe if I pull the tiger’s tail, Moon will get a clue. “So what if I choose to date Alex instead of you?”

  His smooth whiskey laugh fills the room, and I’m left breathless. My entire body responds. My inner thighs involuntarily tighten, my heart rate accelerates, and shivers wash over my skin. Note to self: Do not make this man laugh. When he does, he’s completely irresistible.

  He’s still laughing, so I ask, “Is Gomez gay?” Moon laughs harder. This time, his chin lifts, and all I can think of is licking and biting the thick cords of his throat. I haven’t had sex in months. So many months, it qualifies as more than a year. Moon makes me think of sex. Hot, dirty, satisfying… sex. Hot. My brain switches gears and moves to the temperature of my apartment.

  “You adjusted my A/C?” I demand.

  Moon stops laughing and gives me a look I can’t really describe because he’s still smiling. “It was uncomfortably warm in here.”

  I go back to being pissed off and try to disregard my wet panties. I refuse to dwell on how yummy he is. “Says the man with a monthly electric bill that’s probably more than I make in a year.”

  He gets it then and something else flickers in his eyes. I don’t want fucking pity because I live month-to-month. I almost say this out loud. Moon surprises me when he calmly stands up and heads to the thermostat on the far wall to readjust the A/C. “Would you like a glass of ice water?” he asks as he heads into my kitchen. My kitchen.

  I jump up fully prepared for another physical altercation. “Yeah and while you’re at it, just make yourself at home.” I use my frosty voice, which has no effect on Moon. I watch as he opens one cabinet and then another to locate my glasses. I forget all about why I followed him into the kitchen. His body is a work of art. Skin too. Every motion he makes is pure, natural grace. A tribal tat on his arm peeks from beneath his T-shirt. For some reason, men think a tribal makes them badass. They don’t usually know the meaning of the art they wear. But I remember the artwork in his home and it occurs to me that Moon knows exactly what his tat signifies. He also doesn’t need to pretend to be badass. He’s the definition. Even scrounging around my kitchen, he has a don’t-fuck-with-me quality. I’m startled out of my Moon-dreaming when he replies to my last statement.

  “This place isn’t a home. There’s not a single picture or decoration anywhere.” He opens the freezer and pulls out a tray of ice cubes. Next, he opens the fridge and grabs my filtered water pitcher. No one in Phoenix drinks the nasty water straight from the tap. I have a few bottled waters under the sink for guests. But he’s not a guest, so I don’t say anything. He adds the ice cubes to two glasses and follows with water. I back up when he walks from the kitchen holding both glasses and carries them back to my couch.

  The apartment is heating up quickly and I see sweat under Moon’s pits. There’s nothing I like more than a hot and sweaty fuck. I stop that thought and follow like the tame little puppy he’s turning me into. Before he sits, he hands me my glass. I watch him take a healthy pull from his. And here we go again with the corded muscles on his neck. I take a sip of my water to gain control and stop thinking about kissing and biting him.

  He’s sitting now and tilts his glass toward me. “Why no pictures or knickknacks?”

  I ignore his question and allow the defeat I feel to enter my voice. I’m defeated because I’m allowing his looks to guide my brain. “This won’t work, Moon. I’m an ex-cop. You’re you. The two of us don’t mix. It doesn’t matter if I intrigue you. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

  The chime of his phone stops him from answering me. He places his glass on the small side table, twists up a bit, and takes his cell from his pocket. He checks the screen and like a teenage pro, sends a message. He looks up at me after sending it. “Alex is here with our food.” At the thought of El Tiempo, my stomach rumbles. Moon cocks an eyebrow.

  Hell even that’s sexy.

  I stand up when I hear a soft knock at my front door.

  “Sit. I’ll get it and bring everything over here,” he says as he heads to my door, like he owns it, and opens it for Gomez. Moon takes the food and I see Gomez peer at me over Moon’s shoulder. I can’t identify the exact look he gives me, and I tell myself that I don’t care. So what if Gomez is impressed with the way I handle myself. That and a dollar will buy me an ice-cold Slurpee. Moon closes the door with his elbow while holding the bag in one hand and a six-pack of Corona in the other. It reminds me that I was being observed inside the bar. It’s someone who came in after I arrived. Fuck. Besides Al and the other two cops, only a white guy came in. He never looked at me, scoped the place out, or did anything that would give him away as a cop or a thug. Go figure.

  My stomach growls loudly.

  “I take it you’re hungry,” Moon says as he places everything on my end table and pulls the first container from the bag. It smells heavenly.

  “I’m always hungry for El Tiempo,” I give back grudgingly.

  “Sit over here and I’ll move the table in front of us.” He moves my damn furniture without a care that it bothers me.

  I want to stay angry, but the aroma of fish tacos overrides my angst. I switch over to the loveseat. It’s no hardship to watch Moon move the table either. His arms flex and the T-shirt pulls across his chest when he lifts the table. He appears relaxed for a change and it’s like he doesn’t run the largest crime organization in Arizona. He’s just a normal guy. Strike that. A normal guy does not have a body cut like Moon’s. More than I want that first bite of taco, I want to see Moon’s abs. My eyes stay glued as he sits and grabs a beer. He twists at the waist and removes a pocket knife from his front jeans pocket. It has a bottle-cap remover, which he uses on first one and then the other beer bottle. He sits them both on the table, which is now in front of us, and hands me napkins from the bag. I wait for him to get situated with his food and hand him back two napkins. El Tiempo tacos are messy, and I try not to salivate.

  He waits for me to pick up a taco before taking his first bite. Watching him eat shouldn’t be so sexy. When he closes his eyes and chews, I swear I have a small orgasm. I take my first bite of my taco and then have another. This time I close my eyes; when I open them after swallowing, Moon is fixated on my mouth. I lick my lips and watch his eyes go from ocean blue to sizzling hot subterranean blue.

  The last thing I should be doing is sitting here having food sex with Moon. I take another bite and the spicy carne asada hits my taste buds. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, and the taco pulls me to the dark side. I also conclude that food sex is a natural wonder of the world.

  Moon is the first man in my life to have food and my favorite beer delivered to me. This shouldn’t speak to the inner me, but I feel a crack in the walls I’ve tried pulling up in regard to Moon.

  We continue eating and casting fuck-me eyes back and forth. I take notice that Moon doesn’t have a fixation with my tits. He’s an equal opportunity voyeur and never locks his eyes on one piece of my anatomy for too long. I don’t think I can say the same about myself. The arm porn draws my attention each time he takes a bite. Then my gaze travels to his mouth and I want to be his taco. I bite my lip over the ridiculousness of my feelings. I’ve never reacted to any man this way, and, I have no clue how to make it stop.

  Moon finishes first and sits back with his beer in hand and watches me eat. For the oddest reason, I’m not uncomfortable. I would love to know what he’s thinking, though. When I’m done, he reaches into the bag, pulls out four wrapped candies, and hands over two. The tacos are great, but El Tiempo is also known for its homemade Mexican
candy. It’s dried mangos dipped in chamoy sauce. There is nothing else like it on this planet.

  “Any chance I can talk you out of one of yours?” Moon teases before he pops the first one in his mouth.

  “I’ll draw my gun if you try.”

  He chews slowly while I slide the candy between my lips and move the confection around inside my mouth. My tongue moves across my lips. Moon’s eyes grow unbelievably hungry. If a shark had blue eyes and saw a wounded sea lion, those eyes might come close to the way Moon’s look right now.

  What if he was an ordinary man? What if I’d never been a cop?

  “Alex gave you to me.”

  I start coughing. Moon leans in, puts his arm around my back, and tips his water glass to my lips. I take a sip on reflex. He sets the glass down without removing his arm. Luckily, I’ve swallowed my candy when his lips meet mine. His tongue slides in, tasting me with slow, smooth strokes, and I can’t think past the flavor of the candy mixed with pure Moon.

  I squeeze my fingers into fists to keep from clenching his muscular arms. His hand moves to my throat. His fingers are splayed so I can feel the metal of his thumb ring against my skin. His lips tease mine, and my body is amped so high, I sigh into his mouth. He pulls away, but he doesn’t look at me. He grabs his beer and downs it. He places the containers and used napkins into the bag before he stands and heads to my kitchen to toss everything in the trash. I try to stabilize my breathing. I expect him to come back, but I’m stunned when he opens the front door and glances over his shoulder.

  “Next Wednesday, same time. I’ll pick you up and take you out. Be ready.” And then he’s gone. No sex on the floor. No sex in my bed. No fucking sex at all. The bastard left me hanging.

  I groan into my quiet living room wondering what the hell just happened. I’m a fool, that’s what. A complete… fool.

  Chapter Ten

  I STARE AT THE dark television for ten minutes. This solves nothing. I check the sliding glass door that leads to my very small patio. It has a broken broomstick in the bottom rail so it can only slide open after removing it. The locking mechanism, which I check too, is a piece of crap. I head to the front door and lock it. I walk to my bedroom to go through my pre-sleep ritual. After a quick shower, I slip into one of my large shapeless tees. Brushing, flossing and moisturizer are next.

  I lie down in bed and turn off the lamp. When I close my eyes, I picture Moon—his reticent smile, his intense eyes, and his sexy as hell bod. My girl parts are ramped up and it’s all Moon’s fault. With a groan, I roll over and grab the purple wonder from the drawer beside my bed. I hit the switch and then lift and spread my knees. I place the vibration against my clit. The purple wonder twirls and vibrates, hitting the spot perfectly. I slide it through my folds and back to my clit while imagining Moon doing this to me. I’m getting close and that delicious tingle centers between my thighs. The purple wonder slows. “No,” I groan. Then the damn thing dies. “Son of a bitch,” I yell in frustrated anguish. This seriously cannot be happening.

  I hate Moon. Hell, I hate all men.

  I hit the vibrator against the palm of my hand to try to shake the batteries into giving a bit more juice. Fuck, the damn thing is dead. I consider shooting it. “Okay, relax,” I say out loud. I place the vibrator back down against my swollen lips and think about Moon again. I’m wetter than shit, and a few smooth glides later—nothing. I’ve lost it and I was so close. I huff out a frustrated breath and then a groan.

  I roll out of bed and head into the kitchen to search the junk drawer for batteries, muttering the entire time. “Fuck Moon. Fuck my vibrator, and fuck my life.” I pull half of the contents of the drawer out and can’t find a single fucking battery. I stomp to my desk and scrounge through each drawer. I find one triple A, but I need double A’s. I peer around the room in desperation and spy the two remote controls. The black plastic has a lip that says Press above it. I press. I slide. I break a damn fingernail before the back slides off. It’s the controller for the DVD player and of course, my bad luck holds because it has triple A’s. In a tantrum, I throw it against the wall. If the damn thing would have bounced close enough, I’d have stomped on it.

  I eye the satellite remote. It’s my last hope. I pick it up and the back slides off easily. I strike gold, though it contains only two batteries. I’m a battery short, but this should work for one uncomfortably delayed O.

  I insert the two semi-new batteries with one old. I lift my leg to the couch and bury all six inches of purple pleasure where I need it most before turning it on. I don’t fuck around this time. I imagine it’s Moon shoving his cock inside me while his fingers work my clit. I think about the fathomless pit of his eyes and the smile that stretches the scar on his lower lip. It takes two minutes before an orgasm washes over me. I stand with my leg hiked up feeling absolutely no shame that I was too frustrated to return to my bedroom.

  My orgasm high cools down fast. Too fast. I’m hot and sweaty again, but too tired to take another shower. I am so pissed off at Moon. No man should bring you to losing your mind over dead batteries. I storm back into my bedroom and place Mr. Purple on the nightstand as I slide between the covers. He proceeds to roll to the floor, and I don’t even care. I fall asleep after a quick mental note to buy more batteries.

  My head is pounding when I wake up. I barely slept. Worse, I’m horny, and I’ve decided that I’m not taking the risk of having the batteries expire on me again. Moon is turning me into a nympho after one short kiss. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sex. I just usually prefer the purple wonder over an actual man. Little mess and easy to walk away from when I’m satisfied. Add in no drama and my toy makes the perfect boyfriend.

  In the light of day, I’m rather flustered that my orgasm didn’t rock my socks the way it should have. My sexual craving seems to be for Moon, but that is not gonna happen.

  I decided sometime during my sleepless night that I was done with Moon and would stick to my guns this time. I’m behaving like a man and allowing a pretty body to keep my mind off the fact that he’s bad news. I laid awake with my mind on two things. One is dumping Moon’s ass before he gets any further ideas. The other thing I dwelled on is Moon’s first name. I racked my brain. I know someone mentioned it one day. It was an odd name for an odd man.

  Now that I’m awake, I let those thoughts go. It’s more important to discover how Moon entered my apartment. If what I suspect is true and he duplicated my key, I need to change my locks. Regardless, there will be no more dates—forced or otherwise—with the incredibly hot thug who left me high and dry last night. This fixating on Moon will stop.

  To take my mind off Moon, I work on my embezzlement case. I’m pretty sure I’ve found the guilty party; I just need to back up a few things first. I call my dad and ask if I can e-mail the spreadsheets to him. I’ve struggled through the numbers for days and think I finally found a pattern. Dad’s my ace in the hole and he’ll see it right off.

  “Hey, Mak,” he greets me. Only my mother calls me Madison. Dad started the whole Mak thing when I was a baby. He didn’t like it when people referred to me as Mad or Maddy. He wanted a boy and says having me was the luckiest day of his life. Mak stuck.

  I explain my case, ask about the Florida weather, and ask about Mom.

  “You got time to talk to her?”

  “No, tell her I promise to call in the next few days.”

  Dad understands this because Mom harps on everything. She means well, but if you don’t have time to talk, she’s the last person you want to be stuck on the phone with. I disconnect and e-mail the documents to him. I take my shower and head out the door into the hothouse known as Phoenix.

  I stop by the grocery store and pick up some dog treats and a pint of Jack. I also hit Micky D’s for two Big Macs before heading to Sunnyslope. Driving through the back streets where I worked patrol is hell. Melancholy swamps me. I miss the cop life so fucking much.

  Within five minutes, I locate Cucumber Bill. One Big Mac and the pint of
Jack is for him. I met Bill when I busted him for snagging a pint from the local convenience store. He did three months, and I felt so guilty about leaving Big without his owner that I decided to find a temporary home for him. Bill isn’t all there mentally and hasn’t been for a long time. I’ve seen shoplifters walk away from court with a slap on the wrist. Bill was one of the unfortunate ones who had a sucky lawyer and a prior.

  Bill is sitting in the shade cast by the side of a building on a pile of flattened out boxes to keep his ass from burning on the hot pavement. Big is snuggled up beside him with his head buried between Bill’s shirt and the wall. An old filthy towel covers Bill’s head. He’ll go to the park in the late afternoon and stay there as long as he can. It gives Big a chance to roam. I’m catching them both at naptime.

  I park about ten yards away and approach slowly. I disregard Bill’s stale scent. “Hi, Bill, how are you? Remember me, Mak, kinda like Big Mac?” He watches me from beneath the towel. I’m holding a gallon of water, the McDonald’s bag, and the plain brown paper bag all in my left hand.

  Strong hand empty—always. I plan to never break the habit. I hold the heavy weight up with my good arm and get the, “Yea, yea, yea,” I desire.

  I place the items on the ground a foot away so Bill can reach them. He decides when to look inside the bags, not me. He immediately scoops the bags up and moves them closer. I crouch down. “How’s Big?”

  “Sokay,” he mumbles.

  “One of those Big Macs is for Big and one for you. I hope you’ll eat it, Bill.”

  “Sokay.”

  “You want me to wet down the towel for your head?” I ask gently.

  He takes it off and hands it to me. His arm is coated in filth, the skin rough and patchy. The towel smells worse than he does, but I expected that. I don’t see lice crawling on it and it wouldn’t matter if they were. It’s part of the job—never let them see your emotions unless it’s calculated. Keep a level tone and take disgust and fear out of the equation. I wet the towel with the bottled water and hand it back. Bill puts it over his head and peers from under it again.