Liberating Lacey (10 page)

He didn’t bother to answer, just had the door open and his shirt over his head before he realized she was headed up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he called, his hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

“I don’t keep condoms in the kitchen!”

Well, damn
. He grabbed his shirt and took the stairs two at a time. When he rounded the doorframe into her bedroom her jacket lay carefully folded on the cedar chest at the foot of her bed. She stood with her back to him, bent over as she slid her skirt down.

He stopped in his tracks at the look she tossed him over her shoulder, through the layers of her hair. White lacy briefs cut high on her ass went with the bra he’d glimpsed outside and, oh Jesus, more white lace topped the sheer stockings. When he reached for her she held up an imperious hand, then unfastened the front catch of the bra, let it drop behind her and slid her thong down, leaving her in nothing but the stockings and heels.

He felt like he’d taken a fist to the temple. He stared at the red curls covering her mound, the sweet pink tips of her breasts, the way her hair fell in her eyes. Who was winning this game?

“Nice stockings,” he growled as he caught her around the waist, spun her around and hoisted her up on the bed. With a gasping laugh she sprawled forward, landing on her hands and knees. Before she could right herself he nudged her legs apart and knelt between them, popped the buttons on his jeans to release his shaft, then reached over her shoulder to grab a condom from the nightstand and smooth it on.

Restive and eager, she shifted as if to turn and face him. “No you don’t,” he said and put one hand between her shoulder blades to push her face down onto her folded arms, leaving her ass tipped in the air. She shuddered and went still for him. He widened his stance and pushed against her folds. Ripples of arousal raced under her skin but with no foreplay at all she was barely wet.

He leaned forward to lay the length of his torso from abs to shoulders along the pale, cool skin of her back. An arm planted on either side of her, he nuzzled into her silky hair. “Like playing games, do you?” he whispered in her ear, soft and warm to counterbalance the threat in the words, because while he had a pretty good idea how she’d respond to this, he wouldn’t push.

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She didn’t answer with words, but her breath hitched in that way that made him fucking insane and he wasn’t even inside her. The silk of her stockings rasped against his jeans as she pressed against his inner thighs, trying to widen her stance. At the same time she tilted her hips up and back. With the motion the tip of his cock slid into her now-moist channel.

Fuck yeah. She might not say it out loud, but she liked the games.

Heart pounding against his sternum, he straightened, put his hands on her hips and rocked against her, listening to her soft, muffled whimpers escalate as he demanded entrance to her tight heat. When he was buried to the hilt inside her he pulled out and drove back in, the motion now slick, accepting. Hit bottom, back out again and Lacey’s fingers curled into the comforter. With the third stroke she braced her hands against the mattress and pushed herself upright.

He wrapped his arms around her torso, one arm clamped around her hips to hold her ass tight to his stomach, the other around her ribs, just under her breasts. Her nails bit into the skin of his wrists and she tightened up. He bent her forward just a little and with his next thrust knew he’d found that sweet spot inside her when she let out a breathy sob. Then he worked it with every urgent stroke.

Her hands fluttered up, the fingers spread as if searching for something to hold onto, then one clamped down on the nape of his neck while the other dropped to fist in the loose denim of his jeans and held on for dear life. The tug of her hand against his nape made his head drop to her shoulder. Eyes glazed, he looked past pale skin and tendrils of fiery hair at his dark arms restraining her body and almost lost it then and there.

He cupped one breast and pinched the nipple, then found her clit, swollen and wet at the top of her open sex. She jumped and wriggled in his relentless grip, her hand tightening on his neck as he maintained the pace, deep and hard.

“Oh God, oh God, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” Fuck, he knew it was wrong but when she begged like that he felt like a caveman.

Primitive. Possessive. He didn’t divert any attention to forming words, just kept the same firm touch on her clit and set his teeth against her shoulder. She moaned that lusty, throaty sound that made his balls tighten. Her stomach muscles leaped against his forearm, then her head dropped back on his shoulder and she arched hard, drawn taut like a bow as she came. He slowed and thrust through the contractions, going over the edge just as she finished. He tightened his grip on her trembling body and poured himself into her.

He leaned forward again, this time to lay her face down against the bed, then pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades as he pulled out. “Six minutes,” he said, checking the clock on the way to the bathroom. “Not something I’d usually brag about but I figured you’d want to take a shower.”

Ass still tipped in the air, her face in her forearms, she spoke. “I’ve never done that before.”

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There was a first in this? Condom removal handled, he buttoned his jeans, buckled his belt and pulled on his shirt. “Done what?” he asked, leaning nonchalantly against the wall in an attempt to cover his shaky knees. They fucked from behind all the time, starting with the first night on the stairs.

“A quickie over lunch.” She pushed back off the bed and kicked off her heels. “I’m going to go back to work in ten minutes after a quickie.” He put his hands on his hips and watched her shimmy a stocking down her leg.

“You never met your ex for a quickie,” he said, but wasn’t a question. “Didn’t he work two blocks down from you?”

“He still does,” she said and scampered past him to fling open the glass door and turn on the water.

“And you never met for sex.”

“Never.” She stepped into the shower. “Oh my, that’s cold!” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how a man lived and worked five minutes from his smoking hot red-headed wife and never found a free hour in his day to take her to bed, but he didn’t say anything. Two minutes later she was out, dripping and pink from the cold water. He handed her a towel and watched her redress, yanking silk and lace over damp skin, zipping her skirt, shrugging into her jacket.

She buttoned the jacket on her way down the stairs. “Is my hair…?”

“Looks good,” he said as he opened the front door for her.

She closed and locked the door while he jogged down the steps. A quick glance at the red brick house two doors to the north told him Mrs. Duffy was peering through her front windows at him.

He offered his hand to Lacey. Accepting it automatically, her eyes widened with an unspoken question, then danced with humor when he glanced toward the busybody’s house.

“Thank you for mulching the beds for me.”

“Thanks for the sandwich. And another first,” he said with a wink.

She ducked her head and gave him a smile that was somehow embarrassed, amused and incredibly sexy. “You must be getting tired of those.”

“Not yet, beautiful.”
Not ever.

She clicked open the locks on her BMW. “See you soon?”

“I’ll call you,” he equivocated. Hot sex, a casual meal, the kind of shitty-day-comfort that, until this point, he’d gotten and given only with fellow officers, or his father. This was spiraling. He needed to get some control back.

“Okay,” she said, not seeming to mind at all. “Have a good afternoon.” He watched her back out of the driveway and zip down the street, knowing his efforts to establish some distance were fruitless. He’d call tonight. Probably sooner.

You’re fucked, Anderson. And not in a good way.

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“Gosh darn it!” Lacey’s ringing BlackBerry slid off the passenger seat and thudded onto the floorboards, well out of easy reach. Retrieving it at forty miles per hour wasn’t an option, not with rush hour traffic flowing around her. She’d grab it at the next stoplight and hope the caller left a message. Start to finish, it had been one of those days, the kind where she ran two stockings while getting dressed, the gas tank was on E

when she had meetings all over town and not a minute to spare, and the dreaded upcoming Entrepreneurs’ Association cocktail hour at the Metropolitan Club loomed in her mind.

As she crested the hill and began the coast toward the stoplights, cruising in the inside lane, a motorcycle parked at the end of the median separating four lanes of traffic caught her attention. She automatically braked and looked for another car, or an injured driver. After a few moments she registered that the motorcycle parked perpendicular to the median was a big black and white Harley and the individual leaning against it, his long, boot-clad legs casually crossed at the ankle, was a police officer, holding what was likely a radar gun.

Traffic was too heavy to speed so with a clear conscience she came to a complete stop right next to the officer’s Harley, unbuckled her seatbelt and scrabbled for the BlackBerry. She made use of the time at the traffic light to scroll through the messages.

Her next appointment was also running late, thank God. Delete. An email from Claire with new photos of Lanie. She’d look at those at the office. Another reminder about the event at the Metropolitan Club, already on her calendar. Delete. An offer on the Shadow Run development, 10% below market and absolutely unacceptable.

“Buckle up, beautiful.”

Coming through her windows the words were a little muffled but the commanding tone conveyed the message. She jumped and reached for the seat belt she’d forgotten to put back on, then the voice registered. Hunter.

Obediently she clicked the belt into the latch, then depressed the button to roll down her window. Dressed in a different uniform, tan jodphurs tucked into knee-high black boots, a tan shirt with short sleeves and a black Harley helmet with POLICE on the back, he was barely recognizable. His mirrored Rēvo shades covered his eyes. At least now she recognized the gear on his belt. A tremor rolled through her at the memories that evoked.

He was clearly working, so she kept quiet and watched him aim the radar gun toward the oncoming traffic behind her. He depressed the radio at his shoulder with his thumb and forefinger and spoke into it. Curious, she glanced in her rear view mirror 71

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and saw an identical police Harley pull out of the driveway to the power plant and switch on its lights behind a red Mustang that practically levitated over the hill.

“Fifty-five in a forty,” he said, lowering the gun but keeping his eyes trained on the motorcycle and car behind her. The setting sun gleamed in a nimbus behind his wide shoulders and chest. “What brings you to this side of town?”

“I had a meeting with two clients and a developer. You?” His normal sector was near her neighborhood.

“Six guys in the Western have food poisoning from a cookout at the softball game last night. I’m pulling a double.”

She raised her eyebrows. They’d gone out for lunch or dinner twice since the quickie over lunch. While he’d said he’d agreed to a double on Monday, she hadn’t heard from him all week and this shift was news to her. “Second this week?”

“Third. The Southern had four officers in court yesterday.” Reaching under his shades with his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed his eyes.

Three sixteen-hour shifts in four days sounded brutal. “When’s your next day off?”

“I’m off at four today.”

“Come to dinner,” she said on impulse. They had no plans for a future date. When he left in the morning after a night together, he’d kiss her and say, “I’ll call you.” Several times she rearranged her schedule to be able to see him. Claire’s lips had whitened when she heard that little tidbit of information and Lacey knew her friend was biting her tongue to keep from warning her about the perils of falling for a player.

As the weeks passed, though, she’d learned enough about the life of a cop to know making commitments to dates or activities wasn’t easy. He could be called in on a moment’s notice and often covered shifts for fellow officers.

But she also recognized an effort to maintain some distance, which made what she wanted to ask of him that much harder to voice.

He turned to face her. She couldn’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but the firm line of his mouth and the grooves in his cheeks bespoke his exhaustion. “I’ll take you out, Lace.”

She tipped her sunglasses down her nose to look over the frames at him. “Hunter, I’m starting to think you’re afraid of my cooking. Come over for dinner. It’s just steaks, baked potatoes and salad, but I’ll let you man the grill if you’re afraid I’ll poison you.” He shook his head, his attention torn between her and the traffic stop ahead of him.

Almost cursing his stubbornness, she glared at him. A little manly decisiveness was fine, but enough was enough. “I’m too tired to go out. Come over or spend your evening alone, Officer Anderson.”

For a moment she thought her ultimatum would backfire, then the slightest of smiles touched his mouth. “Just trying to do right by you, Ms. Meyers,” he said as he hefted the radar gun again.

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“I
can
cook,” she said, feigning irritation. “Toss a salad, throw two potatoes in the oven, put steaks on the grill.” Assuming the grill still worked. “It’s not haute cuisine, of course, but…”

“I’ll be there.” He spoke into the radio at his shoulder again. She opened her mouth to reply but he cut in. “The light’s green, beautiful. See you around six.” Probably the reason the people behind her hadn’t honked was because she was in conversation with a police officer. “Oh!” she said and mashed the gas pedal to the floor.

The BMW leaped forward with a squeal of tires. She shot through the light before she thought to let up on the gas and reduce her speed to a more sedate pace.

Suddenly a marginal day didn’t look so bad. She left work on time, shooing Kelly the Indispensable out in front of her, and put the potatoes in the oven before changing into jeans and a thin green cotton tunic with heavy embroidery around the V-neck. The grill heated, the salad fixed and a baguette buttered and ready to warm in the oven, she took a glass of wine and a novel to the chaise.

Shortly after six Hunter zoomed up the driveway on his motorcycle and came to a stop by her garage. He swung his leg over the bike, pulled off the helmet and climbed the stairs one at a time to her deck. Without a word he dropped the helmet on a chair next to the teak dining table. His kiss was quick and perfunctory, then he went into the kitchen.

“Fuck, I’m tired,” he said when he returned, a soda in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Tight lines were etched into the skin around his mouth and his broad shoulders slumped under a gray t-shirt. “You look it,” she said.

“I worked fifty-six hours in four days and I didn’t hydrate enough today. I’ve got a bitch of a headache.” He turned his back, braced his forearms on the deck railing and looked out into the yard.

Perhaps tonight wasn’t a good night for her to take their relationship outside the established boundaries. Mildly disappointed, she went back to her book. For several minutes the only sounds were the crickets and the wind in the leaves, but ever so slowly the tightness eased from his spine. He finished the Cherry Coke and turned to face her.

“Let’s try that again,” he said. “Hi. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” she said, closing the book and smiling up at him. “Do you want some aspirin?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She returned with two aspirin and the platter of steaks, leaving him to the grilling while she put the bread in the oven and brought the salad and potatoes outside.

“How do you like your steak?”

“Medium’s fine,” she said, peeking at the grill as she ducked under his arm to light the citronella candles. “It’s working okay? I didn’t use it all last year.” 73

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The sizzling meat sent a mouth-watering aroma into the air. Hunter flipped both steaks, then moved one to the warming rack. “Looks good to me,” he said. “Another minute on yours.”

“I’ll get the bread,” she said and went on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth. By the time he sat down the lines in his forehead had eased. She passed him several slices of warm bread, crispy on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside, accepted her steak and asked him quietly about his day. His answers were terse, so she let him be.

“Sorry,” he said halfway through the meal. “I’m pretty bad company tonight.”

“You’re fine,” she said.

The last of his steak eaten, he braced one booted foot on the ring around the table’s pedestal and sat back with something as close to a contented sigh as she’d heard from him. “That was nice.” He looked around the backyard. Lacey, treating herself to a third slice of bread, watched his eyes tick off the details. Soft jazz played on portable speakers connected to her iPod and the chrysanthemums in pots all over the deck were beginning to bloom. The breeze and the candles managed to keep the worst of the mosquitoes away. “It’s all really nice. Relaxing.”

“How’s your headache?”

“Pretty well gone.”

“Coffee?”

“None for me,” he said.

She stood to clear the plates and he shoved his chair back, clearly intending to help.

“Sit down,” she said. “This will take two minutes to load in the dishwasher and I’m making coffee for myself anyway.”

Half out of his chair, he stopped and looked at her, something wary and tentative in his eyes, then eased back into the seat. She stacked the dinner plates on top of the platter that held the raw steaks and carried everything back into the kitchen. By the time the coffee finished brewing she’d tidied the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher.

She pushed through the door carrying a big cup of decaf.

“See? I can cook,” she said before taking a tiny sip of coffee.

“I doubt there’s much you can’t do if you set your mind to it, beautiful,” he replied.

His eyes were closed, legs sprawled in front of him, head resting on the back of the chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“What makes you think I’ve got something on my mind?”

“You’re looking at me like you want to ask me something,” he said to the canopy of leaves arching over her deck. “I’m tired, not pissed at you. What’s up?” Naked in her bed…or on her sofa…or in the shower…having Hunter’s highly trained powers of observation focused on her made for an attentive, deliciously ruthless lover, but Lacey wished the fog of male obtuseness would descend on him occasionally.

Once he honed in on an objective, there was no deterring him.

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“I have an event at the Metropolitan Club Friday night. It starts at seven. Will you go with me?”

The muscles under the skin and hair of his forearms tightened just a little, but he didn’t lift his head from the back of the chair. “What’s the event?”

“The local Entrepreneurs’ Association has a quarterly cocktail party. I missed the last two, so I need to go. I’d love some company. Your company, to be specific.” Her heart thumped against her ribcage as she bent her head and studied the contrast between the milky coffee and the dark blue mug.

Without lifting his head he spoke. “Yeah, I’ll go. I don’t have to rent a tux, right?”

“No, professional attire. Suit and tie. Women get a little more dressed up, of course.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“Just another variation on the uniform,” she said.

He smiled, eyes still closed, the tension gone from his body. As twilight took over the backyard she finished her coffee. A raccoon’s bright, unblinking eyes stared at her from under her neighbor’s woodpile and a family of squirrels began their nightly assault on the squirrel-proof bird feeder hanging from the nearest oak tree. Hunter remained quiet in both voice and body, a stillness that spoke of true exhaustion.

“What would you have done if you were alone tonight?” she asked idly.

“Fast food, watched a ball game. The Cubs are playing,” he said, eyes still closed.

“I’ve got some work to do if you want to watch the game.” At that his head snapped up. “You sure?”

She hid her smile behind the coffee cup. “I’m sure.” He checked to make sure the grill was turned off and grabbed his helmet while she blew out the candles. Once inside, she found her briefcase and pulled out the files she needed to review while Hunter toed off his boots, sprawled at one end of the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He clicked on the flatscreen TV and surfed at a blurring speed through the channels until he found the Chicago station.

“How do men instinctively understand remotes in all makes and models?”

“Remember health class, when we were split up into boys and girls? Day one was safe sex. Day two was remotes.”

She snickered, stretching out on her back on the sofa, feet up on the armrest to prop her reading material on her knees, her head pillowed on his thigh.

“You can concentrate with this on?” he asked as he laid one arm along the back of the sofa, the other loosely holding the remote.

“No problem,” she said then immersed herself in the proposals.

Every so often his hand smoothed her hair back from her face. The grandfather clock struck ten, but Lacey only vaguely remembered the chimes at eight or nine o’clock. Hunter’s arm had fallen to rest alongside her body, the long fingers twitching 75

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gently against her skin through the thin cotton of her tunic. A quick glance at the TV

showed the game wasn’t over. A longer look at Hunter’s face showed he was out cold, head cocked at an odd angle, his breath whistling faintly through his open mouth.

Her decision to invite him to the cocktail party at the Met hadn’t been a spontaneous one. She’d carefully weighed the relationship implications before asking, ultimately deciding that if she’d crossed the line, Hunter was smart enough to manufacture a shift or an obligation if he didn’t want to go. More likely, he’d just turn her down. And while for a moment he’d seemed to be uncomfortable with the idea, she hadn’t detected a grudging note in his response.