Misadventures in Blue Page 2

  “Bewildering,” Russo echoes. “Can you imagine using the word ‘bewildering’ out loud?”

  “The diploma over her desk was from Vassar,” I say a bit distractedly, feeling a short buzz from my phone and looking down to check it. Even with the parking lot lights sending a diffused glow over the pavement, the screen is painfully bright after I tap the notification open. “Maybe she’s simply well-spoken. Excuse me. I need to check this.”

  Russo stops and politely waits for me to check my latest email. I register a small click of satisfaction when I see it’s something I’ve been waiting for.

  “Boyfriend?” Russo asks, noticing my pleased expression.

  “Crime Analysis,” I reply. “Extracted data from the license plate readers in the area of the last burglary.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Day, you need a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. You can’t fuck extracted data, or at least so I’ve heard.”

  “I’m fine, Nicki.”

  She gives me a mock scowl at the use of her first name. “You seem fine, Cat. Really, really, superduper fine.”

  We’re angling toward a clump of officers standing next to a patrol car. Even in the dark, they’ve all got the requisite patrol cop sunglasses propped on their heads, and every last one of them has a gas station coffee cup clutched in one hand—vital medicine for any officer on any shift, day or night.

  “I am fine. I promise.”

  She softens, going from friendly ribbing to the earnest tomboy I met fifteen years ago at academy. “Frazer would want you to be happy, you know,” she says quietly enough that the uniforms can’t hear her as we approach. “He wouldn’t want you to live like this…married to the job since you couldn’t marry him.”

  My chest tightens uncomfortably.

  It’s been twelve years since he died, and there’s been plenty of therapy and life between then and now—and still her words sting. I tuck my phone carefully inside my portfolio, swallow, and say, “I’m happy, Nicki. Truly.”

  It’s a lie, but she doesn’t press me on it, for which I’m grateful. “Okay,” she says. “I just want to see you have a little fun is all. Live a little.”

  “I know. And thank you.”

  She gives my shoulder a little shove, a playful gesture literally no one else in the department would attempt with me, and then we’re to the chattering cops and the conversation is over.

  The restless itch, however, is back, tickling between my shoulder blades and tugging deep in my belly. Damn her, but Russo’s words have gotten under my skin.

  Am I lonely? Am I married to my job and starving myself of happiness?

  Of course not. How ridiculous.

  But if it’s so ridiculous, why this itch? Why this feeling like I’m waiting for something, missing something? Or someone?

  “Sutton,” Russo calls out. “Someone here to talk to you.”

  One of the uniforms breaks away from the knot of gossiping cops and turns toward us. He’s young—very young—no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, but he’s without the swagger most cops have at that age. And it’s obvious he doesn’t need it.

  Serious gray eyes stare out from under equally serious brows. A slightly Grecian nose leads to a sculpted mouth currently pressed into a solemn, no-nonsense line—which only serves to highlight the tempting peaks of his upper lip and the subtle fullness of the lower even more.

  His high-and-tight haircut is relaxed just enough that I could run my fingers through the dark thickness at the top but still short enough to show off his uplifted cheekbones and strong jaw. And his body—his body is pure sex. Young, vigorous, twenty-something sex. Broad shoulders testing the seams of his uniform shirt arrow down into trim hips neatly circled by a duty belt. His uniform pants cling to hard, athletic thighs, and right below his belt, there’s the bulge of a mouthwatering cock at rest. Oh God, oh God—

  I blush, my eyes snapping back up to his face. There’s no way he didn’t see me giving him such an obvious once-over. Except he doesn’t look proud or amused—the two reactions I’d expect from a hotshot-looking rookie.

  He looks thoughtful. And maybe a little curious.

  “Sutton, this is Cat Day. She’s the lead detective on these robberies.”

  “I remember,” he says. His voice is deep and rough—just like sex with him would be—and at hearing it, something behind my sternum pulls free with enough force to make my lips part on a silent gasp, and heat spills from my chest to my belly to somewhere lower down.

  That itch from earlier is resolving itself into thudding, hot aches everywhere. Everywhere I thought my body had gone quiet over the years. The tips of my breasts, the neglected bundle of nerves between my legs. My lips and my fingertips and even the skin of my belly, all craving heat and friction. All craving him. His combination of strength and power and youth—that thrill of seeing a man so young and virile vibrate with such restrained intensity.

  Now is when I should speak, when I should take control of the situation again, but I can’t trust my voice not to betray the sudden, purring desire currently humming across the surface of my skin. Instead, I extend a hand for a quick, professional shake.

  His hand is larger than mine, warm and dry and calloused, and the moment our skin touches, I know it was a mistake. Electricity sizzles through me, and with his eyes locked on mine as we touch, it’s impossible not to imagine that gray gaze on me as he pumps between my legs. Staring down at me as I take his heavy cock into my mouth. Touching him, no matter how professionally, only drives me to further distraction.

  “Nice to meet you.” That voice. Even listening to him, no matter how bland the words are, feels like a prurient act—like I shouldn’t be doing it in public. Surely everyone around us can see how my skin is catching fire? How my nipples are beading through my lace bra and silk blouse?

  “Nice to meet you,” I manage back, praying I sound composed. “I appreciate you making sure I was brought in tonight.”

  “I read your email,” he explains and then says nothing else. A man of few words, I suppose, although there’s no mistaking the intensity at which he operates. It’s in his extreme focus, the predatory stillness of his form. In the tension around his mouth and the alert tilts of his head.

  It’s hard to mind either the silence or the intensity when his eyes are shimmering mercury in the hazy radiance of the parking lot lights. They’re the kind of eyes that seem to say everything his mouth won’t, and it’s next to impossible to tear myself away when Russo breaks in and asks me a question.

  “Hey, do you need Sutton much longer? He’s an evenings boy, and his shift finished an hour ago.”

  Right.

  Shifts. Robberies.

  Police work.

  Focus, Cat. Work the case.

  “Only a few minutes more, Nicki,” I tell her and then turn to Sutton. “Do you mind going over what you found with me?”

  The shake of his head is deliberate, precise. No motion wasted, no emotion betrayed. “Whatever you need.”

  God. I could listen to that voice say whatever you need every night for the rest of my life. Low in my ear…against the nape of my neck…from between my legs.

  I curl my fingers around my leather portfolio so hard that I know my knuckles are going white.

  “Thank you,” I say, and thankfully my voice is as calm and cool as ever. “Can you walk me through what you saw when you pulled up?”

  Sutton nods but not before his eyes drop to where my hand clenches around the portfolio. I angle myself away from him ever so slightly so he can’t see, and he looks back up. I can’t read his gaze…and I’m not sure if I want to.

  “I arrived about ninety minutes ago—dispatch sent it out as an alarm call,” he starts and then proceeds to give me a clear and concise accounting of his arrival and subsequent search. I’m impressed with his eye for detail—most rookies don’t know what to look for on calls like these—and I’m also impressed with the way he describes his search. Brief and without posturing or flourish. Eve
n Frazer couldn’t resist the occasional showboating back in his time.

  “Thank you,” I say when I’ve finished. “And you’re back on duty tomorrow?”

  “At three in the afternoon. I’ll have my report to you by five.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Russo advises in a half-supervisory, half-cynical tone, and then she turns to me. “You’ll get it at some point in the next forty-eight.”

  I make a mental note of that. “Then you’re free to go, Officer,” I tell him, my eyes dropping one last reluctant time to the hewn, lean length of his body. My little ogle is snagged by the embroidered J. Sutton on his uniform shirt.

  “Jace,” he says softly.

  I glance back up at him.

  “J is for Jace,” he explains.

  “Oh,” I say and then notice Russo is narrowing her eyes at me. I clear my throat and offer my hand again. “Then thank you, Jace. This has been very helpful.”

  And I manage not to shiver when he shakes my hand a second time, his eyes falling to my mouth. I also manage not to make a disappointed whimper as his skin parts from mine and he turns to leave.

  After he’s several paces away, Russo crosses her arms and squints up at the fingernail-shaped moon. “He’s only just graduated from field training a few months ago,” she says conversationally. “Very young.”

  “He’s very adept,” I say in a neutral tone.

  “Hmm.” She makes the noise in a way that lets me know I’m not fooling her. “Okay, well, I think we’re close to being able to release the scene if you’re all good?”

  “I’ve got everything I need,” I say. “Thanks, Nicki.”

  She waves me off, reaching down to say something into her radio, and I walk away, trying very hard not to notice the stoic shadow of a certain police officer walking back to his patrol car.

  I still notice.

  I make a final round through the scene and then walk back to my car, portfolio cradled under my arm. I open it up to where I keep my car key in an inside pocket, and as I’m unlocking the passenger door to set my portfolio in the seat, a patrol car slides into the spot next to me.

  The window rolls down, revealing the startlingly handsome profile of Sutton.

  “I wanted to make sure you got into your car okay,” he says quietly.

  I glance around me and then raise an eyebrow. “There are at least seven cops in this lot. And lest you forget, I’m a cop too.”

  “You don’t have your service weapon on you.”

  “Don’t I?” And I’m not exactly sure why I do it, but I can’t say my motivation is entirely professional defensiveness. I pull up the hem of my pencil skirt to show where my small Glock is strapped to my inner thigh, revealing my garters and stockings in the process.

  I can hear Jace’s audible inhale, and when I glance back up at him, his eyes burn with something like fury. But I’m guessing the strain around his mouth and the way he works his jaw to the side has nothing to do with anger.

  “It’s safer to carry your gun on your hip,” he says tightly.

  “I don’t like to ruin the lines of my skirt,” I say. Yes, I’m that vain, although at the first sign of danger, I would have had my weapon out and ready.

  I realize I’m still showing off my lingerie when he lets out a low groan. My body responds to his response like he’s just touched a match to gasoline, and Russo’s voice echoes in my head: have a little fun.

  Be happy.

  It’s reckless what I’m about to do. Stupid in ways I’m never stupid in, yet I’m going to do it anyway because I want to. Hell, maybe I need to. Maybe my body is so desperate for friction and release that it could have been any man who crossed my path tonight.

  But I don’t think that’s true.

  It’s something about this too-young-for-me rookie, with his earnest seriousness and intense eyes. With that body that practically thrums with strength.

  Every part of it is wrong for a thirty-seven-year-old woman, for a professional, maybe even for an officer of the law, yet I still lean down to his window and say, “Fifty-one thirty-seven Norwood Avenue. The door will be unlocked.”

  And without waiting for his response, I walk around to the driver’s side of my car and leave.

  JACE

  An hour later I’m in the station, staring at my open locker as if it has answers.

  It doesn’t.

  Fifty-one thirty-seven Norwood Avenue. The door will be unlocked.

  My cock, which has been pushing against my zipper since she flashed me that impossibly sexy combination of gun and garter, is hot and throbbing at the idea of going to her house. It’s swollen and proud at the pleasure of being picked. My cock wants to go.

  Hell, all of me wants to go, if I’m being honest.

  Being interviewed by her did nothing to diminish my slow but growing fascination—a fascination that felt more and more possessive as our conversation went on. The more her aqua eyes flicked over me in that endearingly unchaste way. The hauntingly sexy arch of her eyebrow as she listened. The inadvertent pout of her mouth as she took notes.

  The flare of ownership I began to feel was so powerful, so urgent, that I could barely breathe. I didn’t care that she was older, that we just met, that while technically permissible, fraternization within rank was still frowned upon.

  She was mine.

  My ice queen who would thaw only for me.

  Except now as I’m changing out, hanging up my duty belt in my locker and lacing up my civvy boots, I’m plagued by questions.

  Is this something she does often? Am I not the first young, unattached officer to be picked for this?

  Am I imagining her attraction to me? My reaction to her?

  And do any of these questions actually matter? It’s a spontaneous lay with no promise of more. A single, near-strangerly fuck and then a parting of ways. For all I know, I’ll be pushed out the door with a wet dick and one of those small, enigmatic smiles, never to see her again.

  I nearly growl at the thought. I don’t want a single fuck with Catherine Day. I don’t know what I do want, but I know this thing stretching and flexing to life inside me won’t be satisfied with only tonight.

  I’m going to need more.

  I’m going to need a lot more.

  Chapter Three

  Cat

  I’m shaking as I walk into my house.

  Wild doubts and frenetic surges of panic tumble around inside my mind as I lock up my duty weapon and put my badge and my notes away.

  What am I doing? Have I lost my mind?

  And will he come?

  What if he doesn’t?

  What if he does?

  I pace around the house, turn on some modern cello music, and pour myself a large glass of white wine. It’s been three years since I’ve screwed someone, and even that barely counted because it was the tentative and too-sweet fuck of a successful first date. The man treated me like a china doll—like I’d crack at the first sign of rough handling—and I didn’t come. It was rather embarrassing for both of us afterward.

  I found excuses to avoid dates after that.

  So for three years it’s just been me and a small collection of carefully curated toys, and the idea of letting a man back inside my body has me more excited—and more terrified—than I thought possible. What if I’ve forgotten how to be good at it? What if it’s as disappointing as the last time I invited someone into bed? What if—oh, this is a big one—what if this young man doesn’t like my definitely-a-woman-in-her-thirties body?

  Worried, I drink more wine and wander back to the front door, debating on whether or not to leave it locked.

  Maybe I should. Maybe I should call this entire impulsive, preposterous thing off. I’ll leave a note on the door telling him as much and spare us both our pride.

  But dammit, I don’t want to.

  Every time I conjure up an image of Jace Sutton—gray eyes and that young, vigorous body—my own body sizzles with unmet need. And as nervous as I a
m, I’m certain that if I don’t do this, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

  No, I want this. I’m doing it. No matter how embarrassed I’ll be in the morning.

  I unlock the door.

  I’m still dressed, though, and as I finish my wine and set the glass down on the counter, I wonder if I should change that—if I should strip down or don something a bit more overtly sexy. Hell, I’m still in my heels even, still Detective Dry Clean Only.

  With a sigh, I decide to change, but as I walk out of my kitchen, I feel it. The distinctive prickle at the back of my neck telling me I’m not alone.

  I look up into the window across the breakfast nook and see Jace in the reflection, standing at a careful distance behind me. I’m impressed with how silently he entered my house; I’m not easy to sneak up on.

  Even in the reflection—and superimposed over my dark, private backyard—he looks painfully well-built, with the curves of his shoulders and arms pushing at his T-shirt and his jeans showing off his narrow, perfect hips. His chiseled features are still set in that stern, ultraserious expression that I found so compelling earlier, but now there’s something else behind that solemnity. Something darker. More primal.

  Neither of us says a word, as if we both know that speaking will somehow dilute whatever this is. This assignation. This mystifying attraction between us.

  So instead, I give him a steady, almost regal nod, like a queen to her young knight, and he understands immediately, a slow ripple of dangerous lust coursing visibly though him.

  He strides forward like a conqueror, and before I can turn to meet him, he has his hand flat between my shoulder blades and he’s bending me over the table.

  I bend, all the blood in my body pooling in my cunt.

  “Jace,” I say.

  He says nothing in reply but yanks my pencil skirt up to my hips and lets the cool air of the room caress my panty-covered ass. Still silent, his hands find the tops of my stockings and then move to stroke along the lines of my garters. I can’t help the moan that escapes me once his fingertips trace up the curve of my ass. Or the second moan when he slides a finger under the edge of my panties and explores the needy kiss of my pussy. He removes the finger and gives me a hard cup, letting me feel the unraveling threads of his control.