Misadventures in Blue Page 3

  Letting me feel how rough he wants to be.

  And the ensuing shove and grind of his denim-covered erection against my ass almost feels like an indictment, like he’s accusing me of something. I roll my face into the wood surface of the table and shudder.

  I like it all way too much.

  Have I ever felt like this before? Like a present being unwrapped? Like being both the best and worst thing to happen to a man?

  And how does someone so young know to fuck like this?

  My panties are torn off—just torn right off my hips without so much as a by-your-leave—and Jace gives my high-heeled foot a vicious kick with his own. It spreads my legs apart, like he’s searching me, frisking me, and the thought of that is so wrong and dirty that I whimper into the table.

  A long finger makes an approving circle of my now-exposed cunt and then penetrates me in an unhurried but persistent slide. I arch, which earns me another finger and a pleased grunt from him. He gives me a few lazy pumps, paying special attention to the textured spot inside that sends frissons of electric sensation everywhere through my body, but just when I’m starting to get really wet, truly squirmy, he withdraws his hand.

  When I look up at the window, I see him staring back at me with darkened, unknowable eyes. He has his fingers in his mouth, and he’s sucking my taste right off them.

  “Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh God.”

  What have I gotten myself into with him?

  A small, barely there quirk of his lips makes me think he can read my thoughts. And the next thing he does is just as carnal, just as vulgar. He unzips his jeans, pulls out his naked cock, and lets it drop right onto the top of my ass. A heavy, marking weight that tells me I wasn’t wrong earlier about that superlative bulge in his uniform pants.

  Without a word, he extracts a condom from his back pocket and tears it open with his teeth—a move I find animalistically, almost violently, sexual—and then rolls the sheath over his turgid length.

  I’m grateful for the condom, really, I am. But at the same time, I almost regret it. I almost wish he’d just penetrate me without one—which is patently nonsensical, as I have no doubt a man like Jace Sutton is fucking his way through the greater Kansas City area. Most cops his age are, which is one of the reasons I’ve refused to date any of them after Frazer’s death.

  But Jace has bulldozed past all my usual, prudent precautions. Younger man. Fellow cop. And apparently he’s even bulldozed past my common sense about casual sex and protection.

  God, I’m fucked in the head.

  I can feel the scorching heat of his tip even through the latex as he lazily maps the hollows and folds of my flesh, making everything wet and ready for his invasion.

  Then he invades.

  The spread of his wide crown into that long-untouched place makes my breath stutter and my fingers curl against the wood, and he’s relentless with it, driving in and in and in, tunneling through my tight, squeezing flesh. He pulls back to the crown, and with a hard hand on my hip and a low grunt, he pierces me all the way in.

  He stays just like that for a long moment, my body flush against his hips and his free hand smoothing over the strappy bits of garter belt on my bottom and the rucked-up fabric of my skirt. I can’t imagine how wanton I look like this, how debauched, my skirt shoved up and my cunt stretched—and all of it without foreplay or an inaugural kiss. Without even a word.

  I’m so turned on by it all that I think I’ll scream if he doesn’t start moving.

  I’m shorter than him by a significant amount, even in the steep Manolo Blahniks, and he nudges my feet back together with him still inside in order to get me at the angle he wants. And then he starts to fuck.

  Each pull out to the tip is a thrill of friction, and each shove back in is a sear of pressure and heat. He fucks me unapologetically, thoroughly, shoving and driving inward until I can swear the end of his cock is somewhere in my chest, his hands fisting in the expensive fabric of my skirt to bring me back against him harder, faster.

  I look up at the window again just to see him—just to see that tall, sturdy body at work—and find him looking at the same thing. Watching us, still clothed, bucking and sweaty. Two cops seeking a desperate, dirty cure for an ancient ache.

  His face like this is spellbinding—his dark brows are drawn together in focus and his full mouth is pressed into a solemn line, and he doesn’t look like a predator who’s caught his prey. He doesn’t look like a victorious male who’s managed to pin a mate. Not yet. I’m not sure what else he wants until his hand gives my ass a quick crack and then just as quickly finds my clit.

  Then I know. He wants more from me. He wants me wild. He wants me to come.

  I arch, I purr, I twist—his fingers are expert and sure, and they know exactly how to work my flesh, exactly how to circle and press and rub. He watches me carefully in the window, studying my face, and I realize he’s learning what I like, gauging my reactions to what he does.

  So he sees the frustrated pout when he touches me gently, the ecstatic gasp when he gets rough again and demands a response from my body.

  I’m spanked and I let out laughs of surprised pleasure because who knew that could feel so good? So naughty and invigorating, the contrast of the sparkling pain only serving to highlight the pleasure I’m feeling around his thick erection and under his skillful fingers? And there’s more, so much more.

  My nipples are plucked and rolled through my blouse and bra. My hair is wound in his fist and pulled. My asshole is pressed and played with—with ownership, with male prerogative, as if he has no doubt that he has every right to it.

  There’s no china doll treatment from Jace Sutton. None at all, and I’m on fire with how much I love it.

  My orgasm comes with three years of need roaring behind it—more, twelve years of need, twelve years since I’ve been properly fucked, and even then it still wasn’t like this. It still wasn’t as dirty or as hard or as fundamental. This is how I need to be fucked—how I’ve always needed to be fucked—and I never knew. I never knew until this one-night stand with a young man I have no right taking to bed.

  Bed…kitchen table. Whatever.

  With a sobbed moan, I feel the orgasm catch fire around the buried tip of his cock, starting in my belly and yanking at my clit and flickering across every single nerve ending I have. He sucks in a breath as the contractions grip his erection, as if my body is trying to milk the come right up his shaft and into my body, and then he lets loose.

  Truly lets loose.

  His cock swells bigger and harder than ever, and his hips hammer into the curves of my bottom as if he’s trying to wedge his way inside me. I know he wants to come, I know he wants to pump his condom full, and knowing that is enough to set off a second, stronger orgasm inside me.

  I let out a soft wail, writhing and kicking my feet as his relentless fucking pins me to the table, and it’s too much, it’s all too much. I can’t handle how viciously my pussy clenches with pleasure. I can’t handle the sensory overload of being screwed so ferociously through it all. I wail and I kick, and he grunts and keeps thrusting, and then he lays his upper body over mine, wraps his hand around my throat, and spears me harder than ever, going so deep that I can feel the hair below his navel tickling my ass and the zipper of his jeans biting the tender skin of my thighs.

  In near silence he comes, with only a ragged groan on that first exquisite throb to let me know his control is also shaken, and the scalding heat of his seed is palpable even through the latex. His erection flexes and pulses inside me, doing the job it was made for, and I love the feeling of it so much that I tuck my cheek against my shoulder so he can’t see the delirious grin on my face.

  God, I’d forgotten. Forgotten everything, really, but mostly how good it felt to have someone releasing inside me, filling me with heat as their body jerked in pleasure.

  He stays bent over me even after his cock goes still, and he brushes the hair away from my ear so he can ghost his lips over its she
ll. And for a minute, I think he’s going to kiss me. Going to shatter the potent fantasy of this magical encounter with some banal thank you or how was it for you?

  But I underestimate him.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, leave your fucking door unlocked,” he whispers against my ear. “Ever fucking again.”

  Without waiting for a response, he pulls out and steps away, leaving my entire body wet and empty and cold. I hear the clang of the kitchen trash can lid as he throws the condom away, and the purr of his zipper, and then his footsteps to the front door. It opens.

  I hear the pointed, deliberate sound of the lock turning and then the door closing behind him.

  Jace is gone, having left me bruised and flushed and happy—and safer than how he found me.

  And I stay bent over that table for much longer than necessary, smiling into the wood because that unsettled itch from earlier is finally, finally scratched.

  Chapter Four

  Jace

  I’m edgy as hell as I walk into the station.

  I barely slept, could hardly eat this morning, and even the usual grind of weights and cardio at the gym wasn’t enough to sharpen my focus. All I could think about was her.

  Catherine.

  Cat.

  She was catlike indeed last night, all purrs and sinuous, needy arches. I wonder if she bites. I wonder if she scratches.

  I think I might die if I don’t find out.

  The problem is that I’m not sure I’ll have the chance—and even I see the irony of that, because ever since I’ve come home to Hocker Grove, I haven’t exactly been a “find out more” kind of guy.

  I left the army, expecting to marry my high school sweetheart, and came home to find that she’d been sweethearting plenty of other guys while I was away. It hurt less than it should have, and I think we’d been nothing more than friends with benefits for a while. But it still made me wary of anything lasting longer than a couple of hours. Once bitten and all that.

  Except I want more than a couple of hours with Cat. I want much, much more, and it was only respect for what I thought she needed from our encounter that made me leave. I wasn’t going to force myself on her for longer if all she wanted was a nice little fuck to finish off the day.

  Not that our fuck was nice. Or little.

  My dick swells as I remember how rough my ice queen wanted it. How she moaned as I pulled her hair and spanked her ass. How fucking sexy and sluttish she looked with that prim skirt over her ass and her pricy garters framing her cunt.

  I get to the locker room and lean against my locker, my mind crammed full of last night, my body aching with the memory of it.

  What is it about her?

  Is it that she’s older? Elegant? Mysterious?

  Was it the bewitching discovery that if you bent her over a table, all that good breeding disappeared?

  I’m not sure. It’s all of it combined, maybe. All of it plus seeing her at work last night, so fearless and intelligent and methodical. Knowing her slender, wanton body came paired with steel resolve and a sharp mind.

  I’m still chewing over this as I get to roll call and take a chair. Russo goes over the normal beginning of shift stuff—traffic assignments for the afternoon, new slides from vice about a drug ring up north—and then swivels her chair toward me. “Investigations is asking for a uniform to help with the television robberies. I volunteered you.”

  I’m only half paying attention, my thoughts still fixated on a certain detective. “Pardon?”

  “You did a good job last night,” Russo says honestly, and it’s one of the things I like best about her. She’s fair, and while she doesn’t effusively praise her squad the way some sergeants do, she consistently recognizes good work. “I was impressed, and Captain Kim in investigations was impressed. We both agree you’d be a good fit to help Day with some of the investigation grunt work.”

  Hearing her name out loud is like a shot of adrenaline. I sit up straighter, alert. “I’d be working with Detective Day?”

  Russo tilts her head at me. “Yeah. That’s what I said. That a problem?”

  It’s the furthest fucking thing in the world from a problem. “No, of course not. Do I need to change shifts?”

  “You’ll be working whatever they tell you to work,” Russo says. “You’re temporarily assigned to Day’s sergeant and Day’s squad. I imagine you’ll be working some days, some overnights, that kind of thing. Will that work?”

  I have no life outside of this job except for the gym and playing with my niece and nephew. And I’m to the point where I’d happily donate an organ if it meant I could see Day again.

  I give Russo an affirmative nod.

  “All right. Then get your rookie butt down to investigations and report to Day.”

  In the history of the HGPD, no one has hauled ass to the investigations station as quickly as I do now, and I test more than a few speed limits as I try to get there before Day clocks out. I park the car and practically jog into the building.

  I search out the investigations sergeant for a quick check-in and to verify whom I need to report to for the evening portion of the shift, and then I’m free to find her.

  I can admit it now, as I’m stalking through the maze of cubicles to find hers. I can admit how badly I want to fuck her again. How much I hated walking away last night, how my stomach twisted all night long at the thought that she might think badly of me, that she was displeased or unimpressed with what happened.

  I want very much for her to be pleased. To be impressed.

  I knew all of this earlier, of course, but it’s only now as I’m eating up the space between us that I acknowledge the implication.

  I want her to be mine.

  At least one more time.

  Cat’s cubicle is tucked away in a far corner, and it’s larger than most. A subtle indication of her position in the unit. A little digging this morning while Romero and I were at the station gym netted me the information that Cat is the lead persons detective and usually takes point on the city’s homicides, when we have them—which is rarely—working assaults, batteries, and stalking the rest of the time.

  She has the highest case clearance rate of any other detective in her unit and has for years. She did a stint with the KBI—HGPD loaned her out for that one—and frequently gets called in by other agencies to help with difficult cases. The “frigid bitch” Quinn was talking about is possibly the best cop in the department—and manages to be the best without fanfare or arrogance.

  And she surrendered all that intelligence and discipline into my hands last night. The significance of that is potent. Intoxicating.

  Russo made it sound as if Captain Kim had decided to put me on the burglary case, but I can’t help but hope that Day asked for me. That she liked my performance—both at the scene and in her kitchen—enough to trust me with her presence again. I want her to trust me. I want it as directly and forcefully as I’ve wanted anything else that matters.

  And now I’m thinking about wanting her in the noisy, fluorescent bullpen.

  Get it under control, Sutton.

  I’m always professional and respectfully subordinate—a gift from the army days—but even walking up to her cubicle has my cock thick and my blood hot. My heart is in my throat like I’m a teenage boy about to ask a girl to his first dance, and I’m itching just to see her, just to be close to her.

  Except when I get to her, she’s not alone.

  A man, probably just on the young side of forty, is standing in the cubicle opening with an elbow propped on the chest-high wall and one dress-shoed foot crossed behind the other. He’s in a tailored blue suit, the kind that costs as much as I make in a month, and it showcases an impressively fit body. There’s no wedding ring on his hand, and he’s leaning in to talk to Cat in a familiar manner that makes me want to smash something.

  When I get to the cubicle entry myself, I see Cat sitting in her chair, looking radiant in that tasteful way of hers and laughing at something he’s said
.

  I hate him immediately.

  Her eyes slide over to me and widen, and for a moment, I see desire flash in those sparkling depths—but as soon as I see it, it’s gone, and she’s the aloof queen once more.

  “Sutton,” she says calmly. “What brings you to this station?”

  Ah, so she didn’t know I was coming. Which means she didn’t ask for me.

  Shit.

  Pushing down my disappointment, I reply, “Russo’s lending me out to you. It’s gone through Kim and everything, so…I’m at your disposal. Starting now.”

  I feel a rush of male satisfaction as my subtext sends pink blooming along her cheekbones.

  “How nice,” she murmurs, her sea-colored eyes dropping down to her shoes. She takes a breath, and when she looks back up at me, she seems to have control of herself again. “Sutton, have you met our new assistant district attorney, Kenneth Goddard? He used to be one of the best defense lawyers in town before he moved away a few years ago, but now he’s back and fighting for the side of good.” She gives him a quick, teasing grin with her last statement, and I hate him even more.

  Kenneth laughs. “Good is subjective. You know that.”

  She makes a face. “Maybe in criminal defense, but you were getting doctors and rich kids out of DUIs, Ken. Not exactly a hero’s fare.”

  “But you admit I was good at it.” He grins and then turns to me, extending a hand. He’s good-looking, damn him, in a WASPy way. Medium height, dark-blond hair, and a fucking cleft in his chin. His fine-boned face and expensive haircut make me think he’s known wealth long before defending assholes for lots of money.