One Hot Mess (4 page)

I stifled a moan.
Maybe.
“No. I just—” I began, but in that moment he kissed me again, open-mouthed, until I thought I might pass out. I was now sprawled against the wall behind me, breathing hard and barely holding my sizzling instincts at bay.

He drew back a scant few inches, watching me. “Anyone trying to kill you?” he murmured. His breath shivered against my skin.

“Not until now,” I managed.

He laughed. The sound was lovely and quiet and shimmied along my crackling nerve endings like a rogue electrical current. “I'm not trying to kill you,” he said, and kissed me again.

“Yeah?” I felt limp and hot and desirable. Not unlike fresh-cooked linguini. “What
are
you trying to do?”

“If you haven't figured that out yet, I'd better feed you first. Let you build up your strength,” he said. After watching me for a few more heart-pounding seconds, he kissed me again, then took the bag from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harlequin and I followed him in something of a haze. He had an ass like a middleweight's, narrow and lean and as firm as eggplant. I found I wanted, quite badly, to grab it with both hands, but I forced myself to stop and lean a shoulder against the doorjamb, watching him.

“Maybe I'm expecting a hot date,” I said.

Bending, jeans stretched tight over his plum-ripe rear, he took a frying pan from beneath the oven. He glanced at me from a cockeyed angle for an instant, eyes gleaming, then grinned.

I gritted a smile. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing. Come melt some butter,” he said. If the desire in his eyes wasn't naked, it was at least indecent.

I sauntered over casually, making sure my hips were on a roll. They're what flowery amorists would call “generous,” so I have to be careful, 'cuz sometimes when I get them going it throws the earth off kilter.

He handed me a bowl with a half pound of butter inside and amped up his grin. “Nuke it, will you?”

I turned away with a scowl, a little irritated, a little confused, a lot horny. And that's when I saw my reflection in the microwave. I opened my mouth to scream, but no self-respecting noise would come out. My mascara had headed south, making me look like a shocked raccoon, and my hair! One side had somehow exploded, while the other was crushed to my skull like luncheon meat gone bad.

“Holy crap!” I gasped.

He chuckled, then took the bowl from my numb fingers. “Electrical outlet or lightning?”

I combed my fingers through the frizzled tresses Clairol had optimistically called Rosewood. They were brown. “I thought you wanted that stuff melted.”

Another chuckle as he dumped the butter into a pan. “Just wanted you to see your reflection.”

“You been short of perps to torment at the station?”

“Perps?” He glanced over his shoulder at me, and there
was something about the way he did it—with his mouth tilted up in beguiling mischief and his whiskey-dark eyes gleaming past the midnight fringe of his hair. It made me want to skip the meal and jump to the main course. “You been watching
CSI
again?”

“Maybe I could send you some houseflies to torture.”

“Came here instead,” he said, and twirled the butter in the pan with a knife. “Just to keep in practice.”

“I'm not really in the mood right now.”

He slid his gaze down my body.

“For that, either,” I lied, and he laughed in that sexy way that makes my hair tingle.

“Good thing I brought the makings for fettuccine, then?”

Screw my ovaries. My stomach suddenly felt like it had been awakened by a wet dream. “With Alfredo sauce?”

“Just because I'm a cop doesn't mean I'm stupid.”

“What can I do?” I asked, and shouldered in beside him at my cracked little counter. From then on I didn't care that I looked like a lightning victim or that my shorts were practically nonexistent or that he had the sensitivity of a sledgehammer. Turns out, sledgehammers can cook like the devil. We did a kind of primitive dance around the kitchen, slicing, chopping, mixing. Eventually he stood behind me, his hand over mine, his crotch pressed to my backside, supposedly demonstrating the best way to sauté shrimp. In less than fifteen minutes he was feeding me Alfredo sauce from a wooden spoon.

“How is it?” he asked.

I refrained from swooning. “Not bad.”

“Not bad as in ‘It'll do’ or not bad like ‘forget the damn sex, it's already too late’?”

“I gotta tell you, Rivera…” I gave him a sleepy glance through my lashes. “You'll know if I come.”

“If?”
he asked, cocky as hell, and fed me more sauce. Seeing his fingers against the spoon, broad and dark and masculine, almost really did make it too late. In fact, for a second I nearly forgot that I'd give my left lung for anything Italian.

A drop of sauce plopped onto my chest just above my frayed neckline. He glanced down, eyes blazing. I held my breath, and then he reached out with ridiculous slowness and wiped it away with his pinky. The feel of his skin against my breast was almost more than I could handle. But he was already offering me the sauce. I took his finger in my mouth, sucking hard. His lids lowered dramatically, his face hardened. I smiled as I drew back and licked my lips.

“Want to get some plates or should we just clear the table and have at it?” His voice was no more than a low growl.

Estrogen was sluicing through my system like go-juice. I wanted nothing more than to ride him like an untamed bronc, but if the truth be known, there is nothing that makes a woman so attractive as her would-be partner's unsated desire. I turned away to get the plates, knowing how my legs looked from behind, and even though those same legs were a little unsteady, we were eating in a minute. In five I was done and leaning back to watch him finish up. He ate with careful deliberation, the muscles in his arms flexing impressively with each movement.

“If you want help cleaning up, you might not want to look at me like that,” he said, and settled his fork onto the edge of my country-blue stoneware, abandoning eight
noodles and a quarter cup of sauce. That's what drives me crazy about him. It isn't the lightning-quick temper or the way the scar at the corner of his lips dances up with anger or humor. It's the control. Taut. Crisp. Until it lets loose.

“You look tired,” I said.

He shrugged, an economical lift of tight-packed shoulders. “Not too.”

Was every line suggestive or was it just my hormones shouting lewd suggestions? I rose to my feet, reminding myself I was not going to sleep with this guy. This guy had accused me of murder, had stood me up, had made me look at my reflection in the microwave.

I picked up my glass, placed it on my plate, and rose to my feet. “What's going on at the precinct?”

Another shrug. He was watching me. I could feel the heat of his attention down to my funny bone. It wasn't laughing. “Been a fairly quiet week. Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation,” I said, and turned toward the sink.

“So you don't jump my bones?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Your bones are perfectly safe with me.”

“Shall I worry on behalf of my other parts?”

I smiled from the kitchen doorway. “Feel free.”

He rose to his feet and gathered his dishes. Maybe it was my imagination, but every movement seemed darkly erotic, every glance suggestive.

As he stood beside me at the sink, the soap suds on his maple-syrup fingers made me think how it would feel to have him washing his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, over my… I shut off my X-rated thoughts, but I was already feeling flushed.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You look a little flushed,” he said, handing me a plate. Our fingers brushed. His lips twitched as if he knew every lurid thought that raced through my overheated mind.

“Anything exciting going on at work?” he asked. He wasn't a big fan of psychology. Maybe like an STD patient is wary of hypodermic needles.

“Not much,” I said.

“Yeah?” His arm slid against mine. I reminded myself that arms are not anywhere near the sexy zone. “Everybody cured?”

“What can I say?”

“Give me those other dishes,” he said.

I handed him the dirty breakfast crockery. A corner of a Pop-Tart resided in the middle of the plate. I'd left a smattering of frosting, too. Self-control. I've never been more proud.

“Nutritionally balanced as usual, I see,” he said.

“Has anyone told you that you're much more appealing with your mouth shut?” I asked, and snuck last night's dinner dishes into the sink.

“Most women think I'm better with my mouth open,” he said. Slipping a soapy arm around me, he pulled me against him, kissing me open-mouthed and hard.

“What do you think?” he murmured finally, so close I could feel his thoughts inside my cranium. They were hot and smutty.

“About?” I could barely force out the word.

There were pinpoints of black in the dark-whiskey irises of his smoldering eyes. “Enough wooing?”

“Is that what this is?” Somehow, his right thigh had become
lodged between mine. I resisted riding it like a romance-novel love stallion.

“The new and improved version.”

“That must be why I didn't recognize it.”

He ran his hand down my back. I shivered down to my platelets, let my eyes fall closed, considered swooning.

“I think things are going pretty well between us,” he said. “We haven't found any new corpses lately.”

“What more can we ask?” I breathed. He slid his hand lower, pulling me close. His erection shifted a little. My lips felt dry. I licked them. He followed the movement with his eyes, then leaned in and kissed my lower lip. I was panting like a greyhound. His kisses moved down my neck. He shifted my tattered T-shirt aside with careful fingers.

“You haven't threatened to decapitate me for almost a month.”

“Always a favorable sign.” It was difficult to remember how to form complete sentences. He tugged my saggy shirt lower and kissed the top of my left breast. I felt the corresponding side of my brain go numb, while my right side began firing off impractical but creative scenarios. God, I love the right brain.

“And I haven't threatened to incarcerate you.” His kisses slipped lower. I couldn't decide if I should be happy that I wore such a cleavage-friendly bra or pissed that it was in the way.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” I said.

“My pleasure,” he murmured, and, cupping my breast, somehow managed to coax it out of its container and rain kisses near the nipple.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

“You've kept your nose clean,” he said.

“While the rest of me is dirty as hell,” I rasped.

“Jesus, McMullen!” He paused, staring at me with lightning-bright intensity. “I'm trying to logically justify why we deserve to have sex.”

“Oh.” Jesus God. Sex! “Yes.” Why wasn't there more oxygen in the room? What had happened to the damn oxygen? “Of course. Carry on.”

“I've been gentlemanly.”

I made some kind of unidentifiable noise in my throat. It might have been a snort or a moan or a gasp. God knows.

“For a cop,” he said. He was holding both breasts now. I didn't look down, but I knew the nipples were perched on the top of my bra. He licked one.

I shrieked something inarticulate and bucked against him.

“While you've been”—he was breathing hard—”so damn sexy I can hardly—”

I grabbed a handful of hair at the back of his head and smashed in for a kiss.

After that, all hell broke loose. He was on my nipple, suckling. I think I screamed. He moaned and tore my shirt over my head. My shorts were simply gone, probably disintegrated like wet toilet paper. And suddenly I was perched on the counter, legs spread, bra AWOL. His shirt looked like it had lost a battle with a wolverine. His belt defied me for one frantic second, but finally I mastered it. And then his cock burst free.

I think I might have taken the Lord's name in vain at that point, but it might have been him.

And then someone knocked on my door.

I gasped, wondering wildly if outsiders could see us. I slammed my gaze to the window above the sink, but my blinds were closed fast.

“Screw that!” I breathed, and kissed him, searing his lips with my own.

He was as hot as sin against my core. His hands crushed my butt, drawing me nearer, pulling me onto him.

“Christina,” called a voice from the far side of the door. “I am sorry to bother you.”

I froze. Rivera froze. We stared at each other. Inches apart. Hearts hammering. Stuff throbbing.

“McMullen,” Rivera murmured.

“Yes?”

“Why is my father on your stoop?”

Y GAZE WAS WELDED to Riveras face. “Your father?” My voice sounded as if my throat had been exfoliated with sea salt.

His cock throbbed between us. I throbbed right back. Nobody ever called me a piker. I was absolutely stark naked and happy to be so.