Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (16 page)

What if they had showered together? Would Isabella notice his growing erection? Would she be generous and wild or shy and endearing this time around? It boggled his mind that she could bounce between the disparate sides of her personality. Almost as if she wanted to fly but didn’t know how. Had her husband never indulged her innate sensuality?

If he were married to a woman like her, he’d never stop her from doing as she pleased with him. He could picture her naughty smirk as she prepared to obliterate his restraint. She would lick droplets off his pecs, raking her sharp little teeth over his pebbled nipples while her fingers walked along the taut surface of his clenched abdomen.

His cock flexed as though reaching out to meet her hand. She’d wrap it around him, her grip tight as she attempted to encircle him with the delicate fingers that had tormented him for two days. Every time he’d cupped them in the awkward ballroom hold or felt them stroking his shoulder through their turns, he had a desperate urge to experience the contact under his clothes.

Isabella’s ultra-smooth skin had never known a day of work in her life. Pampered and perfect, it would caress his shaft. The sensation of her suds-filled hand stroking him would be almost as good as tunneling into her soaked pussy. Or between the unexpectedly voluminous breasts, which had overflowed his hands beneath the blanket at the crime scene earlier.

Maybe she would kneel before him, guiding his throbbing shaft to her cleavage. He’d glide between the slick mounds of her chest while she smiled up at him or bent her head to lick the salty fluid oozing from his tip. The heat of her pert mouth would tease him until he had to have more, take more.

Razor would grasp her upper arms, lifting her to her feet then higher, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist. He’d bury himself in her tight pussy with one long lunge that would leave her impaled on his cock. He’d ravage her lips—tasting the intoxicating sweetness he’d only begun to sample today—while he pumped into her heat.

Her ass would fit his hands as he raised and lowered her, grinding against her each time he penetrated to stroke her clit and drive her beyond her polite aloofness. When she cried out for mercy, scratching his shoulders with those manicured nails, he’d shift, pinning her to the molded plastic of his cheap shower stall.

After he had her where he wanted her he’d really begin to fuck.

“Izzy,” he moaned.

“Yes?”

The soft reply from the other side of the room had him yanking his fingers from his pants fast enough to burn his knuckles on the denim. When had she finished her damn shower? Had she seen him jerking off to forbidden fantasies?

He didn’t think so when she padded around the end of the couch to peer at him, head tilted to the side. The platinum strands of her damp hair hung nearly to the waist of her low-riding sweats. The cropped edge of the matching sassy top tempted him to reach out and circle her cute belly button with the tip of his index finger. Or, maybe, his tongue.

Shit! He slammed his eyes shut.

If he hadn’t already hovered on the edge of exploding, that image would have propelled him there. Razor sprang to his feet, bent over due to the steel rod in his pants. He snagged his jacket off the arm of the couch where he’d laid it, clutching the nylon to his stomach, hoping she hadn’t adjusted to the dim light of the living area after the stark white of his utilitarian bathroom.

He pinned his jeans to one hip as he limped toward the privacy of his bedroom. When the hell had he undone his fly?

“Are you okay, James?” She trailed after him, but he slammed the door in her face.

“Fine!” He hadn’t meant to shout. Hopefully she’d assume he’d raised his voice to allow it to carry, though the cardboard-quality doors wouldn’t require any extra decibels. “Be out in a few minutes.”

Razor dropped his jacket. He shucked his jeans and briefs before he’d crossed the three steps to the bathroom. Hopping on one foot then the other, he peeled his socks off. He yanked his shirt over his head before reaching around the clear plastic curtain for the knobs with his other hand.

Within seconds, he stood beneath the steamy water, which beat into his hair. His head hung, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the sweet scent of fruity shampoo. One hand throttled his throbbing shaft, angry red for having abandoned it so close to the mother of all orgasms. His other palm had barely cradled his drawn-up balls when he began to stroke his erection. He swore it had never been so hard or so plump.

He’d made less than five full circuits, his grip squeezing on the tip with each stroke, when he lifted his head and caught sight of a tiny handprint on the steamy surface of the shower wall. Exactly where Izzy would have to brace herself if he spun her graceful back to his chest and slid his cock home from behind.

The base of his hard-on tingled as he imagined laying open-mouthed kisses, licks and gentle bites along her neck. His hand would splay on her flat tummy, anchoring her in place to accept his intensifying thrusts. From there he could tease her swollen folds and engorged clit on either side of the shuttling mass of his cock until she shattered around him.

His head tilted back, exposing the ropey tendons of his neck as he imagined the spasms of her orgasm drawing him into the brightest pleasure he’d ever lived through. Come jetted from his cock, splattering on the wall, not too far from the evidence she’d left of her presence. The proximity had spurt after spurt of seed launching from his balls in a climax that wrung him dry.

Next thing he knew, Razor knelt in the shower, his ass resting on his heels. He struggled to catch his breath. His hand naturally landed on top of Izzy’s print, causing him to wonder if she might have done the same.

A light knock on the door startled him. “James? I thought I heard something. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Much better now,” he called.

“Yeah. My…shower…helped, too. Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“I’ll start reheating dinner if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be out in a few.” He’d emerge as soon as he could stand again and had cleaned the mess he’d made, not to mention himself. First, he needed to catch his breath. Then he could manage those tasks. Jesus, no one had ever gotten to him like simply the thought of her had.

Now he had to play house with her too? He considered switching duties with Matt for a few hours. Every instinct rebelled. No matter what the right thing to do was, he couldn’t force himself to retreat. The remnants of his orgasm swirled around his knees before circling the drain and disappearing.

He wished he could say the same for his arousal. The fire in his gut lingered, razing his objectivity. If only she would open up to him, maybe he could explore this attraction.

And maybe pigs could fly.

Isabella appraised her handiwork with a critical eye. It held up beneath the scrutiny considering she’d never cooked a meal in her life. Okay, so she’d simply reheated this one. You had to start somewhere. She’d done her best to sort out the jumble their meals had become in the fray, plating the steaks on an artistic bed of potatoes and beans topped with an arrangement of crisped onions.

She’d eaten enough fancy dinners in her life to know what worked and what didn’t when it came to presentation. Stefan would approve, she was sure of it. While the entrees had warmed, she’d spent her time rummaging in Razor’s cabinet. A dusty bottle of wine with a screw top and two mismatched candles had rewarded her search.

A neon green mountain bike and a set of free weights occupied the nook intended for a dining room table, so she used a hand towel to form a strip-runner down the center of the coffee table. Then she arranged two place settings on opposite sides of it and stole a couple of pillows from the couch for them to sit on while they ate.

She wandered to his iPod docking station and fiddled with the controls. The backlit screen proclaimed he’d set One Republic’s “Secrets” on constant repeat. The soulful strings called to her, so she left the music on low.

Isabella dusted off the candles, placing them artfully on the table. She brought over the two glasses she’d discovered—one an old-fashioned coke glass and the other sporting a chip big enough she feared she might cut her lip while trying to drink. She’d barely finished folding a pair of paper towels into a decent imitation of the diamond silverware pouch Gerard preferred for napkins at grand events when Razor appeared from his bedroom.

Isabella had a moment to doubt herself as he surveyed her work—would he think it a pathetic attempt at seduction instead of a friendly gesture of gratitude—before his warm gaze landed on her.

“Damn, is this my apartment? Huh. Who knew it could look like this?” He tugged her into a brief, one-armed hug and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead before releasing her. The spicy mix of his soap and the man beneath had her salivating far more than the aroma of the steaks.

He frowned when he took in the motley assortment of silverware and the oddball glasses. “I should buy some decent stuff. Maybe you can help me pick out a couple things sometime.”

“I like how it’s real, used.” She plucked a fork from her side of the table and examined the bent tines. “People have eaten with this. It’s not for show. The experience, the history, means something. When everything is new and perfect there’s no tradition, no culture, no…”

She broke off when she caught the curiosity and, worse, condolence in his warm eyes. “Sorry. I’m tired. Not really thinking. Let’s eat before everything turns cold again.”

They carried their plates to the impromptu settings before digging in. She carved a chunk of tenderloin, popping it into her mouth with a hum of appreciation.

“Holy shit.” Razor’s reverent groan set the butterflies in her stomach in motion again. “I always figured places like Carnot’s to be overpriced bullshit. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

A ridiculous thrill tingled along her spine. She had never been able to give her father or Malcolm something they couldn’t acquire themselves. Making this man happy, over something as trivial as a meal, made her feel ten feet tall.

She devoured a quarter of her steak before surfacing for air again. Today had worked up a heck of an appetite in her. When she reached for her glass, she found it remained empty. Years of stringent rebukes stayed her hand. If she had broken protocol and poured her own drink, Malcolm would have been mortified. As she deliberated what to do, James raised his head from his mostly cleared plate.

How had he eaten so fast? She imagined him choking on an unchewed piece of steak while she attempted to perform the Heimlich maneuver and died of dehydration while in the process. Her imagination had landed her in trouble often.

“What are you thinking?”

“Hmm?” She stalled. “Nothing.”

“When are you going to start leveling with me?” Tension crept into the temporary peace of their meal. His LieDAR functioned flawlessly around her, busting her every single time she tried to evade him. Even about something silly.

She couldn’t stand to ruin the easy companionship they’d shared by divulging her unflattering daydream so she blurted the lesser of the two evils. “I wondered if you intended to open the wine.”

“Oh, damn. Were you waiting for me?” He wiped his broad fingers on his paper towel before reaching for the bottle. “Christ, Izzy. You have to help me out here. What do I know about manners? If I fuck up, tell me.”

“I wasn’t worried about maintaining decorum.” Good thing since dropping the granddaddy of all curses at the dinner table had to rank high in the top ten list of no-nos. “I…uh…didn’t want to offend you.”

She cast her glance to the floor, afraid to confirm she’d acted too forward.

“Princess, you could fart in the middle of dinner, and I would only laugh. I have about as much class as a ten year old. Though, I gotta be honest, you make me wish I had so much more.”

Her jaw dropped open as her gaze flicked to his. He was serious. She tipped over, curling on her side on his industrial-grade carpet. She’d never laughed so hard in all her life. The residual stress she’d bottled seeped from her one giggle at a time until she lay boneless on his floor, tears streaking her cheeks.

One of his sexy bare feet nudged her knee.

“Glad you enjoyed that.” He extended a hand to help her sit up as he grinned across the table at her. “My friends tell me I don’t know when to shut up. They’re right. I know they are. But I can’t help myself sometimes.”

“It must be liberating to be able to do whatever you want, say whatever you want.” He had become her hero. Razor had everything she’d ever longed for—friendships earned, not bought, and the freedom to do with them what he would.

He shrugged. “I find myself in trouble a lot. I figure at least I’m not a phony.”

Isabella’s smile faded a little. She’d lived a lie for so long she didn’t know what remained beneath the tangled fabrication of the perfect daughter or the perfect wife.

“Hey now, those dimples are cute, but I’m not a fan of your frown. How ’bout some wine?” Razor held the bottle toward her, jiggling it. “Let’s go crazy, Izzy. Forget these shitty glasses. Open it yourself. Slug it straight from the bottle. I
quadruple
-dog-dare you.”

How could she refuse? The metallic rip of the perforated top snapped through the air as it separated. She touched the green glass to her lips and chugged several gulps of cheap Merlot. The tannic concoction relied on too much sugar to disguise the inferior blend. Nothing had seemed so delicious to her before.

“Do I get some too?” He raised a brow as he studied her drinking.

When she tipped the bottle upright, a single drop trailed over her fingers. Razor clasped both her wrist and the bottle, one in each hand. He licked the burgundy stain from her knuckles, causing a riot of passion to warm her insides on top of the wine’s effect.

He accepted the vessel, tilting it toward his mouth. His lush lips encircled the neck, inducing her jealousy. She noted the flex and play of his throat, wondering how he could make drinking sexy. The combination of his scruffy cheeks and his strong hand, which palmed the bottle, had her parched.